Mrs s, p.6
Mrs S, page 6
I go back to her. How would he be, sitting in this passenger seat, watching her hand on a gear stick, watching her hands against the sky, watching her hands made into hooves. He would have a beautiful chest. He would be less astonished. Everything OK? Always. I change tune for her. She raises that eyebrow. Well then let’s get going. I hope there aren’t crowds like this everywhere. Don’t you worry, this is a secret spot. She taps the page open across my lap, finger just wide of her biro star. Well then, I say, parroting her catchphrase, I won’t tell. Oh I see it’s like that. Familiarity again. This time easier.
Sheep, fields, sheep. Slow pace of stone walls. Today the blue has heft, has a building heat. I didn’t know you could have weather like this here, I didn’t know. With one hand on the wheel she takes a pair of sunglasses from the door. Yes of course, honestly what do you think of us. Us. She never mentions a different home to this one. Wild flowers begin as we climb higher. The car struggles on the hill bends. Up, up, up. Tall weeds, but maybe not weeds, with starred white flowers. I am not concentrating on the map. Here! Ah, OK. She reverses down the narrow lane. A sign for the campground appears. She pulls into a passing place. I’m sure this counts as parking. From the boot she hands me a bag. Lunch! She puts on a green backpack, worn, straps frayed. Without worry she jumps up onto the low wall, spinning over her legs, landing safely on the other side. I follow, slower, more careful with my skin, not wanting a scrape, or nick.
Each movement she makes is positive, whole. This is a body at peace. She thinks of nobody else. Are we trespassing? Only sort of. To our right a few tents have been set up. In the distance is a line of caravans and an office. I see the tall not-weeds with white flowers up close. Don’t touch, don’t touch those. Hogweed, it will burn. I worry now, walking even slower, the space between us lengthening. We drop along a bank, following another wall, moving through a spot where the stones have been displaced. Downhill she marches towards a thin wood. Her calves are arrows through the grass.
In the broken shade she puts things in her mouth and calls out their names. Lovage, water mint. More, there’s more, but she’s too far ahead for me to hear. I round a corner and find her bent over a patch of pink faces, petals uptight. She frowns. This, I can’t remember what it’s called. Like the roses, the information is recently learned. There have been other books, other garish covers. This is one way of belonging. I understand. She struggles, combing through the images she’s stored, books stacked somewhere in that grand house. No, I can’t remember, how disappointing. A plane rips overhead. Seconds later an apocalyptic boom sounds off the rocks. We are in the middle of a valley. As if a glacier had only just finished moving through. She places her hands over her ears. There’s another one. Sure enough another dot appears, expanding. Not a plane but a jet. Something harder, faster. The military prefer these secret corners of English countryside. The sound is dragged behind. I don’t bring my hands to my ears. She watches. How can you stand it? I don’t know, I don’t mind.
We come out of the trees and stagger further down. The slope is steeper now. A sound of water increases. She crouches, picks a clover and bites behind its head. She doesn’t offer, or ask, me to do the same. Instead the flavour is announced. Sweet, something like honey. Wonderful! she confirms. Her personalities catch, like loose thread on a branch. The old-fashioned headmaster’s wife and this person, setting her teeth to a stem’s nape. Stood tall in her pink shorts.
Almost there. Scree is loose under my feet. Water appears. A clear river. Heather makes soft mounds. She whips through the bracken. Points to a distant fell and suggests climbing it, not today, but one day. I am hopeful. We drop down onto a track. There is nothing but the rhythm of our shoes on the dusty surface. Birdsong. Breath, focused in the heat. I want to ask her how she, how they, found this place, but the quiet is too lovely. Familiarity, a new familiarity, this time bodily. Little clutches of fabric. The swipe of our thighs.
This is it! At first I can’t see anything, only slabs of grey stone. She moves towards a copse of only five or six trees. Slender, silver bark. Green leaves. I watch her first, standing at an edge, peering down, pleased. It needed to be as good as she remembered. Without waiting for me she removes her white shirt. Each button a piece of my own spine, undone. Her swimming costume is an athlete’s. Black, streamlined. I am surprised by her strength. She adjusts the fit, a finger slid underneath the short straps, then the place where the suit meets her hips. Catches me watching her, I blush. She calls to me. My anxiety has its own heartbeat. Desperate for the cool across my sticky face. I wear a sleeveless t-shirt, the binder hidden underneath. Underpants, too, the t-shirt’s hem past my hips, stopping mid-thigh. You’ll go in wearing that? Yeh, no costume, didn’t bring one with me, never thought it would be warm enough to swim. Little did you know. She accepts my lie. My costume balled up in my underwear drawer. I no longer know how to wear it. I reach her at the edge. She has waited for my reaction. Below is a large waterfall. A pool eroded beneath it. Bigger than I imagined, enough to spend time swimming to either side. Jewelled surface. A fish, brown trout she explains, is visible deep on the stony bed. It’s beautiful. It is. She clambers down and dives. Muscle, water. Her back is a swimmer’s back. All arch and grace.
For a moment I can’t move. She doesn’t hurry me. Treads water, calm. I grip the edge with my toes. Promise myself I’ll jump at the count of five. But only manage on ten, hopping forward, I can’t make the same shape as her. Rush of rock at my back. Relief of vanishing beneath the bright surface. T-shirt ballooning around me. I open my mouth to drink, to taste the cold. Reappear to her face a few feet from mine. She smiles. There you are. We haul up to the waterfall. A large, flat rock partially submerged, able to be clambered onto. Matching flex of our forearms, she admires my brawn, I pretend not to hear. We sit side by side underneath. She draws up her legs. The crease at her knee. Here she does not know, does not mind, what she gives away. Water hammering our heads, necks. Without warning she slips back in, completes a few lengths at speed. Front crawl. I float. If I could choose a different chest I would choose this water. If I could choose a different body I would choose this water. I say the last line aloud, river slipping on my tongue. What? She swims towards me. Slowly. Breaststroke now. What did you say? Nothing. But of course, nothing. She rolls her eyes. I roll mine back.
I’ll buy us ice creams on the way home. Don’t worry, your company is plenty. The line is well used, has been said to other people, she is sociable, she entertains. I want it for myself. It would be nice to be plenty. To be plenty the way she says it, the key change between the e and n. We eat. Olives, artichokes from the posh supermarket. She laughs when I call it that. Hummus, smoky crackers. Two kiwi fruit and two matching teaspoons. She pulls an artichoke heart from the jar and eats it whole. We swim again, rinsing the oil from the corners of our mouths, from our fingers. Afterwards we arrange our towels on the rocks and lie still. Birdsong. Insects, the river’s full throat. A weightlessness arrives. I doze, waking up to her backpack zipping and unzipping. My God the time. What? The time, it’s past five. Her watch left in the front pocket. Is there a rush? She sits next to me, cramping the left side of her body into mine. It is the most we have ever touched. I feel it, I feel the moment she realizes, a tightening of her torso. Too late to move away we are left in this encounter, unprepared. We inhale, we are drawn closer together. I try to control my breath.
After seconds, maybe ten, she stands and stretches. Now I’m all dried off I want to go back in. The temperature has not changed. If anything, a particular warmth now rises from the ground, the rocks. Even the trees radiate. Do it! No, no, really I should be getting back. He needs his dinner? It is an unfair thing for me to say. She is gracious, letting it go, sticking to the facts. Yes actually, we have people coming over. What people, I don’t ask. I picture it instead. Him, her, a second him, a second her. Something sophisticated, fish, a whole fish. A whole fish and its special matching cutlery.
Here, come here, check me for ticks. Ticks? Yes, ticks! I approach her back. She reaches around an arm, her arm, sharp elbow skywards, and stretches her fingers, indicating an area to be investigated. There’s nothing. I look closely. Are you sure? A few moles. Those shoulder blades previously in flight through the water. She raises both arms. Shoulder blades in flight again. And here? She twists side to side. I am surprised by the dark hair of her armpits. Her smell. Nothing, there’s nothing. Good. The shirt is pulled back over her head. It is over. Now you. I turn, reluctantly. Her hands pause. May I? Yes. She uses her fingers, reaching inside my t-shirt without lifting it, feeling along the curves of my armpits, double-checking the moles. The touch is practical, careful. I know she will look at herself again in the mirror, after her shower, making sure I did not mistake a freckle, did not mistake a well-known moment of skin, and leave behind a determined nymph, those tiny legs, those tiny heads. She swaps a forefinger for a thumb, sweeping it down my sides. I didn’t understand I was supposed to use my hands. Now there will never be a second chance.
I have to see her the next day. And the next. Largely I am ignored. My skin hot. At one assembly, Monday morning, the teachers sitting in front of The Girls, there is maybe a sideways glance felt against my cheek. I turn slightly only to see her staring straight ahead, one smile for him as he addresses The Girls, then straight ahead again. In her outfit. Another silk top, this one designed with a small, lovely, hole at the back. Sunburn across her nose.
Muscle, water. That day is a parallel universe, set afloat upon my body. No longer in existence. She has created a lack so effortlessly. Is it knowingly, or unknowingly, done? I try to shift under her gaze in the corridor. She doesn’t bend, only nods her head, walking past. The weather has not changed. There is a lethargy. Movement reduced, laughter dissolved into sighs. I am grateful for the melodrama. The lawns are permanently busy. Bikinis are not permitted so instead The Girls tuck their shirts in and up, socks and shoes removed.
On purpose I head to the graveyard and lie down with an interesting book, in case she should see me and ask what I’m reading. One, two, three days since our trip. I am ashamed to have nothing else to think about. The interesting book will never be read. Every other word I look up at her window. I am joined for half an hour by a few of The Girls. Propped up against the tombstones. They did not notice me when they first arrived and then felt too awkward to leave immediately. Were it not for the heat, melting us all, a tension would have been palpable.
If I had a car I would return to the swimming spot and confirm each step. Instead, I carry out other physical checks. In the bedroom mirror I hope for a tick, imitating her thumbs, her fingers. I drape the shirt across the back of the chair. Unwashed. My distress is a surprise. Before, I enjoyed a consistent, calculated nothingness. I had been liberated by that nothingness. Each day perfect, each day without a pulse. My immovable routines. For once I had been sleeping. Nine, ten, eleven hours. Now, in the middle of the night, her shoulder blades.
A week passes. On Friday I call my mother. I walk to the larger boarding house and use their payphone. All The Girls are at school so there is no queue. When I first arrived, at the bright airport, I bought a stack of plastic calling cards. Vague commitments, the only kind I’ve known. The phone is in its own room to give The Girls privacy. In here, too, are locked cupboards containing the sweet treats of each of the younger boarders. On the weekend they are granted access to their own stashes, issued by The Housemistress, their self-control not to be trusted. There are five separate keyholes. Each key lives on a smaller ring of other keys, one for each door in the building, worn by The Housemistress.
She walks with it on show, letting it hit against her thigh. Her pantsuits always navy, as if she is one of The Girls grown too large. A lack of glamour makes her age indistinguishable. Young compared to other staff. Though, I’d guess, she still has a few years on me. No make-up. Skin smooth everywhere except her forehead. Stern creases. Occasionally she looks at me. I sense the peculiar queerness between us. Not solidarity but something more, in the veins, in the blood, some mirrored mineral. I love her big walk, with the keys, when I don’t think about what the keys are for. This tender marching out. A warding-off in advance.
Today I don’t see her. I talk to my mother, half waiting for her, The Housemistress, to open the door. At home nothing has changed. There is some sort of trip planned to the coast. A very nice hotel has been booked. If she misses me it is in a warped way. Now I am no longer physically present she uses an outdated version. When we speak, it is five, ten years ago. I haven’t come out yet. Her world is relatively undisturbed. The confession of my gayness left her permanently patronized, overly exposed. I introduced a subject she knew nothing about. Forced her into an ignorance she found frightening.
How are things there? She is tentative with the present tense. For a moment I consider telling her about my distress, if only for the shocked silence. It’s good, hard work. Nothing wrong with that. No, nothing wrong with that. I imagine her with a sweet tea, mouthing silent sentences to whoever else came into the kitchen, repeating each detail. It is early morning in Australia. She will have plans later. The pub down the road, karaoke. Dad is there but will not speak to me. The absence is no longer dramatic. How is he, how is Dad? You know him, the very same, won’t quit the cigs.
The door handle twists. She, The Housemistress, enters, all hips. I am sitting on the windowsill. A hand goes up in apology. Mum, I’ve got to go. OK love, speak soon. I put down the receiver, greasy from my ear. Sorry you didn’t have to do that. It’s fine there wasn’t much left to say. I didn’t know you were in here, thought you’d been and gone. She leans against the wall. The windowsill makes me bold. I blurt it out before I can change my mind. Fancy a beer? What? A beer. The Girls begin to appear across the car park, swinging their matching book bags. She grins. Thought you’d never ask.
On Fridays there are no prep sessions for us to run. The Girls have a sort of freedom. Mostly they watch TV, hooking their legs over the arms of the sofas, heads on each other’s stomachs. In theory it is our time off, although this is unofficial. You ready now? Sure. Let’s leave before they notice us and need something. Maybe she does not want to be seen alone with me. Bodies like ours are talked about with vicious glee. Two at once is pure defiance. She motions at the dining room door. I take intense pleasure in her fingers selecting the matching key first time.
She shushes me and giggles. It feels good. The empty dining hall is already laid for supper. This way. I brush past her as she lifts the hatch leading into the kitchen. At the exit she selects another key. It opens up to the rough road, right beside the river. The water’s pace is slow. No rain for weeks. Where to from here? She points at the steep slope to one side. Can you handle it? Can you handle it? I point at her pantsuit. This? No problemo. She peels off her blazer and knots it around her neck. Tucks her trousers into each sock. Odd, I notice now, one with a repeated pattern of a dog’s face, the other plain white.
You first. Naturally. She charges up the bank. There is a path barely visible. At certain points her foot slips, a loose stone tumbling behind her. Sorry, she calls down, mind your head. At the top she waits, a hand outstretched. I can manage. Regardless she grabs my forearm and hoists me up. There you go. We follow a path between the few houses that have nothing to do with the school. The pub appears, garden first. I remember standing on the table. The man will no doubt be working. I try not to be embarrassed. At the door there is a mutual hesitation. Both of us make way for the other, hoping not to be the one to go inside first.
I give in and enter. At the bar I order two beers. She reads aloud each kind, then changes her mind, instead needing a gin and tonic. ’Tis the season. The man makes the drinks. He recognizes me then regrets it, turning his back, pulling sliced lime from a glass. Extra ice please. She places her elbows on the bar, unbothered. More. He shovels in cube after cube. Yeh perfect. He goes to add the tonic, unscrewing the lid of a plastic bottle already opened. Any chance of a fresh pour? I face the other way. Fleetingly I want to exit the conspiracy we have created. It’s not cheap here you know. Her voice is a stage whisper. The man darkly retrieves a new bottle. At the hiss she makes a satisfied sound, a long ah. These are on me. Thanks.
I think of my mother. Yawning, her smoker’s mouth, the large Alsatian walked around the block. You OK? I lift my glass to hers. The creases on her forehead multiply. Cheers, and it’s sunny, who could want more! She leads us back outside. There are no tables available so we stand in between. She unknots the blazer and drops it to the ground. Sweat unbroken at both of our temples. So what should we bitch about first? The fact that there’s no one around here to fuck? I reel, glad my face is protected by the sun’s glare, the shock unable to be seen. She continues. I thought to myself, when I took the job, a school like this, sure to be full of dykes, well there’s you at least, but no offence, you’re hardly my type. Oh? Yeh no offence. None taken. This is only half-true. I am offended, had hoped for some flirtation, had enjoyed her unlocking doors, shushing me. So you think there’s no one else? Who knows, I thought to myself, at least the PE department, some jolly-hockey-sticks PE teacher, but no, all married. Doesn’t mean they’re not gay. I want to talk endlessly about Mrs S. Say her name over and over again, force The Housemistress to consider her every detail. I manage to restrain myself. What else is there to say except her name? The Housemistress takes a large mouthful, sucking in an ice cube, knocking it against her teeth. Yeh, sure, but it’s not like you can do anything about that, who has the energy. She swallows. Another long ah.
A panicked look is refreshing across her face. Shit I didn’t even ask, just assumed. No, yeh, lesbian. I awkwardly give myself a thumbs up, then invert it, jabbing my chest. Forever in love with the word. Lesbian. The slow sexuality of it, a snake in the mouth. She looks around at the tables, peering over the top of her glass, a faux spy. All hets here methinks. I look now too. Tourists, mostly couples, with their sporty tan lines. Some in cycling gear, others straight off the fells in their zip-away trousers and expensive hiking boots.
