WOUNDING Page 4

  You once said that speaking, talking too much was a sign of weakness, almost as if words themselves were the problem, not the person speaking, just the words. You said that it was all pretend, artifice. You said that everything was artificial – an illusion – that words confirmed. I remember that, very clearly. I thought you were bonkers: beautiful, young and bonkers. Just young, I suppose. But now, thinking about what you said, I wonder how can we know ourselves, or each other without speaking, without confidences. We are our words, aren’t we? Even sharing the incidental, banal stuff that you think is pointless feels good to me. I want you to know me, to know all my silly thoughts and the events of my day. Even things as boring as getting a parking ticket or what George said in a meeting to embarrass himself or who said what to whom at lunch and how long the queue was in Waitrose and what the old woman in front of me said to the checkout girl and I want to know what you think about and what you do each day, and who annoys you and who makes you laugh. I want to know what you long for, what you’re afraid of. What makes you laugh when you’re alone. We can’t just talk about Patch and Jess. I want to hear you, know you and that isn’t artificial. You’re wrong about that. It’s real, utterly real. It’s silence that ruins love, not talking. Love is fed on words. It’s your silence that hurts me the most. Your secrets.

  The large clock on the wall in the sitting room marks out time. Cora sits on the sofa, a book open in her lap. The house is quiet: empty. She is supposed to enjoy this emptiness, revel in the depths of the peace, the space, as if it were a hot spring she could sink herself into. As her husband left the house with the children he kissed her and said, ‘Have a little time to yourself, Darling. It’ll do you good. Perhaps open a bottle of wine or something. Go for a walk, watch a film. We’ll be back around seven...OK, take care. We love you.’

  Sitting there, she feels time should open up before her, as if a gate were thrown wide revealing an expanse that she could disappear inside, but it doesn’t. It closes off, constricts as sure as a snare. They have gone for the day: he has driven them over to his sister’s, where they will play with their cousins, shouting, dirty-faced yelps of excitement, running garden dirt through his patient sister’s house; she is a doting mother, their aunt, her sister-in-law. His parents will be there – the grandparents, the heads of the family. There will be absolute harmony. She won’t be missed, she is sure of that.

  Everything is demarcated, a territory, a place, the family, love, even sex. All relationships are territorial, marked off, divided from all the others, outsiders, instating privacy. There is no such thing as time, only geometry, topography, the delineation of words, shared interests, history. The only unity Cora can understand is spatial. She consists of spaces, gaps between matter. She takes up space on the sofa. Breathing.

  He drove off with the children, strapped into the solid family car, a bag of grapes on the back seat between them and a CD of nursery rhymes in the player. He backed out of the drive expertly, barely looking over his shoulder, the dark hairs on his large hands shadowing the tanned flesh as if he were a sketch, a quick pencil drawing of a man, capable and fixed in his pose, before reaching his left hand out of sight, pushing the gear into drive and pulling away quickly, casting her a wave of his hand through the rear windscreen. He began the journey of forty or so miles into the next county and into his past lives, his childhood haunts, the sites of teenage cigarettes and broken windows, rugby matches, summer balls and girls kissed.

  She looks at the room around her, the muted cream-coloured walls, the rows of books on the shelves, the family photos – smiles pressed flat, timeless, dead – the striped rug her mother had bought for them, the fireplace that was never lit, always clean, never dirtied by ash or burnt embers, always cool to the touch. A polite room, tasteful. The book lays still in her lap, its yawning silence unreadable, the black type stuttering across the page, minute wounds on the paper; she closes it shut. There is no point in trying to read, no point in attempting to follow the breadcrumb trails of her thoughts. She puts the book back on the shelf and walks into the kitchen.

  It’s clean, as he left it. Wiping down each surface after making breakfast, the children eating cereal, legs swinging under the table, their spoons tapping against the bottom of the bowls with mechanical regularity as if they were small workers on an assembly line, heads bent over a fiddly task, whilst she slept in, too warm in her guilty bed. She wonders how she could possibly inhabit the empty house: without the family there she feels as if she is destined to only wait for their presence, as if she were programmed to spring into life when they returned only to slow to a stop with their absence, like a fairground automaton. How had she existed before the family came into being? She can’t remember. This family she had brought into being was erasing her, slowly, fading her out, till she was only recognisable as one of its parts, a component that was no longer necessary. But of course she had existed, had been real without them. She was the young woman laughing in photos half-hidden around the house, surrounded by friends, old lovers, spaces that weren’t defined by others’ needs, only by her wishes. It seems that these memories are treacherous, her previous existence a betrayal of the family now, a past that undermines the foundations of the present, like a swarm of fat little grubs, chewing through the supporting walls. She can almost hear the grinding of miniscule teeth.

  Walking out to the garden she catches sight of herself in the small mirror by the French doors. She knows that she isn’t as attractive as her husband’s previous girlfriends, had even overheard her mother-in-law once claim relief that the children looked like their side of the family and not Cora’s. This was something she had never mentioned to her husband, but it corroded her, this thin acid of insecurity. She was not good enough, not good enough. But he’d chosen her; she supposed she should find comfort in that fact. Kindly, politely, he loves her. Though believing in an absolute love is as stupid as believing in fairies or God. There’s always a lie hidden somewhere. He was hardly likely to confess that he wanted to fuck their pretty young neighbour, or his line manager or secretary or the girl in the petrol station who once admired his suit, but no doubt he did. So all she has is trust, a mutual pretence: what you don’t know can’t hurt you. He would never know that she wanted him to fuck her with another man, or that she owed thousands on a credit card, or that sometimes she wished him and the children dead, for example. The lies preserve the life they have made. Honesty would kill it, tear it apart and leave it scattered for the scavengers.

  In the garden, she looks without seeing, standing still, her pale hands limp at her side. The lawn needs mowing. A purple peony bush is shedding its petals next to a small thicket of lavender. Her daughter’s toys are scattered, garish on the grass, the harsh plastics in primary colours polluting the calm green. Cora’s shirt is missing a button. She’s not the type to sew a button back on, preferring not to halt the disintegration of things; she just replaces, buys new. An inherent decadence, or just laziness, but then perhaps laziness is a form of decadence, a withdrawing of effort and will: a refusal to pursue, indulging in the luxury of passivity. She walks slowly up the garden, its basic oblong conforming to suburban planning, the straight lines interrupted by the curved beds planted with untidy shrubs; flowers punctuate the space here and there, giving pause for a moment. Neither of them had bothered much with the garden: it was untended, left to its own devices and the unruly attentions of the children.

  An apple tree grows at the end of the lawn, its branches thick and fertile. As she approaches it throws black shadows across her face, bars of cool shade in the bright sunlight. Apples hang from the branches, a hundred red-green orbs studding the bark, visible through the thick leaves. It seems magical, producing, fruiting without their aid or husbandry, cajoled by bees and wandering insects, silently maternal in the garden. Under the tree the grass is pocked with rotten fallen fruit, the apple’s flesh softened and melting into the soil like soap, the harvest squandered. Fodder for wasps, w
hich then sting her children. The sticky sweet waste appals her. She has always bought their apples, neat and green, wrapped in cellophane, unsullied by nature, almost as if manufactured, not grown. When here, if she made the effort, if she could trust them, were more apples than they could eat. She feels sick, her stomach rising towards her mouth, sick at the waste, and sick at the sight of the brown mush, the bright optimism of the apples corrupted by dirt and rot.

  She’s wasting time, standing there crying over fallen apples. The neighbours might see. They’ll see her stupidity and ugliness. She wipes her face on her hands, spreading her fingers wide over her cheeks. Silly: there is no one to see. No one but her out in the gardens. What did it matter if she cried or not? I should stop wasting time. I’m alright. I’m alright. She stands. She tries to think. She ought to do something.

  Back in the kitchen she finds the key to the shed in a drawer. She rarely visits the little structure at the bottom of the garden. It seems remote and inhabited by mystery and danger. She strides towards it, stepping over toys and apples. The key turns easily in the lock, there is nothing to it. Simple, easy, just a quick turn. Inside, it’s ordinary, half full with tools and beach toys, her husband’s collection of vinyl records. The mystery, the glamour of trepidation has come to nothing. She picks up a pair of gardening gloves and a trowel from a shelf and shuts the door.

  Kneeling, she digs in the soil of the flower beds, the whistles and peeps of the birds repeating around her as if on a mechanical loop – what are they saying to each other, that can be said over and over again? She fears repetition. Doesn’t trust its reassurances. A golden strand, a centipede runs through her gloved fingers, as dextrous as a card trick. She shivers, glad of the protection of the gloves. Flicks it off into the soil. Proud of her bravery. She can do this, she can be good, she can service the family and home. She digs up a plant, easing it from the earth, guarding the stem and leaves from breaking, her hands tender against the limp green. She cups the bulge of soil clamped by the roots in her palm, easing the snarled pale fronds from the ball, softly teasing out the congestion. She watched her mother do this hundreds of times. Her mother’s garden receiving all her loving attentions.

  She wonders what she ought to do with it. Where it might go. She moves to another part of the garden, closer to the shed and digs it a hole, the soil dry and powdery, collapsing back like sand as she digs. She presses the plant into its new space. Leaning back on the grass, the machinery of its leaves filtering the light, growing, converting, remaking, renewing; her fingers drowse in the blades. A train hisses at the end of the garden, city bound. Shaking the house. She has barely affected the garden; it doesn’t look any different at all. She puts away the gloves and trowel. She is useless.

  Clean laundry hangs from the line by the house; pressing her cheek against the folds, she feels for damp. She reaches up, unclipping the pegs her husband had placed earlier, his efficient hands deft and cheerful. Always cheerful. She imagines him, playing with the children, hanging washing, cleaning while she slept, her dark sleep of escape into which she retreats every night, always tired. Folding the laundry over her arm, she works, helping, taking part in the chore. She can do it too. She can be capable. He will see that she has helped.

  Spiders have spun webs across the line, the delicate threads crystalline in the sunlight. Her husband has hung one of Patch’s t-shirts over one, destroying it, the torn silks sticking to the blue cotton, the broken web suddenly ordinary, tattered and reduced. Cora carefully unpegs the shirt, looking for the spider. Her entire body tenses, alert to the small danger lurking. She’s sure it will have gone. It must have gone. As Cora folds the shirt the spider emerges from the fabric, running across her hand, its brown mottled body lagging behind the pointed legs, as pointed as needles; she shrieks, dropping the laundry, slapping her left hand against her right, moaning, brushing it off, looking for it, frightened it’s still on her, in her clothes, concealed, waiting to emerge. Her scalp itches immediately as if covered with crawling insects.

  She rushes through the house and up the stairs to the shower, at every step feeling the spider palpating her skin with its two front legs, or injecting her with venom, or crawling into her ear, or climbing inside her underwear. In the bathroom she drops her clothes into the bath in case the spider crawls from the folds and invades the house. She stands under the water, hearing the noise of the pipes – the workings of the house – her hair in streaks fastened against her flesh, as she scrubs and scrubs. She remembers a time when she wasn’t afraid. When she had made pets of garden snails, and caught tiny frogs, new-legged, fresh from the pond. The stick insects that she’d fed privet, living their unmoving lives in her pink bedroom. And spiders she’d catch under a drinking glass to release back into the garden, to the relief of her grateful mother. Her father proud of her bravery, of her curiosity, large-eyed, her four-year-old self pulling off the spindled legs of crane-flies, leaving them de-legged, de-winged, just body, a fleck of brown on the patio like a blade of dried grass. And earlier, gloved, she hadn’t panicked at the centipede. She’d coped.

  And now this fear. She leans back against the tiled wall, the water stippling her pink skin. The flesh on the top of her thighs is pale and softer than that on her arms, where the skin has coarsened from exposure to the sun. She rubs soap under her arms, across her breasts, her stomach, between and down her legs. All things change. But when had she become afraid of insignificant things? She can’t remember. It’s silly, a stupid fear. Her father would laugh, so would her son, perhaps even her husband. She feels calmer, embarrassed at her panic. Outside, she can hear children playing, the occasional car, dogs bark. There is nothing to be frightened of. Nothing at all. How stupid to be frightened of a spider. Stupid, stupid me. Stupid fucking me. She turns the temperature dial on the shower and forces herself to stand still as freezing cold water knifes her skin. Her body begins to shudder under the numbing slashes, her teeth chattering; but she continues to stand there, cleansing her fear, performing an excision. Her skin puckering in defence, contracting around her, pulling in tight. She turns the water off.

  She dresses, pulling on a clean shirt and jeans, leaving the other clothes in the bath for her husband to inspect and declare safe. He will laugh, but he will do it for her; diligently checking for the villainous spider, as he seemingly does all things – gently, kindly. She must make amends. She must prove herself. Perhaps she should make dinner. But then maybe they will have eaten at the sister’s and won’t be hungry. She walks down the carpeted stairs, still looking for the spider, just in case it has fallen from her clothes as she ran upstairs to the bathroom. She could make something simple, perhaps a soup, or a quiche, with boiled potatoes and a salad. She could make something light, or something that could be refrigerated if they didn’t want it, it needn’t be a waste. She can’t go back out into the threat of the garden, not now. There is still some time left before they are due home.

  The sun is going down, that’s hardly surprising, but she is surprised by how quickly her boon of free time has disappeared. The sudden shock of winter dark. Summer’s almost over. With a turn of her wrist or press of her thumb she could switch something on and make something happen. She could change things immediately: in just touching an object she would alter it for good. She could master the room. She looks in the refrigerator, and pulls out eggs, onions and potatoes. A Spanish omelette would be simple enough, her thoughts extend from herself as if she is in conversation with someone else; she is incapable of being alone, but it’s all she longs for.

  Outside the weather changes. Particles of rain scatter like grit across the patio and bounce off the glass of the skylights. Remembering the washing she runs to the door: the bright fabric shapes scattered on the grass are already blotched with water. She hesitates, her hand on the frame, not sure whether to push herself out into the garden or hold herself back. A spider could be lurking still, sheltered in the pink cotton folds of her daughter’s knickers or
tucked into the sleeve of a t-shirt. It may be watching her, hesitant in the doorway, her hands bracing her weight, her shadow dormant on the kitchen floor – it may be watching her. Its eyes fixed on her, as vigilant as a security camera or a good mother.

  She turns, shutting the door. Turning the lock. Locking it out. She whisks eggs, slices potatoes, heats oil. A process. One thing after another. She enjoys the logic of cooking. Following the steps. Cora turns down the heat. Time has passed. Just minutes. She looks up at the clock. It is 6 pm. They will be back soon. She will belong to them again. The omelette will be cool, as it should be. She sits at the kitchen table, her hands resting on the wooden top.