WOUNDING Page 7

  Cora stands in the doorway, not leaning against the frame, she stands squarely on both feet, her hands trail by her sides. She is unnatural, this pose is unnatural, but she stands there like that in order to trace a vague ailment. Indistinct, she can only distinguish between her body and the outside world if she concentrates on each limb, narrowing down her search to inch-by-inch compartments of flesh. She is unfeeling, it takes time to locate the area that troubles her. She turns and walks into her room. She removes her clothes, carefully removing each item and folding them into logical shapes. There is a full-length mirror on the wardrobe door: it is to be avoided usually, but today she confronts it, to search for the problem.

  Looking at herself, naked. Reflected back, she receives herself. It’s said that one is composed only of memories, and yet her body speaks for itself, her stretch marks, scars, freckles, fading tan-lines. Large raised moles, one with a hair to pluck out regularly along with other hair removal. The thick scar where her daughter was cut from her body. Her belly hangs like fabric over the seam, loosely draped. Too disgusting to revel in. She could be read, as one would read a book. The body belongs first to the species before it belongs to her. But then it doesn’t belong to her, she doesn’t possess it. She can’t give it away. Neither can anyone take it. Not yet anyway, not until it becomes truly just a body, when she’s dead. It is her intermediary, SHE is only what she looks at, thinks about, says. That’s all she is. She is only ever happening, now, immediate, never recognisable to herself, always changing, only ever in the present tense. And tucked away inside her flesh is the secret of her eventual death, hers alone, the death that she will never know, because she will not be able to talk about it, or think it. When the body finally becomes just a body, only others will be able to own it, move it, rob from it. Indecent, humiliated, free floating, without meaning, innocent and incapable.

  But she isn’t alive, she knows this absolutely. She craves sensation, to pull her back into the land of the living. Isn’t that what they say when you are there and yet not there? When you are startled from a daydream? Welcome back to the Land of the Living? Looking at herself, the body, female, all present and correct. Her husband likes to kiss her all over, tenderly, licking her skin; he expects this to be pleasurable to her. The female body is in luck with its multiple pleasure zones, its vigour and vim, its insatiability, with its capacity for multiple orgasms, not limited to one measly climax. Always ready. Lady Luck.

  Raising her hand to her face, she pulls open her eyes as wide as the lids will stretch, letting in as much light as possible. She is a medium through which light, sound, information passes. She read once that Newton had removed his own eye from its socket without causing injury, using a bodkin. The body will graciously allow all kinds of experiments, and can mend all kinds of wounds if given time. She wonders if his experiment had hurt, or changed the way his eye behaved once firmly back in his head. She ran her hand down over her neck, toward her breast. This should feel good. Should be arousing. It isn’t. She experiences the pressure of her hand on her skin, she senses that there is touch, but she feels nothing. She circles her nipple with the tip of her finger, it responds, as it should, protruding. Everything her body does – she does – is in response, well-mannered, well-choreographed, a set piece. Inauthentic, not a real response, she doesn’t answer, not for herself, she parrots the expected reply. Her nipple hardens to touch, to kisses, to suckling. She feels nothing. She is a monster, a repetition of well-rehearsed gestures.

  Digging in her nails, she pinches the nipple, twisting it like a dial. There is a flicker of life. She breathes, her eyelids twitch. She chastises, punishes her body for its lack. Because it fails every expectation. Finally, she has had enough. She is enraged. In the room next to hers, the child sleeps, unaware of her mother who is not enough. Who will never be enough. Cora pinches and twists harder. The peak of her nipple is white, entirely bloodless, purified. Sensation cuts through, like a dagger through thick drapery, alive. She suffers, and it isn’t enough. She cannot pinch hard enough. She fails.

  Cora wraps her bathrobe around her, the red towelling harsh against her half alive skin. She runs down the stairs, past the sleeping child, into the kitchen. She opens drawers and cupboards, looking for an instrument to help her. She doesn’t want knives, isn’t interested in cutting and slicing, in doubling herself, that would be disastrous.

  There is the washing line. Outside and dangerous. No clothes hang from it; it isn’t a washday. But the pegs, all lined up like birds, grip the line tightly. Cheap plastic pincers, the pressure applied by a coil of wire, closed shut. Innocent, they have no choice but to act according to their design. Until they are broken, they will pinch together, crushing what comes between. Merciless.

  Barefoot, Cora runs across the grass to the line and takes two. She isn’t afraid. She feels light, and giddy. She is as excited as a drunk. She runs back across the kitchen and up the stairs. Back in the muted light of the bedroom, she watches herself, watches the fingers of one hand compress flat the bulk of her breast, forcing the nipple forward as the fingers on the other hand grip the two ends of the clothes peg. She fits the nipple into the gape of the pincers as far as she can, and lets go of the peg. It snaps shut. She silences herself and refuses to groan. Taking the other breast she feeds it to the grabbing peg. She is brand new. The surprise of the pain transforms her. She is alive. There is no blood, no filth. Only purity. She is punished and in pain. Her breathing shallow and ecstatic.

  Everything moves apart, everything. I listened to a radio programme in the car about dark matter and the universe. The universe is expanding, the planets and stars are moving further and further away from each other, and the gaps, these ever increasing spaces are filled with dark matter. It’s inevitable I suppose. Perhaps that’s what this is, the gap between us is filling with dark matter, dark matter that pushes us further and further apart. Perhaps it’s inevitable.

  I took you to meet my parents, much sooner than you took me to meet yours. I wanted to show you off, I was so proud of you. This clever, sexy woman who wanted to spend her time with me. You’ve always said that I cared too much about their opinion, that it’s odd to be so close to my family. But it’s not like that, at least not as simple as you make out. Of course I wanted them to like you and for you to like them, but just because that made life a bit easier. Their opinion wouldn’t have caused me to change my mind or anything; I’m not a total sap. God, what a business it all is, this family stuff. But truth be told, I enjoy it, I enjoy belonging to you and the kids, to my parents, to my sister. I’m proud to be uncle, brother, son, husband and father. It doesn’t matter how difficult it is sometimes. Perhaps that does make me a sentimental fool. But it matters, it matters to me and it should matter to you.

  We arrived in time for lunch. It was summer and you were wearing a strappy dress that floated around your ankles and green plastic flip-flops. I remember them so clearly. Green plastic flip-flops and bright pink painted toenails. Your hair was scraped up into a ponytail. The sun picked up the red glints in the brown strands. You wore a bronze bangle on your right wrist that I’d bought for you from Brixton market and that you wore all the time. It was the first piece of jewellery that I’d ever bought you. It was cheap, junk really, but it looked good against your skin and you liked it. I wonder where it is now, lost in one of our various flat and house moves. All the different places we’ve lived in, that define us and our history together. You never wear jewellery anymore, except your wedding ring, of course.

  It was a glorious day, as they always seem to be in retrospect. But it was a lovely day. Warm and sunny and clear. I should’ve prepared you more, I think now. But at the time I thought you were so marvellous that I couldn’t imagine any situation you couldn’t take in your stride and I couldn’t bear to say anything that would hurt you or diminish you in any way. What would you have thought if I’d started telling you what to wear or not to smoke or any of those stupid things? It r
eally shouldn’t matter what anyone thinks anyway. I suppose that kind of hurt, that pretending to be helpful and offering constructive feedback, but really just being spiteful and demeaning, comes later in a relationship. When you’re more comfortable, when you feel able to take out your vague, petty anger on your partner.

  We stood at the door and knocked. The sunlight was rushing in behind you and it was so bright it almost erased you, blanked you out rather than revealed you. I can’t explain it. You disappeared for a moment in the bright sun.

  You’d said nothing as we’d driven up the drive and parked. The house sitting there. Its neat 1930s suburban satisfaction, double-fronted, squat and square with that huge garden. I didn’t think all that then of course. I didn’t think. It was just home. On that short drive out of town into the commuter belt, you sang along to the CD player and smiled at me, your skirt hitched up around your thighs and your feet propped up on the dashboard. You couldn’t believe how green and leafy it was still being so close to London and you laughed and said, ‘All the houses are alike. Big and detached but still alike, still like being on a housing estate. Just with gravel drives and swimming pools’. I didn’t know how to answer that except to retort that our pool was only tiny. I understood then that somehow we hadn’t lived up to your expectations, you were disappointed in me, but I didn’t think it was serious, I didn’t think it would matter.

  My mother opened the front door, her blonde hair cut to her shoulders, dressed in shorts and a polo shirt, the two spaniels at her feet. She opened the door wide and smiled at us both. She liked you on sight, I could tell. She even hugged you. She walked ahead, leading us and the dogs through the house, asking questions about our journey and the traffic. You walked beside me, looking straight ahead, dead ahead; even when I squeezed your hand, you didn’t look up at me. God, we were both so nervous. Dad was waiting for us in the garden, past the terrace, which Mother had laid for lunch, over the lawn and past the stand of cypress trees that Sally and I had hidden behind as children, to the small terrace by the pool. You hated it on sight. You’ve never said it outright, but I know you thought we were pretentious snobs, it was written all over your face. But it was just home and our house wasn’t as big as some of our neighbours... Christ, silly that I try to justify it now.

  Anyway, we followed Mum, and Dad stood up and walked towards us, his arms wide and welcoming. He’s always been so good at that, disarming people, immediately warm and kind. ‘Well, look at the lovebirds!’ I loved that, though I was embarrassed too. I loved that he could see how much I adored you. We sat down on the wicker chairs and he poured us a glass of Pimms each from the jug on the table. We sat side by side and I held your hand. I watched you chatting with them, answering their questions, being utterly charming, managing to dodge Mum’s inevitable invitation to play tennis sometime. You seemed comfortable, though you sounded different with a new accent. Best behaviour I suppose. You know everything I’ve ever done since then has been for you. I think you should know that.

  Mother rounded us up in her usual way, what you now call bossy and shrill but I just think of as organised, and ushered us towards lunch. She sat us opposite each other, facing across the table, almost as if she wanted to separate us and have you all to herself. Divide and conquer you’d said later, but you’re a cynic where mother’s concerned, she just wanted the chance to chat to you, to get to know you. We’re a close family, we look out for one another and if you’re special to one of us then the rest want to get to know you too. That’s all it is. You have to remember how much she’d loved Lucy. It can’t have been easy for her when Lucy left. It was a loss for all the family. They were upset for me, but upset for themselves too.

  You sat there, looking small and dark next to her, as she divvied up the quiche and the potatoes, passing the salad bowl and the dressing like she always has, like she’s the expert, in charge. As she always said, Father might be the boss at work but she’s the head of the household. You sat across from me, your brown eyes hidden by the vase of brightly coloured flowers that mother had put in the middle of the table like a screen. And then handing the bread round, Dad asked you what your father did for a living. Just like that, not like it mattered, like we were in the middle ages or something, he was just being polite. You smiled and said ‘my dad’s in retail.’ Which was sort of true, I suppose, it was only when I met him that I found out he sold used cars. It didn’t matter; I can’t imagine why you’d think it would. You didn’t elaborate and the conversation moved to our work, and the weather and our holiday plans. Safe territory, firm ground.

  You don’t much like your own parents, at least that’s how it seems and I’ve never understood that. They’re perfectly alright. Especially your dad. Your mother is so quiet it’s like she’s not even in the room, but your dad has real substance, he’s interested in the world around him at least and they both love the children, and the kids adore them – you can’t fault them for that. But you seem to have no interest in them, no warmth and I wonder why?

  We sat there drinking wine and eating and you said all the right things and complimented the food and made them both laugh with your clever jokes and then Sally arrived with David. Sally with her ways and means. I’m not blind to her flaws. Really I’m not. I know she was an idiot with her pinched looks and she didn’t need to mention running into Lucy at the club, but that’s just the way she’s always been. She can be a little bit bitchy, but it’s only because she’s protective of me. It’s funny; you have to laugh at her. To see it for what it is – a sister looking out for her brother. To be honest, I’d be the same I suppose, in her shoes. She didn’t know you from Adam, and she didn’t want us all to be hurt again. You’ll admit things are better now between you both, she’s been very supportive since we had the kids, I know that she’s a bit sniffy that you’ve gone back to work; especially as she’s so happy to stay at home. But it should be left at that. Horses for courses. She’s so good with the kids and she offers to help all the time. She’s even offered to have the kids for us so that we can have a weekend away together.

  After lunch mother suggested we take the dogs for a walk in the woods but she took one look at your flip flops and said something like, ‘They just won’t do. You can’t go for a walk in those. What silly shoes, whatever made you wear beach shoes for lunch? Never mind...what size are you? Perhaps we can lend you something.’ Your tiny little feet, no match for my sister and mother’s size sevens. I know how that must have sounded, but she didn’t mean to offend, that’s just the way she is. Dad and Sally didn’t even notice. It’s just the way she is. Mother is very blunt and honest. You slipped off to the loo and it seemed like you were gone for ages and when you got back you looked upset, your cheeks pink as if they’d been pinched. You never told me why. Though I guessed, of course. There were no shoes she could lend you. We never went for that walk.

  You’ve not really given them a chance since then, though they’re charming to you and I know you’re civil, but it’s not really as I would hope and both my parents adore you. They’ve told me so, several times. It would make me happy if you got along with them. It really would. I can’t see that it’s too much to ask. Anyway, there we are. That’s how it is. After that first lunch with them, we drove back to my flat in silence. Except when you said ‘I wish you’d told me how wealthy your family is’ and I couldn’t think of anything to say back. And that’s my problem; it’s only after the event that I can think of a reasonable response. At the time I’m usually too caught up in the moment to think of how best to answer you. I’m not good with conflict. But they aren’t wealthy; alright, they’re comfortable, but Dad has worked hard, and Mum too. They’re not the stuck up arses that you seem to think. Sally and I weren’t spoilt, we had to work for things, it wasn’t all handed to us on a plate. We are not unusual. We are ordinary, all of us, there is nothing special about any one of us. We are ordinary, normal people who do ordinary, normal things. And that should be a comfort. At least i
t is to me.

  He opens the front door to them. A light is on in the porch; it is a welcome, a friendly beckoning. A custom. The light is a machine that produces this meaning: ‘Come on in, our house is open and warm! We are safe, you are safe. Everything is just right.’ Everyone knows this. The light is also about security, and banishing any dark refuge for danger. It allows for the scrutiny of all visitors. But this is not discussed. It is not the custom to talk openly about danger. In fact it is considered rude to identify and confront any threat until it reveals itself absolutely. It’s more polite to wait until an actual incident has occurred.

  He opens the door to them and steps aside, he smiles, they enter, wiping their feet.

  ‘Grandma! Granddad!’ Patrick and Jessica run into the hall from the sitting room where they have been watching a cartoon. Stepping closer, they are lost in their grandparents’ embrace. Hugged and tugged, they giggle and clamour for sweeties and treats, for presents that declare and entreat for undying love.

  ‘What’s Grandma got in her bag?’ the older woman teases, half opening the rim of her black leather handbag. The children hop from foot to foot, trance-like, they dance around her, worshippers in an ecstatic rite. ‘Please, Grandma! Please!’ They perform circles around her as she laughs and removes her overcoat, helped at once by a clash of gallantry from both her husband and her son-in-law. Their hands entangle politely, they make a mess of the thing. Neither manages to catch the coat as it falls to the floor.