Mrs s, p.7
Mrs S, page 7
I decide to enter into her game. Dunno, in outfits like that, all women look like queers. True, it’s those cargo pant pockets, they do something to me. She slaps the section of her chest containing her heart. It feels good again, to be gay, to be standing in the sun, to drink a beer. What do you think hets keep in their pockets? Oh, easy, strong breath mints, factor-fifty sun cream. She pauses and stares without shame at a man’s profile. He reaches into his trousers and produces a plain white handkerchief. He blows his nose. Proceeds to dab his brow. Oh my God! A hanky! She giggles. Do you think he’s signalling? White, what does white mean? I’m not sure. She scratches her chin, an ancient philosopher, performing her thinking. Rimming? Sorry not sure. No, not rimming, it’s orgies, one hundred per cent it’s orgies. I laugh. Definitely orgies. Which pocket? What? Which pocket did he take it from? The right, no, the left. A top! She giggles again. Maybe he’s my type after all. A few people look our way. Without turning their heads, afraid to let us see them seeing us, their eyes swerving.
The woman accompanying the man raises her hand and tugs apart the Velcro of a large square pocket. We both watch. She reveals a chunky camera. Should have seen that one coming! The woman switches it on, releasing a dramatic mechanical sound, the lens announcing itself. She shuffles in next to the man and tries to take a photograph of the two of them, faces ruddy. Each time she clicks the button there is another mechanical sound, the camera struggling to focus. She redirects the man, asking him to crane his neck to the left, to the right. Jesus this is painful to watch. The Housemistress hands me her gin. Here hold this. Confidently she approaches them and offers to take the picture.
They take her in, trying hard to be polite, the effort hardening their bodies. Afterwards the woman nods, overly formal. Thank you, that’s very kind, thank you. You owe me a drink! The woman jumps. Oh, well, I mean. The Housemistress lifts up both hands. Only kidding! On her return the rest of the gin is downed. Bloody hets couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery. She pats the keys, double-checking their presence. There is an anger, softened by time, now residual. I touch her arm. It was nice of you to take the photo. Well we would have been here all day listening to that sound. I don’t immediately move my hand away. She allows this, remaining still, legs wide, patient as I finish my beer.
Another? Is the Pope a Catholic? This is her. Catchphrases swaggering across the hurt. As I walk across the grass she calls out. Heads turn. Make sure it’s the fresh bottle of tonic yeh? Yeh. My eyes readjust to the dim interior. The man watches a TV behind the bar. He doesn’t register me this time. Hi, same again. What was that then? A pint and a g and t. Right. He fills the glass with ice, a precarious tower, designed to unsettle me. The tonic bottle is lifted up unnecessarily high so I can see it’s the one recently opened. I try to embody her imperious stance, looking at him, nodding. Chin running parallel to his chin.
Oh, summer is embarrassing. Already, it is embarrassing, to be a body on permanent display. The sun like eyes in a portrait, like a spotlight, I am followed everywhere. I cannot dress. What if I see her, how should I look? There is no answer. I am late. One t-shirt discarded, as if there might be a better option. The same t-shirt put back on again. The classroom has a shoddy fan. I put my face into the pathetic whir. No one has arrived to tell me what to do. The desks are pushed together to make one long line. Brown envelopes, a list of addresses, a stack of the new school prospectus. On the blackboard is a chalk drawing of a river’s meander. The teacher’s hand is rough, quick. Arrows added to assert a pressure at one bend. An oxbow lake labelled and aggressively underlined. Each impact of chalk has left white crumbs. I wait for an arrival. Nothing, nobody. It’s a Saturday. The school is empty.
The task is obvious. The school is courting students by way of their rich parents. I pick up a prospectus. On the cover is a picture of the headmaster’s lawn, four of The Girls lounge and laugh, told not to look at the camera. They must appear as if stumbled upon. A summer’s day, of course, THE SKY IS THE LIMIT written along the bright blue. Footsteps. I look up at the door, I live in hope it is her, I live in fear it is her, it is never her. The cover promises that TOGETHER WE ARE BETTER. The Girls unwittingly part of a political campaign. The next page is the school as seen from above, the angle awkward. The Girls reduced to the size of insects, limbs barely discernible, as they move from the church to the main path. Stone burly, grey, each building enormous. Her house, Mrs S’s house, you cannot see. Just out of the frame. This page promises tradition, promises excellence. The school’s motto in cursive, ONE HEART, ONE PLACE. Next to the addresses are notes. Perhaps written by him, by Mr S. It is not something I am supposed to see. Dollar signs used to indicate money, those names with three in a row merit a clumsily drawn star. There are occasional, brief descriptions of a job, a personality, people he has met, things they like: Bordeaux, firm hand, red tie. A personal flourish will be added to his cover letter.
I turn over. There she is. Mrs S, sat in her office. A full page. The Georgia O’Keeffe past her shoulder. This is their contemporary touch. She too does not look at the camera but across the table, as if in deep discussion. But the person opposite has been cropped out, or was never there at all. Open on her desk is a notebook, the shapes of her handwriting. I lift the page closer to my face. As if I might be able to decipher something crucial, to look for some sign. She wears a blouse I have not yet seen. Perhaps already abandoned. It is green, almost see-through, it flows. Underneath, a white camisole. I take an inventory. One empty water glass, impossibly clean, her mouth has never touched the rim, one pen, something decent, a book open and face down, caught at a particular page. A clock, stern, alloy, not silver I don’t think. Her hands are clasped in front of her face. She has been asked to perform too. Be serious, the photographer asked, act as if I’m not here at all, it’s a normal day. She pretends to be self-conscious although she is not. It is more charming that way. Her understanding of the world, the way it works. I am doomed. Yes. I am doomed.
At first the screaming is faint. Animals, small animals, busy in the chalky summer night. My eyes open then close. Words carry further, a name, maybe the word help. A sharp release of adrenaline. I stand on my bed and heave open the skylight. Behind my room, behind the boarding house, is a brief section of woods. Otherwise it is only fields and fells. I remain standing, hoping to feel a direction. Impossible. Screams become shouts. I get dressed. I grope for a torch in a kitchen cupboard.
The shouts still, then liven. I walk along the river before turning up a slight hill into the woods. Trees are sparse. The river cuts down below, at its widest beside the large bank. Each voice becomes clearer now, The Girls, five of them, spread out across the stony swerve, calling into different parts of the night. What, what are you doing down there? They reform, pressing into one another, looking up at me. What the fuck? Miss! Miss! Miss, oh my God it’s Miss. The slope is maybe twenty metres down. I can’t see any faces, only the blankets draped around their shoulders. They came mildly prepared. Miss we’re cold, we’re cold and stuck can you take us home. Laughter. Strained octaves. Yeh Miss come on come down have a drink. We’re stuck, we’re so stuck, oh my God.
What do you mean, stuck? We can’t get back up, it’s totally impossible. Miss we’ll give you a drink if you help us. They call again now, help, help, help, cupping their hands around their mouths. How did you get down there? I flick the torch along the slope. Was it from here? Miss come on, hurry it’s cold. Is anyone hurt? No, as if. Have you been drinking? Miss we would never, you won’t tell anyway will you Miss. I make my way down. The slope is steeper than anticipated. I sit and slip forwards, imitating the pattern of their bodies, hooking my arms around the occasional sapling, tree, root. They call, keep cheering. Go for it Miss, go for it.
At the bottom I recognize each face. Four are fourteen, one fifteen. Wailing, their arms around my shoulders in a limp hug. Miss you rescued us. They pull away. On the bank is a thin pile of branches. Miss you’re a big dyke why don’t you light the fire. She smiles, The Girl speaking to me. Light the fire and hang out with us. I think we’d better get back. Miss where will you take us Miss. Back to your dorms. Let’s go to your house Miss do you have anything to drink. How much have you had? A Girl lifts two empty bottles. Vodka maybe, probably. Look we couldn’t light the fire. Two press their foreheads together, another swings her hands behind her back, the final pair clench each other’s hands. Each self-aware in this mock innocence. I am terrified although glad it is not daylight, glad to be half shadow. The smell is light, but there, cigarettes, the sweetening alcohol on the edge of every word. Miss you’ll have to carry us back up there. One of them walks around me, reaching up, closing her elbow around my neck. A stage whisper. Only carry me back up there, leave them here. One jump, pulling me backwards, kicking her heels into my calves.
Hey, hey, come on, stop that. I pull her elbow away. We can walk, all of you, it’s a five-minute walk from here. Miss no way Miss. Such serene faces. You know that, you know there’s a path. No we don’t Miss, we’re not outdoorsy like you. Italics drop into their sentences. Listen bring the rubbish OK, bring the rubbish with you. The Girl holding the bottles puts them both to her mouth, tipping her head backwards. I see other supplies. A few unlit church candles, two lighters, one cracked, an empty packet of sweets pinned purposefully under a stone. This rebellion has also been careful. The blankets are the school’s issue, a rough woollen tartan. Each boarder is required to purchase one to lay on top of their bedding. Red name tags stitched into the corners. Fuck this I want to stay here. Me too. Four of them sit, cross-legged, on the pebbles. Fuck this. The fifth stands next to me, a touch drunker, swaying, steadying herself against my arm.
Up, get up. No. What happens when you’re hungry? Tired? Who cares who gives a shit. OK what happens when you’re hung-over? Fuck you. Listen in a few hours you’re going to feel terrible and wish you were near a bathroom. Fuck you fuck you fuck you, they call again, layering each voice over the next. Fine, whoever wants to stay can stay, I’m going back. I turn. Somewhere is the path, a lone rowan tree. I stumble forward. My torchlight pathetic. Just ahead the track emerges, swinging away from the river. Beyond will be a roughly made bridge across a narrow bend. I have been here before. A biology outing, The Girls dragging jars through the water, squealing at moss, threatening to taste it. Miss, Miss, Miss, Miss. Just before the bridge they appear. Miss you can’t just leave us. I haven’t have I, here we all are.
They belong in the larger boarding house, run by The Housemistress. The path follows the side of the building. One slaps her hand against the stone, home sweet home. Another slaps harder. Home sweet home, homo sweet homo. She presses a finger into my back. The other Girls splutter. At the front door I punch in the code. The hallway has held the day’s heat. Wait here. But why? Just wait. I head up the stairs to find The Housemistress. I have never been to her room. Somewhere is a flat, an annexe, similar to mine. This one at the end of a corridor lined with dormitories. In the middle of the night, she has told me, The Girls will occasionally ring her doorbell repeatedly, feigning sleepwalking, arms outstretched, eyes rolled back. Each crime so discreet, so expertly done. On the second floor I find her already awake, disturbed by our noise. A flannel dressing gown. Barefoot. Jesus is everyone OK? Yeh, they’re fine, just shitfaced. Just shitfaced? Who? Where did they even, where are they? Downstairs. OK, OK. She moves as if to run, then slows to a stride. Grips the banister. As if timing each step.
The Girls stand. Bodies more awkward indoors, under the lights. Well I can’t, I can’t begin. The dressing gown is worn around the thick collar. I can see the beginning and end of the thread, criss-crossing, fraying. In the entrance hall is a picture of the boarding house in black and white. Not one but two cheap prints of the dead author. She is young in both. Ordinary. The Girls are quieter in The Housemistress’s presence. Two glance at her bare feet then at each other. Big toes flexed. We will deal with this in the morning you hear me. Yes Miss. They begin their procession up the stairs.
She sighs. Wait, hang on, with me. The Girls pause. Eyes glazed. We go through the dining room and into the kitchen. Here, come on. The Housemistress spoons instant coffee into five mugs. Boils milk on the enormous burner. Sugar, one tablespoon, another. She finds hot chocolate powder and stirs. The Girls watch, bewildered. Thanks Mum. One of them makes a mistake. The others look on in dismay, betrayed, wanting immediately to sever themselves from her. Not Mum, not Mum. It’s OK. The Housemistress is forgiving, in her dressing gown, feet still bare against the linoleum. One slipper sticks out of each large pocket. It’s OK. I want to twist a thumb through the worn hole at her collar. She rinses the mugs in the steel sink and refills each one. Drink, all of you, finish it alright. They do exactly as she says.
The church has lost an eye. One of the stained-glass windows has been broken. A rock thrown through at some point in the night, or the early hours of the morning, no one is sure. There are security cameras but they are fake, just plastic structures glued to the stone. The vicar tiptoes around the pieces. All dragged outside on tarpaulin, to be studied in the light, both of us awkward at the teamwork. He wears his robes even though there is no service today. All day he wears his robes, sweeping self-consciously through the school. He counts and counts again, announcing the number to me each time. I pretend to take note. The pencil only a stub, chewed. I have been tasked with helping him categorize the damage. At the school I am anybody’s. Each fragment must be carefully boxed up, soon to be sent away to an expert who might be able to complete a repair.
It doesn’t matter who has done this, what matters is that it is done. He wants to sound calm, forgiving. Instead he is fraught. Rubbing his hands, taking his glasses on and off to polish them. What matters is that it is done. I don’t reply. He is not talking to me, but to himself, or God, long ago they coalesced, now he must bear witness to himself constantly. Right, well we ought to start boxing them up I suppose? He bends over the first fragment. Touches it cautiously. Indecisive about his grip, swapping thumb and forefinger. He investigates the details. A face revealed in the glass, eyes sloped in a type of grief. Or, I suppose, it might not be grief. The face most likely belongs to a saint. Fine scrapes of a fringe line his forehead. Symbols at his frilled collar, shells, stars, leaves, shapes too amorphous to tell. His stare is without direction, as if, unlike the rest, unlike the vicar, he has been able to look inward. There is not much opportunity for handsomeness. His eyes are too peculiar, his jawline too soft, his hair set sweetly in a medieval bob.
So it’s true. Mrs S stands at the gate. My chest tightens. She looks almost admiringly at the damage. The vicar lifts both his hands. Ah, yes, I’m afraid, it’s very true. Heels stun across the path. He shades his eyes to watch her. What a dreadful thing. She says one thing and feels another. I keep on with my task, checking the packing materials, set up in the shade of a pine. Side by side they regard the window. What will be more dreadful is the cost. He folds his arms. Yes, although you’re not to worry about that, leave it to the others. She flaps her hand in the direction of the school, perched on its slope. The vicar grins weakly. Of course, of course, I just feel responsible. He cannot keep his body still. His weight shifts from one foot to the other. Oh, you aren’t responsible, silly man, how could you be, unless it was your hand that threw the rock. She touches him now. Her hand reaching out to his elbow, tapping it lightly. I am jealous. Forced to invent their history in order to recover myself. She thinks of him only as a brother, a younger brother, pathetic, alone. Oh thank you, yes. I watch him overthink. He decides, last minute, to touch her in return, accidentally glancing her waist on his way to her arm. They stand quietly for a moment. Both contemplate the window. Or at least they pretend to. The church demanding such moments of profundity.
It lasted hundreds of years, a reformation, an entire reformation, then it’s destroyed just like that. He snaps his fingers. He loves her but we are not the same. I will have to join them, assert myself. She is in her formal wear. A ring is new on her pinkie finger. Silver, large. A crest. The school, this country, loves a crest. Farcical little identities. It looks wonderful on her. The knuckle swelling just before the curve. She turns her hand across her cheek. It feels as though everything new she does, this pinkie ring, is for me. Is it self-worth to hold my noticing in such high esteem? My noticing. Impossible to stop.
And what do you think? She turns to me. No hello, never a hello, what could be so obvious as a hello. Avoiding her eyes I look at the pinkie ring. About who did it? Yes, or maybe why, why someone would do this. Well, I guess it would be fun. Fun? The vicar wants to sound incredulous. His voice breaks. I am encouraged, I will be poetic. Yeh, to throw a rock straight through a window, moving like a meteorite, especially a window like that, it would be fun. Oh no, there’s something seriously wrong with you, if you find that fun, if you find such destruction fun. The vicar relishes his shock, hands flying to his narrow hips.
Mrs S, she is modelled on a saint, her life concealed. He waits for her to speak, I wait for her to speak. She takes her time. Oh I don’t know, I think I can understand. She gently mocks him, the vicar. He doesn’t realize. She picks her way forward, heel planting between each piece of glass, at any moment one could be cracked by the physics of her shoes, her body. He is confused. I go after her, she is looking for the offending rock. The vicar and I are not the same. I am fond, though, of his earnestness. His manhood aligned not with God, but with the pressures of being his proxy. He is left lamblike, bouncing, panicking.
