Mrs s, p.11
Mrs S, page 11
Is that what you’re wearing? Yeh, why? I’ve chosen a white t-shirt and jeans. You look like fucking Harriet the Spy. The Housemistress is in a dark-navy pinstripe shirt. The same she wears to church. She adds a handsome waistcoat. Gel stiffens her fringe. Not one but two small hoops and a stud I haven’t seen before through her cartilage. You don’t have anything else? Not really. Let me look, can I look? Fine, sure. She walks up the narrow stairs to my room. My bed is unmade. A notebook is in the middle of the crushed blanket. I didn’t know you kept a diary. It’s not, I don’t keep a diary. My clothes hang on a single rail. Let’s see. What about this? She pulls out a dress shirt. Cream, chosen by my mother, the sides curved. No not that.
Or this? She takes out his shirt. No, no. Christ fussy little lesbian aren’t you. Maybe. If you have to wear that then at least accessorize. Around her neck is a silver chain, thick. Here, don’t lose it, it’s my grandad’s, it was my grandad’s. OK. The weight is reassuring against my neck. And this, these. Using her mouth she pulls one, two rings from her index fingers. Don’t lose these either yeh. I won’t. Around my own index fingers they are too loose. Wet with her saliva. Then put them on your thumbs. She claps my shoulder. Improved, slightly improved, one last touch. She pulls me forward. Tucks my t-shirt inside my jeans. A belt is whipped from the waistband of her trousers. Smart black leather with its celestial shine. Rather than hand it to me she snakes it directly around my hips. Too tight? No that’s good. Alrighty we’re ready, look at us. Self-consciously we hug. Chests kept separate at first, arms moving with unexpected force, my head pressed briefly in her neck. There I find her smell, carefully chosen. Orange peel. Wood, woodsmoke, maybe sandalwood. Brine. The whole sea dried to salt behind her ear.
Anything to drink? In the kitchen cupboard is an old bottle of tequila. Left, I assume, by the previous Matron. This? Perfect perfect. Two large shots are poured into tea-stained mugs. For the road. She smacks her lips together. Needs lime but not bad. Here we go, here we go, here we go. She chants absent-mindedly. I rub the rings against my knuckles. The metal worn smooth by three generations of fingers. They look good on you. I double-check the necklace’s clasp. This was your grandad’s too? Yeh look it’s fine don’t worry too much, don’t be too precious about it or anything, he was a real bastard. Yeh? No interesting story there I’m afraid, just a regular bastard. She pours herself another tequila. More? Sure. Outside, a car horn is hit in quick succession. That’s us. We down the drinks in unison.
The last time I was in a car it belonged to her. In his, in the taxi, is a strong smell of peppermint. The Housemistress examines her reflection in the window. By the way there’s a rumour going round that we’re fucking. She narrows her eyebrows. The same expression The Girls see in lesser moments of discipline. When she says fucking my stomach opens. Us? Yep. Who’s saying that? Oh I had a few comments in the staffroom, which means The Girls already think they know it all, and the teachers have been listening in. The day is still bright, too bright for our evening dress code. The taxi driver meets my eyes in the rear-view and winks. But we’re not fucking. Correct. She doesn’t whisper. What kind of comments then? Nothing obvious don’t panic, just the usual, hope YOU have a good WEEKEND. She puts air quotes around certain words. But we’re not fucking! You already said that. I know it’s just it’s not true. Would it be that bad, to be fucking me? The hurt is only half there. A dent in her chin. No, no of course not. Look it’s not that surprising, Two Dykes, One Heart, Small School. She imitates the school’s Latin motto with her hand against her chest. Written by the dead author’s father. The crest designed by him too. In one corner a lamb, the next a heart, the third a snake, the last a lion. Each creature, even the heart, has a demonic goofiness. For dramatic effect a sword penetrates the middle. Or at least, it should penetrate, instead her father, the clergyman, could not fathom the actual plunge. There is just the handle, then the tip of the blade.
Out for the night then ladies? He is in the rear-view mirror again. The peppermint smell comes from the hard sweets he sucks compulsively. Three at least since we left. The Housemistress turns to me. I shake my head, indicating I do not want to be the one to answer. Something like that, yeh. Looking sharp, the two of you. Cheers. Fancy dress, is it? I don’t reply but smile instead. It is not easy. It is not easy to stop someone from seeing you. Usually she is better at it than me. On one of her wrists a thick piece of leather has been knotted clumsily into a cuff. Handmade. Every now and again she places her forefinger underneath it and twists. I wait for her to make a joke, a joke as a challenge, about our outfits. Harriet the Spy again. Instead she sits in silence.
The turn out from Devil’s Bridge requires his attention. His eyes leave momentarily. Mind putting on the radio mate? Whatever gets you in the mood. Another wink. We drive in the opposite direction from the swimming spot. Two supermarkets, a garden centre. Short rows of matching houses. The same pebbledash. Traffic slows us down. Swallows dart daringly above the cars, sniping the evening insects. The fells fade away, the landscape flattening out into fields. Farm after farm. Grass gone to crisp yellow. The unnerving length of this hot month. I miss rain. I say it aloud. I miss rain. What? She twists and twists the cuff. I miss rain, I miss the rain. I tap the window as if to summon it. You won’t be saying that in winter. The taxi driver speaks through the latest mint, pausing it under his tongue, voice wet. I know what you mean. She squeezes my hand. The same ferocity as the hug, the same imperative meeting of bones. I know what you mean. Rain, the rhythm, the chance to disappear.
Signs for the town appear in an intimidating countdown of kilometres. My stomach won’t close. I shift around an urge to shit. It’s party time! The Housemistress is only excited. Hair fixed, gel wiped discreetly on the underside of the seat. The car turns up a wide cobbled street. He peers at possible numbers. Can’t say I know the exact location. You can just let us out here. No, no, I’m a gentleman, I’ll get you to the door. Really, it’s fine. Both her hands seize the seat in front. Let us out here please. Alright, alright.
I go to get my wallet but am too slow. Cash is produced from her pocket. No wallet. A thick brass clip around the wad of notes. Let me get this, you buy the first round. You sure? Yes. She closes the door and smacks the roof. His face twists, suddenly a boy. Goodbye then. Bye. He doesn’t drive away immediately. The engine idles. What he wants is to see where we’re heading. A pursuit of knowledge he considers honourable. All he wants, I feel him reasoning through the car window, is to understand. She doesn’t move. Her smile breaks through, conspiratorial, slowly picking hairs from the waistcoat, bending to check her laces, neatening the already neat bows. I stand in the shade of a closed shopfront. Her waiting is elegant. I know what it takes. After a few minutes he gives up and leaves. A concession, her minor victory. OK, come on, I’m not entirely sure where it is but we will figure it out. She taps her nose. Lesbian instinct. I still need to shit. Ropes tighten around my guts, my asshole.
You haven’t been to this place before? No. We walk up the street. She is careful with her leather shoes. Poising her ankles so as not to scuff them on the cobblestones. The town is bigger than I expected. The cobblestones lead up a steep hill. A cathedral is promised at the end. Generic high-street brands offer sickly coffees, two-for-one pastel polo shirts, meal deals, detailed charm bracelets. Not far away a clock chimes. Just a couple of Cinderellas aren’t we? Maybe more like the princes, especially you, in that look. Why thank you. I’ve embarrassed her. She chews the side of a fingernail. Touches the fly of her trousers. Her body is suddenly too close to the seams. I know the feeling, I say nothing, she doesn’t want to be noticed any more than me. She is gracious, grins. Do what we can don’t we. I confirm and reconfirm the presence of the necklace and rings. It is hot, of course, hot. Silence and sweat enjoy a mutual grip.
Halfway up the hill she stops. Off the main street, down a narrower alleyway, is a line of bars and restaurants. People smoke cigarettes in large groups. It’s around here somewhere. I train my eyes, looking for a sign. What’s it called? Lips. I laugh, she laughs too. We pass men with ties tucked in their pockets. Some kind of event. A wedding, a race day. Dribbles of beer already stain their shirts. Women put their arms around each other, nuzzling, swapping encouraging sentences. Those shoes will all be off later. She nods at their heels. Plenty of them stare. Only a couple call after us. Perhaps because I was staring first. Here, in my outfit, the chain now warm as my skin, I am undeniable. Ignore them. She slows down to walk next to me. Bunch of twats. In a bigger city there would be a larger queer geography. But this town has only one bar. Even that is strange. To have a place to go, that is strange.
Here, it’s here. The sign is depressing. No sultry neon light. Just a logo. A faded red-lipsticked mouth against a grimy white wall. There is no outdoor seating. A bouncer stands at the entrance, hair tied in a long ponytail. Evening. On you go. Shirt buttons strain across his large chest. At the end of a short corridor we turn down a carpeted staircase. It’s still early. Not too busy. A few people sit at tables, intent on seeing the new arrivals. The Housemistress hesitates. In the middle of the room she deliberates between the bar and an empty booth. A heat already on its way to ferocious. The smell of each past encounter like rising damp. Still she deliberates. We are watched carefully. Excitedly. Eyes happening sideways. Come on. I push her softly towards the bar. She dabs her forehead with a red napkin. Music plays. Indiscernible power ballads. In one corner a DJ sets up. Her arms are pure muscle. A quote I can’t read is tattooed in cursive across her collarbone.
Without asking for The Housemistress’s preference I order two shots of tequila. With lime and salt, I add, looking at her. She chases beads of sweat, the red napkin now twisted around her forefinger. Fuck it’s so fucking hot. Here drink this. Good plan, cheers. I fan her with a beer mat. Ah shit me ah fuck that’s the stuff. Her bravado lifting. She moves her face into the tiny patch of air I create. Get this too. Her neck is offered to me now. I pick up another beer mat and fan with both hands. Better? Better. Our bodies begin to imprint. Comfortable on our spinning stools. A pathetic fan is flicked on by an employee. Her t-shirt is knotted at the navel, revealing a silver bar. With each of her movements it pulls at the thin fold of her bellybutton. Soon the sun will move off the building. For now it thickens through the basement windows. Each pane the size of a brick.
Two more shots yeh? Yeh, maybe pints too. Sure it will get busier later. As she talks she takes in the room. Knees spread wider. Posters on the bar’s back wall advertise today’s date, the name of the DJ in bold, the outlines of more lips. Purple female gender symbols bounce in the background. Yeh I don’t think the night starts really until nine p.m. What is it now? Almost eight. OK, OK, we better pace ourselves, maybe make some friends. She winks and licks the foam from her beer. Anyone you like? Already? Yeh, why not. I glance again at the DJ. A person I assume is the manager talks to her enthusiastically. Christ not her not the DJ what a cliché. Fine then you? Oh oh I think she’s fit. She covers a pointing finger with her hand, blocking its direction from the row of tables. In the hat? Yeh, yes. The woman wears a baseball cap tilted up above her fringe. Maroon t-shirt with a logo. A pack of cigarettes tucked in her top pocket is charming enough to be annoying.
More people arrive. I try not to think of her, I try not to think of Mrs S. The bar is busy with elbows. Somebody buys me a drink but I don’t know who. The Housemistress is ecstatic. I knew this was a good idea! It doesn’t mean anything, maybe it was a mistake, whatever I’ll send it back. Seriously what’s wrong with you. What, nothing, fine, here. In slow motion I cheers the entire bar and drink. A few people nod back. One wink. The DJ begins. Honest to fuck I could fall in love tonight. She drinks fast. Her voice rises above the music. The woman in the maroon t-shirt has come closer. Her group stands metres away, on the edge of the empty dance floor. Everyone is on the edge of the dance floor. A few people, eager to survey the swelling crowd, now perch on the tables. No one sits, not really. There is a heady elaboration of gesture. Hands flying through the air. Laughter made sexier, drinking made sexier. It seems as though the DJ is looking at me. But this is impossible. I am too far back in the crowd. More and more people arrive. She is looking at all of it, at everyone. I give The Housemistress all my attention. Why don’t you talk to her. Who? You know, the new love of your life. I chuck my chin at the woman in the maroon t-shirt. Her hat now on a friend’s head. Not yet my innocent friend, not yet. What makes you think I’m innocent? Come on Harriet the Spy. She slaps my thigh. I slap hers back. Not so innocent, actually, not as innocent as you think. The woman in the maroon t-shirt finally approaches. She stands between the two of us. I am cut off. Her smell is citrus. Best seat in the house, this. If you say so. A heavy pause. The Housemistress does not yet offer to buy her a drink. This is just the beginning.
A hangover. Acute. The nail through the forehead. Nausea moving in hiccups. I lie on her floor, one cushion from her sofa under my head. The rug from her sofa is pulled over my body. I register my surroundings one by one. Her snores pass gently through the wall. No, the door, the door to her bedroom is open. Sunday, now it is Sunday. Her snores, tidal, released in waves. The annexe is even smaller than mine. Each section of life squashed into the next. The sofa close to the kitchen, a television close to the window already pumping sun, close to the bedroom which is windowless entirely. Where is the bathroom? There is no bathroom. There is a bathroom, of course, almost inside the kitchen.
Shower pressed against the toilet. I lean my head on the cool edge of the sink. Hopeful that a cool edge will help. I splash water on my face. This will be the cure. Her toothbrush, a little heartbreak, the worn bristles, the man’s blue colour. I’m desperate to brush my teeth. This will be the cure, clean teeth. Her toothpaste is the whitening kind, more heartbreak. These improvements we secretly want to make. At the last moment I can’t do it and put the toothbrush back in its place. We are not lovers, we have not yet been close enough to each other’s tongues. Instead I wipe a minted finger across my teeth. Maybe I will vomit. No, no I won’t. I can hold on.
That you up? The snoring has stopped. Her voice already confident. Yes. I sit, defeated, on the floor of the bathroom. She comes to find me. Oh Jesus, ha, you lightweight. Somehow she is fresh. Feeling rough? I nod. Each plate of my skull rubs against its neighbour. She disappears into the kitchen. I can offer two cures, hair of the dog, or hair of the dog. In each hand is a green bottle of beer. What have I got to lose? That’s the spirit. You’re young, you’ll survive. She stands with her back to the window. A warm silhouette. The two green beer bottles come alive. Too alive, the light flung into my eyes, thudding into the hollow behind. You too? Me what? I point weakly at the beer. You’ll drink too? She enjoys forcing me to talk. One of those. I slump and lie entirely on the lino in a half-hearted foetal position. Yes, why not, nowhere to be, The Girls aren’t here, we’re free to fuck about. She leaves me on the floor and returns again with her ring of keys. She uses the largest, oldest one to pop open each bottle. It doesn’t happen easily. The serrated lid leaves a cut at the base of her thumb. She doesn’t seem to notice. Here, drink.
The first few mouthfuls are almost a disaster. The beer curdles with toothpaste. Come on drink it like you mean it. She sits on the sofa, talking to me as I sip preciously, still lying down, propped up on my elbow. Already she has on the chain she loaned me last night. A black vest, loose across her chest. Tattoos cover her shoulders. Don’t tell anyone about these yeh. She winks and touches what I think is the head of a thick snake. No, I say, unable to commit to a sentence. No? No. You’re hilarious this morning. She has on boxers. Plaid, baggy. A pair of socks. No. Is that all you can say? No. Using all my energy I open my throat to finish the beer. Don’t throw up. I don’t throw up. That’s it! Fucking hell, OK. In solidarity she finishes hers too. Tequila next? Fuck off. Ah, she lives! Not quite. I close my eyes and turn onto my back. Better? Maybe. Maybe works for me, OK, phase two. Two? Yes, dress, let’s go get a bacon sarnie. Where? I know a place. She taps the side of her nose. She wears her clichés so well. The beer is helping.
My clothes from last night have been neatly folded over the arm of the sofa. You’re a sweet drunk. She hands me the pile. Even your boxers are folded. Thanks. The light hangs heavy in my head. Opening my eyes is painful. Drawers open and close in her room. My t-shirt smells like cigarette smoke. How did we get home last night? Come on you don’t remember? You were such a Chatty Cathy in the taxi. I’m sure it will come back to me. She walks back into the room wearing a smart blue jumper. Her perfume, her cologne, fills the air. Oh come on you look good that’s cheating. You never know who you might bump into. Did you get lucky? Get lucky? She laughs. I came home with you mate, what do you think. Still though, she rolls up her sleeve and turns over her arm. Written across her forearm, in blue biro, the colour still sharp, is a telephone number. It wasn’t a complete waste of time. For all her talk, she was never going to sleep with anybody, she was never going to get laid. Will you call her? Have you written it down? No, not yet, we’ll see, I have until my shower to decide.
You, though, you. She smiles at me and turns her arm back over. Some moves you pulled. What? I can’t yet summon a memory. Did I get with anybody? Get with anybody, what are you, fifteen. You know what I mean. Mate I have no idea, you were lost to the dance floor for most of the night. Really? Yeh. She goes back into the bedroom using a cheesy, mock choreography. I follow, slowly. Last night’s clothes are piled on the floor. She reaches into the trousers and removes the last of the cash, peeling off what I think is a tenner. How many sandwiches are you planning on buying? Who knows. On the bedside table are three half-finished packets of pills, the foil popped and torn. OK then what was I saying in the taxi then. Oh, your whole life story. But what exactly? She doesn’t answer at first. I can’t remember, it’s not like I was sober. You do remember. Look it was the same life story as mine, homophobic father, avoidant mother. Oh. Don’t be embarrassed, we’re friends aren’t we. Yes, course. Then it doesn’t matter what I do or don’t know. She goes into the bathroom. Two secs.
