Mrs s, p.16
Mrs S, page 16
I understand why The Girls need the trees, need the woodlands. Pigeons growl softly from a beech’s canopy. Maybe to match the river. All throat, I feel it. There is no one else here. The Girls have lessons. I walk out to meet Mrs S. Following in their footsteps, The Girls. The dead author too. Supposedly her second most famous novel was written beneath a particular oak. Which one was it? I look around. There are three in my immediate vision. I test one out. No way of telling if it is a celebrity or not. All trees have a celebrity quality, anyway. I sit on the ground. The temperature is cooler, damper. I feel the hot rash at my cheeks fade. I will be handsome for her. Footsteps? No. My listening does not work here, under these leaves. Afraid that if I call out something else will call back. That is what The Girls like, I suppose. We agreed to meet, she is already late. Always held up. In my hand is the stained glass. Wrapped and wrapped in plastic bags. I wish I had made a more glamorous effort. I want her to be moved. The most painful desire of all, surely, to want somebody to be moved, to want to be so significant. I could bury it in the ground rather than give it to her. I won’t, obviously I won’t. This time there are definitely footsteps. I choose a position. Decide to stay sitting beneath the oak. I breathe through my sexuality. The knot at the centre of me loosed. I am handsome. Legs folded. Unfolded. It is not footsteps, no, some other noise.
At last she appears. Searching for me without calling out. Her head swivels. Running the trees, the space between, the slope to the river. Me, waiting to be found. She walks slowly. Says nothing, not until she is close. I am hunted, turns out I love to be hunted, each day she reveals a new fact about me, about my body. Sits, knee heavy against my own. She executes these small things. Knows herself. Lovely spot, although rather melancholic don’t you think. Why? All these trees, the darkness, the damp. I don’t think so. No? No. I pick up her hand and put it around my throat. She waits a second, an entire heartbeat, before squeezing. I want to be fucked here. She doesn’t respond at first. Hand tightening. Lets my mouth fail, pushing against her, leaving hers only slightly open. That hand. Ice of her fingertips. Have you been good? I don’t know where her language comes from. Yes. Said like a piece of muscle, voice changed by her grip. There is a right answer. She kneels and winces. Ground sharp. Skirt splayed. Tree trunk against my skull. Whispers now, she is so easily kind. Are you alright? Is this alright? Yes. Her hand moves underneath my shorts. Rubs, has learned I like this too. Have you been good? A flash of nerves before her face changes. This time I don’t answer. Let my body beg instead. It does a better job, she can taste it. Her tongue is not part of the deal. I pinch the hand around my throat. Not that, not now, fuck me, please, fuck me. There is the force I want. Her desire, made known. A whole chest behind each movement. Folded into me, head butting my collarbone, she needs to grunt. I did not think I could love her more. Sent backwards into the tree, what could be better?
Afterwards she makes herself into an offering. Weak, straddling my lap. Asks for nothing, needs me to decide. I shift forward, let her ankles close behind me. Enough knowledge, now, between us. The ghost of my hand already there. She anticipates it. Rides, calling out to my hand, calling out to the ghost of my hand, all the times we have fucked before. Afterwards we wipe our mouths. She stays across me. Our smell. The leaf stuck to the side of her thigh. I pick it free. She shivers. She is already becoming absent-minded, switching gears as she does, thinking outside of the woods. If I’m going to give her the stained glass it has to be now. She has either ignored or failed to notice the package beside me. I reach for it. Here, I have something for you. You do? She frowns at me, does not like to be surprised, to feel out of control. Behind us sheep bleat, only just grown out of being lambs, voices still have that despair. What is it? Come on you’re about to see. I watch her fingers struggle with the plastic bags, handles tied around hands. She works at it faster. Getting closer. I realize she could cut herself and panic. Hang on, let me. I retrace my pattern. Impatient, are we. Not that. I pull the fragment free carefully. There.
What? What have you done? She takes it from me. Handles it the same way I first did. Entranced, fearful. What kind of rebellion is she capable of, I wonder. She stands, finds the light fallen through the branches, holds it up. You’ve stolen it? I guess so. You just took it, just like that? Yes. It suits her, as I knew it would. The white of the snake-woman’s face turned warm by the fabric of her dress. The green foliage brief across her cheek as she lifts it closer, investigating that eyelid, the gentle persuasion. I’m shocked, I can’t quite believe you’ve done it. Why not? I don’t know, won’t he notice once the window repairs begin, that this part is missing? Of course he’ll notice. And I’m supposed to keep it? Yes. She is at odds with herself. Impressed, I hope, by my audacity. Envious, even. That I still have such will.
She tuts. It will drive him insane. Which him? Don’t be like that, you know who I mean. The men in her life. She is talking about the vicar. He’ll recover, they just make a replacement for it. And you know that for sure, do you? Yes, that’s what he said himself, in case we couldn’t find each bit, or something had shattered into too many pieces. Right, right. Yet there remains part of my gesture she doesn’t understand. Would have been better to give it to her in the middle of our fucking, her hand still around my throat. Then she would see right through me – why not have a piece of the architecture, a piece of the building, our only witness it will dawn on her later, when she is alone, maybe. I think she is also frightened. And yet. She does not ask me to take it back, does not ask me to return it, which she could, it would be easy. Nor can she figure out how to say thank you. Oh, here she is, caught between her worlds.
Straight in the pocket my friend, tell me that’s not sapphic, clams in the pocket, fucking clams. As we walk past the bus stop The Housemistress drops suddenly onto the plastic bench. We are listless after the pub. Still sweating. Tonight she is in shorts, the weather too warm for anything but. We have matching damp hairlines. I sit beside her. Legs sticky. Do buses even come here? I try and make out the faded schedule, see lumps of chewing gum, tooth-marks intact. I’ve never seen one. Look, there’s the Big Dipper. The Housemistress points upwards at the famous series of stars. Yeh I know that one. She is easily distracted, drunker than I am. Through the plastic shelter the moon is almost full, lending a theatrical light, changing her profile as she looks upwards. So what did you do with the clams? What? The Housemistress squints at the moon, fastening shut one eye and then the other. Next she touches the tip of her forefinger to her thumb and tries to fit the moon inside, making a circle of knuckle and muscle and skin, zooming in and out. What did you do with the clams, once we’d left? Oh fuck I can’t remember, threw them in the river I think, back where they belong, ugly little things.
I think of The Housemistress balancing on the slippery stones, emptying the pockets of her suit, those small shells with their dead tongues floating downstream. I smile. She once again makes the circle with her thumb and forefinger. Whispers in mock conspiracy: The moon is so a lesbian. A grandiose sigh. How’s that? Just look at it. She offers me her thumb and forefinger and I peer through. Her skin smells of earth, then something stale and sugary, maybe beer. Hemmed in by her hand like this, the moon becomes more pronounced, a trick. Of course it is no bigger but suddenly it seems to advance. I blink and it remains, a sequin rolled into my eye socket. Come on. She is excited by her own drunken theory. Just look at it, it controls the sea, summoning the tides, what could be more butch. At this she flexes one arm. Biceps lovely.
The possible scale of lesbian qualities pleases me. That it could be lesbian to control the sea, to beam into households on summer nights. That anything could be lesbian, all you have to do is announce it. I squeeze her biceps when it is offered to me. To play her game I would have to think of something else, something huge and non-human, something that has this matching, inexpressible lesbianism. I clap my hands. Then the ocean too, surely that’s a lesbian, so close to the moon, you know, under its command. Yes! Yes, you’ve got it, I wonder if it’s the whole ocean, or particular seas, something like the Atlantic, now that’s pure dyke, all huge waves and cold temperatures. She slides onto her back. Legs propped up on one another. God I wish there was somewhere else to get a drink around here, the end of the world, we’ve already fucking found it, it’s here, right fucking here. I’ve still got that tequila at mine? Ooft, tequila could be a bit harsh on the old system. She pats her stomach. So that’s a no then? Calm down, didn’t disagree did I, got to take what I can where I can. I get to my feet. Come on then. She stands and salutes the moon, here’s to you faithful leader.
She sings a song I don’t recognize. The word lovesick on repeat. Enjoying each other, we take the longer route, looping up towards the church. In the moonlight each tombstone happens twice. Upright and then in shadows laid out on the ground. Suddenly she stops and puts a finger to her lips. In a stage whisper, breath full of booze. Listen, what’s that? At first I hear nothing. Slowly it comes to me. The sound of The Girls, somewhere nearby. Hushed and hushing, a giggle uncoiling every few seconds. Neither of us wants to find the scene and be responsible for it. For a few seconds we stand still. The Housemistress swallows loudly, perhaps willing herself to sober up. It is late. The Girls should not be out of bed. Should not be anywhere near the church. Last time she, we, let them off easy. The Housemistress pinches one of her cheeks, then the other. Better go and deal with this, right? Yeh, right, let’s go see.
Around the far side of the church, opposite Mrs S’s house, is the other graveyard, the one filled with the dead author’s schoolmates. The Girls are here, a larger group, maybe ten or so. Each beside a different tombstone. Tea lights burn in lines. I feel a wave of fear. Here things are less recognizable. There are no bottles of alcohol that I can see. The Girls don’t even register our arrival. The Housemistress marches straight to the gate, calling out to them once she stands at the top of the stone steps. Oi, oi. Shock in her voice. An inability to think of the right word upon which to enter the situation, their attention too far away. The Girls react slowly, turning their heads, necks unnaturally soft. The Housemistress doesn’t bother to whisper. What the fuck, are they on drugs, fuck. The Girl closest to the path laughs. It is a solid, frightening sound, a tumbling rock.
OK, OK, enough, what have you taken. The Housemistress strides between the tombstones. It’s very important you tell me what you’ve taken. Don’t worry, it’s organic. More giggles fire into the air. She’s a ceremony, don’t you see. The Girl spins. The Housemistress walks quickly, peering at the ground, kneeling at certain spots. She finds no evidence. Panicking she grabs the hands of The Girl nearest to her and tries to prise open her fingers. Get off me, you’re not allowed to touch me, you fucking dyke. What have you taken? It’s important you tell me. The Housemistress does not let go of her hand. Tell me, you have to tell me. I don’t have to tell you anything. Still, there is a fragility to The Girl’s resistance. Her pupils snap. Every word requires an additional ounce of energy.
Yeh don’t ruin our trip, another pipes up, just as weakly. The Girl furthest away. Slouched against the wall, feet pressed against the front of a tombstone. It is The Girl who punched the boy, her features hardened into silver. Your trip? The Housemistress turns to look at me. Will you be helping at all or just fucking standing there? Glares at me. She is not yet sober although she wants to be. I try to only raise my voice, but cannot find the right volume, instead I shout. No one can leave, OK, no one can leave until you tell us the truth, what you’ve taken, OK? The Housemistress is disappointed in me. I don’t think they’re planning on leaving anytime soon, do you? The Girls begin to lose interest in us. A few lie on the ground, bodies posed over the graves, eyelids fluttering. None wear their shoes. I see them now, lined up beside the gate, socks tucked dutifully inside. Narrative, there is a narrative at play, one that has been organized into ritual. I imagine that they have been in careful planning for weeks. Covert meetings, only this select few allowed in, the rest of The Girls, the lessers, left wondering. An aim to honour these dead girls as the school doesn’t.
We just want to connect. The Girl who punched the boy speaks up again. She flexes her toes against the tombstone. The night is still enough that I can hear the friction of her skin. We want to connect and let them know we’re thinking. The sentence remains unfinished. Her features slacken. Chin floats towards chest. Shit, oh shit. The Housemistress is agile. I follow. The Girl has fainted. Her mouth remains parted. The Housemistress taps her arm lightly. Come on, come on love. When The Girl does not respond, her body falling further forward, The Housemistress begins to shout. Hey, wake up, wake up, wake up. Stop, stop it, she’s out cold. I put my fingers to her neck like I know what I’m doing. A pulse is not so easy to find, how ridiculous. I check for my own, searching across my neck. For fucksake. The Housemistress is standing, looking around at the others, making sure all are still conscious. There, there’s the pulse, the thick artery below the hinge of my jaw. I replicate the spot on The Girl’s neck. It is there, hard, certain. I hover the back of my hand over her mouth and feel her breath. She’s fine, it’s OK. We need to call an ambulance, fuck. The Housemistress looks up at the old vicarage. Lights off in every front-facing room. Mrs S most likely fast asleep.
Go, will you, just ring the doorbell. We need to call an ambulance. I can’t move. I don’t move. The Housemistress pushes my back. Go, what the fuck are you waiting for. She crouches and cradles The Girl. I run out of the gate and up the driveway, slowing down once out of sight, my chest tight. There are certain things I am not supposed to do. Calling on her in the middle of the night like this. The scent of roses. At the door I knock too quietly at first. Nothing happens. The house does not make a sound. I knock again, this time with both fists. I step back so I can see into the windows. Finally a light is turned on, their bedroom. He answers the door. I forget him, I forget he would of course answer the door. What? What is it? He is sweet with sleep. Skin around his eyes crushed like silk. It’s, it’s, there’s a problem, we need to call an ambulance, can I use your phone. I wonder if he can smell beer on me. We are not standing close enough together, I think, for him to realize. He wears a dark-blue dressing gown. I notice his legs, his calves, their sudden and sensual shape. He has everything. In the darkness he moves to the wall and flicks a light switch, blinking as the bulb brightens. What is it? He is firmer. The Girls, I think they’ve taken something. Right, where? The graveyard. He tries not to show panic.
I lift the receiver and dial. As I begin to speak to the operator she appears on the stairs. A matching dark-blue dressing gown. She doesn’t smile at me. Her face strains. I can’t recognize her. I cover the mouthpiece with my hand so I can explain. There’s been an emergency. She looks at him and he lifts his hands in the air in dramatized confusion, jutting out his bottom lip. Did she think I was here to confess? To let the world know? She tightens the cord of her dressing gown. The operator asks me for details and I give them, trying to slow my speech, wanting to seem calm. They listen in, the pair of them now side by side, she has gone to him at the doorway, elbows touching. Oh God, she mutters, oh God. She turns and starts to walk quickly, trying not to break into a run, stumbling on the steps, heading down the driveway. He shouts after her, using a nickname, then her first name. She does not turn around. I lose sight of her but hear the graveyard gate swing open.
Christ, what am I supposed to do. He speaks as if I am not here. Just, just wait. I watch him run up the stairs, taking two at a time, his boyishness irresistible to me. I hate myself. I am not sure what to do. I have to wait for him. I keep my hands in my pockets, practising a pose, wanting to find my boyishness in return. My cheeks are flushed. I am thinking about The Girl but not enough. Her face finally pulls into focus, the transparency of her skin, how she disappeared behind her eyelids. A tide pulls at the edges of my stomach. I hear a door close and seconds later he is back in my field of vision, coming down the stairs. He has dressed as if going to morning assembly, except he has not put on his tie. The top buttons of his shirt are undone. His trousers, too, are wrinkled as if lifted from the back of a chair, not taken from the wardrobe. Yesterday’s clothes. Once beside me he touches my shoulder. Tell me, then, what’s happened, while we walk. He guides me outside. We were going past, up there, The Housemistress and I, and we heard voices, we followed them to the graveyard and just found them. He frowns. We were at the pub, we were just heading home, taking the long route, the night was too lovely, you know. The word lovely. He pauses at it, at my use of such a word, roaming my face, trying to uncover what I mean. He would not understand, anyway, about the moonlight, the way it made The Housemistress and I feel possible.
He nods, distracted. I see Mrs S inside the churchyard, hunched over. There are voices. The Girls are now more attentive, standing closer. As we enter he says nothing. The Girls bow their heads. The Housemistress hovers, her hand moving through and through her hair. The Girl who punched the boy has come to. She doesn’t speak but looks steadily at Mrs S. What have we here, what has gone on. Disbelief in his voice. This won’t do. He addresses The Girls. This won’t do, you know that. His voice rising. Not now. Mrs S wraps her hand around his leg, his knee. Not now. He turns his back. Two of The Girls move as if to leave, grabbing the gate, not stopping to collect their shoes. They have no chance. His job, as he understands it, is to see everything. No, no, stay here, do you hear me, stay right here. He speaks to The Housemistress. Do you know what it is they’ve taken? Have they taken something? No, I mean yes they have taken something, but they won’t say. Is that right. He paces between The Girls. Do you realize you could die? That your friend might die? It isn’t true, what he’s saying, death does not feel close, it is only the unknown, the way their eyes roll around in their heads, set loose. I think of his bandaged hand, the wasp sting. Under his feet, under his brown leather shoes, tea light after tea light is smothered, the thin metal crushed. At this loss of control, he only asserts more control. Fire hazards, these are fire hazards. He walks along, now lifting his shoes higher to have more of an impact, to make clear the sound of destruction, to make clear the possibility of his power. All that can be heard is the river, the slamming of his foot into the ground. I will stay here all night, unless you tell me what you’ve taken. Briefly I wonder if The Girls have taken anything at all. I know the unofficial history of femininity, stories of mass hysteria, mass fainting, mass illness. The speed at which symptoms can move between bodies. Perhaps their ritual, the anticipation of it, the execution of it, has been powerful enough. Maybe they have been drawn out by the heat.
