Mrs s, p.2
Mrs S, page 2
There is nothing to do. I take my second bath of the day. Since giving up smoking this is my only remaining pleasure. I shuffle waves around the tub. So few other things, maybe a long train journey, offer the comfort of a simultaneous activity and passivity. Sex too, occasionally. Late-afternoon light is slender through the window. I can turn in a shoulder, a cheek. Maybe I will masturbate. My fingers move to and fro through the gloss.
My annexe, attached to one of the sixth-form boarding houses, is adjacent to the woman who runs the sanatorium, a nurse, The Nurse. Our living mirrored across two floors. An old, tiny house split down the middle. She is strict, painfully religious. The Girls have reported her, I’ve been told, for telling them period pain is a myth. I wonder if she interprets the twist, the hot knife in the guts, as a kind of holy suffering. We share a bathroom wall. In her half of the building little crosses are mounted in the kitchen, lounge, hallway, one even overlooking the toilet. Once, as she prepared too-sugary tea, I slipped into her bedroom. Beside her bed is another cross, this one larger, a Jesus at the centre with his intimately carved six-pack. Her water glass with its etched Christian fish. The Bible lives in a top drawer, nestled amongst foils of yellow antihistamine pills.
She complains about my excessive water usage. I tell her I won’t flush the toilet more than once a day, or shower for the rest of the week. She is furious but ultimately powerless. I imagine her, at night, sending prayers my way, so sweet as to be malicious. In each of our interactions there is always the feeling that I would do better under her God. I don’t mind her God, so tangible. The sexy Jesus in her bedroom. His body I too would die to have. Not just the chest but the legs, a footballer’s legs, complex with muscle. Even those sad, raised palms. Brazen in their injuries. Such glamour.
I pick up the dead author’s second most famous novel. The same copy I had at school. My name, twelve years old, in try-hard cursive inside the front cover. Somewhere in the later chapters is an erotic scene. I look for it half-heartedly. Gothic. All stone, rain. One long mood. My old notes appear every few pages. PATHETIC FALLACY alongside an underlined description of yet another storm. METAPHOR? SIMILE? Panicking over a particular, surely meaningful, detail of landscape. Reading it is distracting. I don’t remember this twelve-year-old. At that point, in that English class, we strived only for a well-known sameness. Inventively, without being able to find the erotic scene in the novel, I imagine fucking the dead author. Not dead, but alive, hair pinned back, femme-ness deceived only by a hard mouth. She was miserable here. Otherwise not much is known about her. Within that misery, within that absence of historical fact, is a potential gayness. I take it. We fuck the old-fashioned way. Heavy petting in a stolen, shadowy corner. Upper-class. Maybe a private library, an enclave in a large garden of a country estate. A couple of chaste fingers. The endless, busy sound of fabric.
From beside the bath I pick up the dildo. A relic from a past relationship. This one flesh-coloured. Two more lie hidden at the bottom of my laundry basket. A large silicone vein runs the shaft. An accuracy I learned to love. First only the tip, then the gradual rest. Above, the base of my hand, the base of her hand, moves fast. My ex’s face. Improbably, The Nurse’s. The dead author’s knuckles, terse, lifted from the famous portrait. On purpose I don’t think about her, I don’t think about her ridiculous roses. Too risky in its predictability, in its proximity to my reality. I need distance, I need not to hope. Otherwise fantasy could quickly lose its function.
Mrs S arrives last. The Girls try not to care. Look at her quickly, flicking from her shoes to her hair, they like to see how she dresses. The library is warm. She stands by the door and removes her jumper, green. We all watch, we all want to be the only one watching. She recognizes her audience. Smiles. Their unofficial welfare officer. Involved in the intimate aspects of their lives, out of choice, not duty, it seems to me. The Girls are spread across the room. Leaning on bookcases, sitting cross-legged on the patterned carpet. Some have dared to loosen their ties, undo a top button. The Nurse is impatient. As if she has been waiting a century to speak. She stands in front of them all. Her hands move in and out of fists, heavy at her sides. Taps her foot. Mrs S apologizes for her lateness, though it’s only by a few minutes. The Nurse forces an enormous smile. Right. She claps her hands. Right, enough chitter-chatter, listen up Girls, or should I say Ladies? They do not know it is meant as a question. The Nurse presses her lips together. Hmmmmmm? Now they understand. Ladies, The Girls respond softly, reluctantly.
Mrs S moves through the room. Knots the green jumper around her shoulders. An example. Finds me at the far wall. Decides to stand as I do, tilted forward, lower back pressed against stone. She whispers something I can’t catch. I should whisper too, ask her to repeat what she said. I can’t. I will spend a lifetime wondering. Another smile. The Nurse goes on. Ladies, as we all know, your first social is upon us. The Girls bite the insides of their cheeks. They do not want to give away their excitement, not to her. I could learn from their determination. Mrs S, her bare forearm, only a centimetre from mine. I’d like her to realize. She doesn’t. The Nurse is not awkward. Power comes naturally to her, she seeks it out. There are, of course, a few things worth bearing in mind, the same things I’ve told the Ladies before you, and the Ladies before them. The Girls release their cheeks. First, the rules, no skirts above the knees. One of The Girls can’t help it. She groans, other heads whip to find her. The Nurse’s hand, no longer a fist, hits the skin above her heart. The Girls closest flinch. Any more outbursts like that and I shall make sure none of you go, do you hear? Mrs S turns to me, raises her eyebrows so only I will notice. Where did she grow up? Has she broken any bones? The impulse to know all of her, the idea that I could, the accidental promise of her raised eyebrows. Shameful, how easily I am trapped. The Nurse is relentless. I tune back in. Any skirts above the knee and you’ll be sent back to your dorms, when dancing you shall be at least a foot apart, I won’t bring my ruler because I shan’t need it. Her tongue clacks. You’re dealing with boys, they age differently, good manners do not occur to boys. The Girls look through her. Focus on the wall behind, I can feel their thinking: what does she know about these boys, their boys? You must be in charge, they don’t think with their heads. The Nurse pauses for effect. It works. Shame settles on The Girls like snow, they blink, a few scrunch their eyes. Beside me Mrs S shifts, places her hands between the small of her back and the wall. The Nurse senses her win, the success of her applied pressure. So, you must do the thinking for them. She paces out of pleasure. Three steps to the left, to the right. You will remain where you can be seen, you may not leave the building until the lights are up, teachers shall be stationed at the doors, I expect you to be sensible, Ladies, to not let the side down, can I count on you? This time The Girls know to answer. Yes, they draw out the s. But it is not enough, The Nurse needs them to nod, to sign her verbal contract with their bodies. Any idiocy shall ruin it for the rest, am I clear? Yes. They are louder, almost comical, heads bobbing. Jolly good, that’s it, you’re free to go.
They save their secrets, file out in silence. The boys will arrive from the nearest private school, in pressed shirts and ties, breath freshened, knees touching on the coaches that drive them down the country lanes. Ridiculous. And yet, it is all there is. Things start to make sense. This one event, the anticipation they must make last. The Girls understand how to propel themselves forward. I go to leave, I will have to walk them back to their dorms, to monitor them as they eat dinner, as they get ready for bed. Mrs S stays at my side. I expect you find all of this quite strange. Me? Yes. I guess it’s not what I’m used to. No, I don’t imagine that it is. She stops before the door. I do the same. Must seem a rather extraordinary way to find a boyfriend, I expect you had simpler methods? Sure, something like that. I hold back, too exhilarated by the question, it could mean nothing. Not so old-fashioned where you’re from. Maybe more than you think. Is that so? Yeh, it was conservative in its own way, there were dances, a bit like this, there were shorter skirts, though, definitely above the knee. I see myself at fourteen, legs bare, an outfit loaned to me by a girl I would do anything for.
The Nurse stands behind me and clears her throat. She needs to be noticed. Mrs S uses her first name, touches her arm, she stiffens under her grip. Thank you for doing that. Yes, good, some of it sank in, can’t trust them at this age, all those hormones making them daft. Well, I’m sure they’ll do their best. We’ll see. Her drama, the reach of her sigh, her chest restrained by the starch of her uniform. She wants them to fail. She doesn’t acknowledge me, I like to think I frighten her. Well, can’t stand around all day, this won’t do, I shall be seeing you. Screeches away, rubberized soles planted heavily on the wooden floor.
You know, she’s not really the tyrant she seems. The Nurse, Mrs S wants me to forgive her. I’ll take your word for it. I find myself echoing her speech, wanting to seem grander, wanting to seem worthy. Yes, you’ll have to, I suppose you don’t have a choice. Her final smile, her hand already on the door handle. She doesn’t say goodbye. Unknots the green jumper. Slips it over her head. Corrects her hair, fixes the sleeves. Turns once as she walks down the corridor. Finds me exactly where she left me, as she knew she would.
After dinner, prep. Shorthand for a word I haven’t learned. Preparation? Too embarrassing to ask. For two hours after eating, The Girls must finish their homework. I take the youngest, sit in a classroom, behind the teacher’s desk. Look out at them. The classroom is used for Latin lessons. Lining the walls are pictures of Vesuvius, of cracked Roman busts, curled families preserved in volcanic ash. On the chalkboard behind, an exercise in a grammar of belonging, he or she or we or they, the types of bodies changing the next word. It looks difficult. Pointless. I did not know Latin could still be learned. The Girls arrange their possessions. Open exercise books. They are not to talk. They don’t wear uniforms. A freedom they use against me. An arm is raised. Plastic bangles colliding. Yes, I say, yes. Look up from my book, reading the same line over and over again. Miss? Yes? Miss, is it true that in Australia dingoes eat babies? I don’t know. You don’t know? I am foggy with heat. The radiators cannot be turned off, even in the rising temperature outside. An old, heavy window is shoved up. Three of The Girls work as a team, squealing, worrying about their fingers, putting their heads into a breeze that does not exist. Sit down, guys, come on. Miss? She is patient, waiting for my reply. No, I mean, I don’t know, you should get on with your work. I shift in my seat, cross my arms. How else to learn authority but to imitate it. Miss? The Girl puts her hand into the air once more for effect, unsatisfied. Miss? Yes. So you think she did it? The mother? She killed her baby? The rest of The Girls stop their writing. Listen with their elbows, their chins, their torsos, leaning forward only slightly, creating a specialist tension, letting their pens hover just above the page. I don’t know. Miss, it’s your country, you must know something. Probably, yeh, most likely she killed her baby. It’s what they wanted. To have me release some murder into the air, to break the classroom’s illusion. The Girl’s face is happily scandalized. Eyes wide. She lowers her arm. Shakes her head. That’s what I thought, so sad, isn’t it Miss? Yeh, yes, it is. My face reddens, do they notice, of course they notice. I have lost and I hardly know how.
I did not see what happened, only the aftermath. One of The Girls punched one of the visiting boys in the nose. She has broken it. A clean break. Septum collapsed, a precious heap of small bones and cartilage, two black eyes. Her punishment, for starters, I’m told by another teacher, is that she must clean up her mess in the bright light of day. A phrase they love to say, as if this morning will be worth more than last night. I enjoyed their terror as they explained the scene to me. The blood! Oh the blood, just unbelievable, the blood. Inside, the gym is only half-emptied of party paraphernalia. Long trestle tables line the far side. I see a few balloons caught against the ceiling. Empty glasses have been left balanced in secret places. Coupons are given to The Girls at these events, one watered-down wine each, red or white. Once, there was a counterfeit scheme, a teacher explained, a few of The Girls caught forging the coupons, the wine running out suspiciously quick.
A trail of blood begins in the middle of what was the dance floor. Only a few drops. He walked, maybe staggered, towards the toilets at the end of the enormous hall. The drops of blood increase, streaked by his shoes, or maybe by the shoes of those following him. I reach the door to the men’s bathroom just as The Girl arrives. Her arms tight across her chest. It is unlikely she respects me. She doesn’t say hello. Listen he deserved it. There is a wobble in her voice. She tries again. He deserved it. A sentence rehearsed on her walk here. I’m sure he did. There is blood across the white toilet door. On the metal handle it is less obvious. The sheen lost. She sees it now, the blood. I correct myself, I want to appear softer. I know he did, I know he deserved it. She looks at me, then back at the blood. Tries not to move her head so I won’t register her interest. Her body locks and unlocks, arms unfolding and folding again. I pick through a selection of keys. Behind the stage, the teachers explained, is a tiny staffroom where I will find the cleaning products. She stares at the ceiling. Her parents have been called. Arguments over expulsion or suspension. I see her knuckles are swollen. A grand bruise threatens. Does that hurt? No. It might be broken you know. She doesn’t reply, moves away from me. A necklace has turned the wrong way around. The pendant, a silver star, hangs at her nape. I wonder if she punched him twice.
Come on. We walk the length of the gym. I unlock the door. Here give me a hand. She takes only the mop. OK so boil the kettle, for the bucket. She winces as she grips the plastic handle, each knuckle extraordinarily close to the skin. Every movement purposefully slow. She exists in new anticipation of pain. You know where I’m from there’s a nickname for that injury. I point at her hand. If you’ve broken it, I mean. What? A hard stare. The dickhead. What? The dickhead. I take the kettle from her and fill it with water. Her face slackens. Oh that’s me. She offers a cautious smile. One hundred per cent that’s me, you know dickhead isn’t a swear word we use much here. Yeh? She struggles with the cap of the floor cleaner. Yeh. Finally it pops free. The bright-yellow liquid spatters the grey walls. Fuck. She looks at me. A particularly forbidden expletive. I notice now the firm beginnings of another bruise, this across her collarbone, partially hidden by her hair and t-shirt. Fuck, I repeat.
She pours the yellow liquid into the bucket. A third of the bottle disappears. Next time you only need a capful. Oh. She sneezes once, twice. The sensory shock of the chemical smell. It’s strong, isn’t it. In defiance she sniffs it deeply. Her head moves in a new sneeze, this one silenced, sucked back behind her eyes. My instructions are to sit and watch as she completes her punishment. I position myself awkwardly on a narrow gym bench. She walks the sprung floor, eyes searching for the beginning of the blood, struggling to remember where it was she punched him. Just there. Where? I get up and point. There. She shoves the bucket with her feet. Plunges the mop. Steam rises. She does not twist, does not remove the excess water, she has never mopped before. The chemical liquid slops towards the stage. She dashes backwards, not wanting to wet her feet. Fuck. This time she does not register the word’s institutional power. It’s OK. I take the mop and soak up the water. Come on, it’s OK, just sit. She obeys. I finish the job. The trail of blood disappears into the mop’s wig, briefly visible against the white.
The Girl’s fingers go towards the bruise on her collarbone, then stop, eyes snapping open. She is exhausted. Thanks for that, for helping me. You’re welcome. Outside, there are excited voices, The Girls walking back to their dorms from lunch. She tenses, looks towards the window. Wants to know what they are saying. Did something happen? Something else, I mean? She laughs. I am too sincere. Her laugh breaks against the walls. The room’s own voice swells in the following silence, a clock ticking embarrassingly above our heads, the balloons nudging the ceiling. You can tell me. No offence Miss but what would you know about it. I don’t need to ask her what she means. She is angry, I am sequestered by my lesbianism. She laughs again, harder. The teachers will want the opportunity to forgive her and this, I understand, is what she will refuse.
I look towards the bathrooms, sitting either side of the front entrance. Well. What Miss? She might like me to protest my alleged lesbianism, or scold her, make a confession of my own. I won’t. This isn’t it I’m afraid, there’s more to be cleaned. In the men’s Miss? I wait for a joke, some loaded gesture. Instead, she is engaged. Sitting upright, her hands pause above her knees. Yeh, the men’s. She stares at the door, at the sign, at the small, sexless symbol of a man. I guess that’s where he went afterwards, after it happened. Her voice, the tone, separates her body from the event itself.
Against the cheap white paint of the bathroom door the stains are more stubborn. She gives in, uses her injured hand, pinching a rag delicately between thumb and forefinger, her pinkie finger left floating. I work hard on the ghostly red fingerprints that wrap around the doorframe. Perhaps this is where he steadied himself, gently touching his face once, twice. Inside, the mess is not so terrible. There is only so much a single broken nose can produce. Fuck it stinks in here. She has established the fuck, using it on purpose, letting me pass her minor test when I say nothing. What do they do? Piss on the walls? Each stall is investigated. The bathroom doubles as a changing room. Belongings left by boys from last night, from plays, from other socials. She turns over the few items abandoned on pegs, checking a jumper for a name label, pulling a pair of sunglasses from a jacket pocket. She is careful with a pair of dress shoes. Strung up by their black laces. She touches a hand to the leather. Somebody went home barefoot I guess. Yeh. She places her unbruised hand inside the left shoe, moving her wrist back and forth, testing out the length, eventually fitting in half her forearm.
