Mrs s, p.3
Mrs S, page 3
Blood is concentrated around the sinks. Toilet paper balled across the floor. The bloodiest evidence, colour as bright as when it left his body. We each put on oversized dish-washing gloves, hers leaving an inch of space between rubber and skin. That is gross. She tosses the toilet paper into a bin bag. So gross. On the wide mirror I notice red smears, almost reaching corner to corner. I imagine the boy leaning in to examine the damage, tap running, a few friends pacing in the background. He brings his fingers to his nose, collects more blood and drags it across the glass on purpose, pleased with the evidence, with the drama.
For a while she has not thought about the other injury. Now her shoulder rolls back, her neck strains. She resists the urge to touch it, not wanting to remind me of its presence. In the bathroom’s artificial light I see the bruise is dark red. Already the edge has started to fade into green, the blood under the skin beginning to age. Does it hurt? It’s fine. Is he your boyfriend? No way, never. I expect another laugh. Instead she turns to me, confusion apparent. What do you want me to say? I pause. A muscle flickers beside her ear. What do you want me to say? Without meaning to I have been asking for a confession. Hello? Miss? Nothing, I don’t want you to say anything, you don’t have to say anything.
We continue to clean in silence. The sound of somebody at the entrance carries back to us. A door pushed open suddenly, footsteps echoing through the gym. Hello? I recognize the voice. Hello? One sec. The Girl nods. I push open the bathroom door just as she readies herself to grab the handle and enter. We are face to face. Mrs S! The Girl calls out behind me. Hello hello. She pushes past me and goes straight to The Girl. Gently her arm goes around her shoulders. Now this won’t do. With a bare hand she takes a bloody tissue from The Girl’s gloved fingers and drops it back onto the floor. Immediately she registers the first bruise, then the second. Her gaze is subtler than mine. The Girl does not notice the fast movement of her eyes. Mrs S? The Girl’s face softens. Mrs S touches her cheek briefly. It’s not your job to clean. Selfishly I want her to look at me. She does not. You come with me, OK? Underneath the arms of Mrs S The Girl is ushered away. Only at the entrance does she release her, holding the door open wide, keeping it from touching her body. Finally she looks at me. Not quite indifferent, something I can’t place. One second, two. And then they are gone.
I walk to the petrol station. Past the school, past the pub, at the road’s curve. Unbranded, the opening hours are unpredictable. Today a picnic table has been moved into full sun to the left of the two pumps. Two men sit across from one another. As I cross the forecourt one gets up slowly, moving inside the shop and behind the till. I follow. The shop has random essentials. Each shelf heavy with Pot Noodles, toilet paper, batteries, bin bags, white bread, orange juice, plain flour, tins of peas. In a wicker basket are apples and blackening bananas. I pull out a pizza from the freezer, the topping indiscernible beneath the frosted clingfilm, and pause over the ice lollies.
Behind the counter the man sighs loudly. Don’t leave that open too long yeh. I slide the freezer lid back across. Instead I peer through the glass. I take three of the cheapest. Neon liquid frozen in long plastic tubes. The kind that slices the corners of your mouth as you push and suck. That all? I nod. A cigarette is tucked behind his ear. His head has been recently shaved, hair now a handsome shadow, a mole visible after his forehead, another at his temple. I put the change in the charity box. Ta. No worries.
In no rush I move into the sunshine. Position myself in the opposite corner to the picnic table and bite open the first ice lolly. Lime, supposedly. Glowing green. He leaves the shop, I was the only customer, and rejoins the other man. Crackly music is played from a radio. The selected station is dedicated to hits from across the eighties. The opening bars of Bette Davis Eyes begin. The man with the shaved head leans back and closes his eyes. This song, fuck I love this song. The other man, with an ordinary haircut, looks down at his nails. He doesn’t say anything. His friend keeps singing, wanting him to notice.
He tilts his face into the sun. I realize he works here too. Overalls rolled down to the waist. A pump attendant maybe. Or a mechanic. To the right of the shop is a garage. Enough room for one car at a time. Today it is empty. The song ends. An ad break offers insurance, mattresses, a day trip to a water park. The steady, soothing voice of the DJ promises an absolute classic, a stone-cold classic, he asks listeners to wind down their windows, to let the next one blast through the countryside. They both lean in to the radio. The man with the shaved head thoughtfully touches his cigarette but decides not to smoke it yet.
The song begins. Drums and piano. The man with the shaved head jumps up. This is it, this is the one, the one. His friend shakes his head. Don’t know it. What? What do you mean? I mean I don’t know it mate. The man with the shaved head sits back down. He pulls one leg up onto the bench. On his ankle is a little tattoo. Maybe a heart. How could you not know, are you joking me. The friend shrugs his shoulders. He looks across at me. Oi, oi, excuse me. Yeh? Do you know that song. The radio is lifted up above his head. He says he doesn’t know this song, can you believe it, everyone knows this song. The name is there, on the tip of my tongue, then slips away suddenly.
Finally a voice sings. Bruce, it’s Born in the USA, by Bruce Springsteen. Exactly! His friend looks blankly at me. What you still don’t know? Not sure. Come on I don’t believe it mate. Using only four fingers he touches his friend’s wrist. As if realizing the strangeness of his gesture he lifts the four fingers and turns the touch into a slap. Come off it. His friend goes to move his hand. The slap switches to a grip. Admit you know this song! Mate come off it. Even she knows this song. His open palm sent in my direction. Yeh but I don’t, you’ve got too much free time. The wrist is not released. The friend doesn’t panic. It’s Bruce fucking Springsteen! You don’t need free time to know Bruce Springsteen! The man! The fucking legend!
With his free hand the friend reaches across and pinches underneath his armpit. Maybe pulling on his hair. Fuck ow fuck. Calm it down yeh. The next song plays, U2, one of my dad’s favourites, loved with that same blunt passion. I’m not sure what to do. It’s not my scene and yet I’m involved, smiling, letting them see me smile. I know I want certain parts, not even parts, just the fragments: an ankle tattoo, a wrist, the freckles, that touch turned to a slap. Things fading in and out, things from a distance, things that are fragile at the last minute. From the pocket of his shorts the man with the shaved head pulls out a lighter. Just feeling hyper. His friend yawns. You’re always hyper. He inhales then offers it across the table, the other man, this friend, declines, shaking his head. My body is a temple. He coughs. They both laugh. I finish the last of the green ice lolly and pull the next from my plastic bag. A chemical blue. I taste blood from the corners of my mouth. Miniature cuts numbed by the cold.
The office is not as grand as I imagined. I have been summoned here. The furniture is cheap wood, made in the last ten or so years. Carpet too. Not the impressive dark wood of elsewhere in the main building. Her window looks out over the tennis courts. It is open. There is a repeated thwack of a ball followed by polite clapping from spectators. Every so often there is a sigh at a missed opportunity, a point ended. In one corner is a school photograph. Teachers and students, hands clasped, Mr and Mrs S stood in the centre. In the other is a plant stand featuring a heavily restrained monstera. A network of brown string guiding the thick stalks. Hello. Important not to let my heartbeat show. Hello. Apologies, another meeting ran over. That’s fine. A silk t-shirt, high neck, light pink. The weather turned unseasonably warm. The country at last enjoying the long-promised rising plume of Spanish air. A heatwave imminent. She fans herself with a folder. Alright, well. She goes to speak then stops. Sorry, can I get you anything? Water? Tea? I’m fine thanks.
I wanted to talk. About The Girl? She is tense. Yes, about the incident on that Sunday afternoon. A flush at her neck, alive against the light-pink silk. Look I don’t know much, just did what I was told. No, no I understand, I just. She trails off, twists her wedding ring. Who asked you to be there? There was a note on my shelf. A note? Yeh, in my cubbyhole. Shame sours my mouth, drying it out, I try to work up some saliva under my tongue. Who was it from? The teacher chaperoning, the head chaperone. Chaperone is not the right word, not the word used here, in this place. She doesn’t write anything down. This is information she already has. The note is probably there, tucked into the folder. Didn’t you talk to anyone? Yeh, yes, a few teachers were in the staffroom Sunday morning before I went to the gym. Right, right, they didn’t have an issue with it? I don’t think so. She has launched an investigation unprompted, I realize. There is no one for her to officially report to, only The Girl, only herself. Not her husband, otherwise I would be in his office.
It’s obscene, that’s all, antiquated. She mutters. The half-formed sentence is not meant for my ears. Wanting her to look at me I respond anyway. I agree. You agree? I give her a list of the teachers, the comments they made about the blood. Maybe there was something I could have done then, in the midst of their grouped fear, each person hoping to frighten the next. The Girls are not supposed to think of punching, let alone actually punch. I repeat this sentence, spoken by the history teacher in his tweed, to her. It’s obscene, the whole thing. This time she speaks to me directly. I think about The Girl. Is she OK? Mrs S’s fingers go back to her wedding ring. No, yes well, she has gone home for now.
Her parents? Yes, well they trust the school. She is overly polite. I can tell they have not been angry enough, the parents. Undoubtedly the mother, the father, are afraid of The Girl if the school is afraid of The Girl. Will she come back? Yes I believe so, in time for exams. The pragmatism is unbearable. I roll the sentence over before I say it to her. Once, twice. The pragmatism is unbearable. She stands and closes the window, keeping her back to me for a few extra seconds. I don’t know about that. The room is quickly too warm. Somehow I have said the wrong thing.
And the boy? What do you think. She turns away from the window. Complaining daily about his nose, otherwise unscathed. On the walls are prints from various modern art museums. Exhibitions, famous artists. An Alexander Calder, a Matisse, a Georgia O’Keeffe. Each retrospective is dated within the last few years. I wonder if she likes these, feels for them, or if it is for The Girls who so often sit in this same chair. Perhaps they are even for people like me, a demonstration of taste. You like them? I blush. She has caught me out. Yes, no, maybe the O’Keeffe. From my husband, to brighten up the place. She doesn’t care what I think either way. What I want is an opportunity to get to know her. To create an opportunity to get to know her. This might be impossible. How are the roses? I feel her smile. They continue to be very nice. The book is helping? Yes, somewhat. A sigh. Outside, the tennis ball is hit back and forth, a longer rally, a courteous tension building. She is on tiptoes, trying to see the match, opening the window wider. Her feet slip from the heels of her shoes. The movement feels familiar enough to make me brave. If you do ever need any help, I’m around. I look away, back at the O’Keeffe, letting my offer settle. Large white petals turn, moved by green. The folder is touched again. She returns to the desk. If you’re not busy, you wouldn’t mind? I copy her tone. No, I wouldn’t mind at all.
Lunch. The chairs, the tables, rumoured to be from the dead author’s time. Pretty spirals of woodworm have weakened a few of the legs. The Girls swap seats for fear of falling, for fear of the brief but acute public shame. Each teacher takes a turn as head of the main table. It is raised on a platform. Ten of The Girls are selected to eat here too, after good behaviour. The table is closest to the long windows, closest to the views, the fells fading backwards into sky. Today it is her, Mrs S. A high-waisted skirt, maybe wool, in grey. White shirt. A light gold chain visible just below the neck.
The job is to lead the rest of the school in prayer. Some recite what is already known. Others, like Mrs S, prefer something off the cuff. She looks around at the room rather than into her linked hands. After a difficult week, Lord, give us the strength to make good, positive decisions. She touches the light gold chain. The Girls exchange glances. I sit at the head of a table in the middle of the dining hall. To one side the kitchen continues to serve up the food onto steel platters, never pausing, not even during the prayer. The chaos of metal on metal. That permanent smell of meat, carried over from breakfast. Hundreds of years of meat, lingering in the wood, in the walls. Windows fog as steam releases from the large saucepans. Something is dropped. A clang, a muffled swear word.
Each week a menu is posted on the door of the dining room. Today, beef and mushroom stroganoff with boiled rice. For dessert, cherry clafoutis. What the fuck is a clafoutis? I have no one to ask. The Girls hardly speak to me. A couple of them whisper, shoulders conspiring. Are they glancing at me? Mrs S continues. In these decisions let us, may we, hold one another in grace. Her sentences are only the mildest of codes. I take pleasure in her lack of concealment, what she is saying now, how she says it, seeking out eye contact, in her cold voice. Not cold, stern. No earnestness. The Girls take the safer option, bent in prayer, eyes safely on their thumbs.
The entire school is aware of the incident. Collectively the teachers are suffering a mild hysteria, as if The Girls might now start punching at will. A letter of reassurance has gone out to each of the parents. I wonder if they, Mr and Mrs S, discussed the decision in private. I have not yet seen a copy of the letter but hope to. The possible wording, the possible position of each word. The repetition of incident. Mrs S ends with an Amen. She does not blink. The Girls echo dutifully, sending out a second Amen like a sigh.
A bell is rung, by hand, indicating the food can be collected from the pass. The Girl to my right gets up to retrieve it. This, I’ve only recently learned, is always the duty of The Girl to the right of the head of the table. She is younger, twelve or thirteen. Against the rule I get up with her. She doesn’t protest as I help lift the heavy, hot dishes. First a sweaty stretch of rice, the grains bloated, overcooked. Next the grey stroganoff. Slivers of onion. Strips of coiled beef. Food is served according to an old choreography. First me, the head of the table, then passed down one by one to my left. If the meal is good there is hardly any left by the time it reaches the final Girl. Often, I’ve noticed, this is also an opportunity for spite.
I could just serve her first, The Girl to my right, who will eat last. She is already holding her fork, worried. I plate my rice, then grey stroganoff, avoiding the beef. I could just serve her first. The Girls look at me patiently. My hand trapped around the spoon. The Girl to my left is waiting. She watches me. I have left it too long. Now they all watch. They can see my thinking. If I serve her first, what about The Girl afterwards, what about The Girl who will then be last in her place. I stand suddenly and briefly, spoon poised. Confusion begins to narrow their faces. No, no. There is no possible solution. I sit back down, defeated. The choreography begins.
I walk up the long driveway. The house emerges on the right-hand side. In front is a large garden set lower than the driveway, hidden from the main church path by an old hedgerow. Mrs S is at the centre. Everywhere she is attractive. Her in old jeans. Mud staining the hem, the backs of her calves. The gloves on her hands are slightly too large, maybe her husband’s. The shirt too. Heavy cotton. Light-pink pinstripe. Today her hair is tied up. The little demon of her chin. Among the regulated wild flowers I am especially clumsy. A sharp grass catches my knee. Blood, even. The borders are purposefully overgrown. My ankles give out on unexpected edges as I try to follow the path. Behind it all is the house. The old vicarage, now too grand for a vicar. Limestone. Front door painted a tasteful pastel blue to match the uniforms, to match the school crest. Slow romance of yellow roses up the trellis. Why should this scene be so beautiful? The sky is wide open. She sees me and smiles. I am self-conscious in my old running shorts, old trainers. Sweat has already started across my forehead. The binder works hard underneath my t-shirt. I make it to the centre. The shirt is distracting. I wonder if her smell has already outweighed his. Each cotton fibre now adjusted to her skin. A shadow cast across her face by a large straw hat. I’d like to reach across and take it from her head.
Hello. She is formal. Hello, I return. I notice roses everywhere. Not just the trellis, but in curt circles surrounding us. In her hand is a pair of secateurs. Its sharp beak catches the sunlight. Her eyes are lost to shadow. I focus instead on her gloved fingers, restless with a torn belt loop. Thank you for coming. She places a hand between my shoulder blades. You’ll be a great help. Gently she guides me towards a particular patch of roses, these a watery pink. At my feet are thorny limbs. Neatly cut by the secateurs. Here, we’re making bunches. She inhales, maybe in thought, pulling back her lips. There are her teeth. Incisors, almost bared. She presses the left against her top lip as she crouches, leaving a dent. Like this. She selects a rose limb and opens the mouth of the secateurs. The angle is carefully chosen. Under her breath she counts the leaves that run the stem. At five she cuts. My hands, my thighs, my face are left open to scrapes. Already a thorn claws at my forearm.
