Mrs s, p.9
Mrs S, page 9
I feel Mrs S look at me. She finds the corner of my eye. Nods as I turn my head. A slow nod, she luxuriates in my glance, reaching inside my ribcage. I will try and talk to her later. Each Amen, each Ave Maria, hangs between us. She stops looking at me. I make it all up. I am making it all up. There could be nothing. There is nothing. We have to stand again. At least inside the church it is cool. The sun cannot penetrate, not really, each piece of old stone permanently cold. Now we sit. The vicar our lacklustre choreographer. I turn towards her again, I cannot resist. She looks up at the broken window, the damage barely contained by clumsy planks of wood, fluttering tarpaulin. We find each other again. A knowing look, shared. I watch as she searches the congregation. Not looking for guilt, not looking for the perpetrator, fascinated only by the possibility of this person’s existence.
The vicar asks that we pray. Some of the local women tip forward onto their knees. Hitching their skirts. They take the cross-stitched cushions from their hooks. As they find the right position they grunt softly. A desire for God is the most straightforward. No risk, only reward. The vicar spreads his hands across the lectern. He is most comfortable when all the eyes are closed. Before him, the congregation is at last as vulnerable as he feels. For effect The Girls also use their prayer cushions. Bent, napes of their necks displayed. His voice no longer quavers. I am too shy to use the prayer cushion. The one at my section of pew has a design of three lions, triangle heads, bewildered expressions. I don’t pray, it has never occurred to me that I could.
What does Mrs S think about? I drag my eye as far as it can go to see her. She kneels. He kneels too. She doesn’t hold her hands in a prayer position. Instead she is slumped over, as if asleep, head cradled by forearms. Hair fallen out of place. She does not move to fix it. Elsewhere she would. She rubs the edges of her longest fingers with her thumbs. There is a thought turned over and over. A comfort needed. It is me she thinks about. It is not me she thinks about. Her past, risen. The church is designed to evoke the before, to tend to history in the same specific motion of hands, of lyrics. I will her to open her eyes and see me again. I’ll forgive, I can offer her whatever forgiveness she needs. Does she actually believe in God? One day I will ask her. She will laugh, she will not answer.
Above the choir stalls, carved into the oldest section of the church, are The Three Accidentals. I squint to see them. Named by The Girls, three pagan forms, limbs fat and short. Eyes and noses severe. If you look closely, difficult without a ladder, between each set of legs is a slit. For whatever reason they are women. The exact date of their creation unknown. The final prayer. It is almost over. The biggest prayer, the famous one. The Girls all know it by heart. Hallowed be thy name. I can hear her voice again, another vision of her as a child, murmuring, barely realizing she is speaking, the habit is so old. Amen, Amen, Amen. A tension fills the church. Everyone eager to leave. Sunday is finally open to pleasure. The Girls fidget. They try not to talk through their plans too loudly. Some might go to the river, try and find a spot still deep enough to swim. Pew by pew The Girls exit. I follow them outside. Blinking, yawning, as if moving out from a cave. I hover by the entrance. The Housemistress is already outside. She flirts unashamedly with one of the pastel women, who looks alarmed but still reaches across to touch The Housemistress’s forearm. She catches my eye and winks.
Mrs S exits, joined by the vicar who speaks anxiously with her husband. They discuss some male philosopher. I catch snippets of the conversation as they pass by. A theologian, old-school, darker side of things and all that. Before I can speak she takes my elbow and sweeps me to one side. We stand underneath the old sundial. What do men know about ethics? Not much, if Abraham was anything to go by. Oh God, you actually listened. Hard not to. I suppose. She drifts for a moment, as if heading towards the same thought she had during prayer. Here we go, look, how they love him, they can’t get enough. The women in pastel gather around her husband. The vicar slightly edged out. Does it bother you? She laughs.
The smallest thing spurs me on. He loves it too. Yes, he does, doesn’t he. The old sundial casts two thin shadows. Come on, tell me your news. I don’t have any news. How depressing, I don’t have any news either, even more depressing, we ought to find something to do. I look at her for as long as I can without vanishing entirely. What sort of thing? Oh I don’t know, tennis? Not sure about tennis. She laughs. Today she is in a mood I can’t fathom. Perhaps she has argued with her husband, perhaps she has fucked her husband. Her energy cannot be contained. I am her outlet. I don’t care. She drums her fingers against the stone. I know, do you smoke, let’s smoke. Smoke what? A cigarette! What else? Right, sure, if you want. I do want. Her dress twists to the left and she adjusts it. The fabric yanked at the neckline, retied at the waist.
Are you done for the day? Yeh. The Girls would make their own way back to the boarding houses. Lunch would be served in a few hours. Sunday ends informally, food laid out, a cold buffet, The Girls able to come and go as they please. Well then, how about we make a getaway? Her husband is still surrounded by the pastel women. The vicar has now been engulfed by the group, talking earnestly, a severe look on his face. They listen to the vicar, the pastel women, but cast glances only at Mr S. The Girls have all but disappeared. The Housemistress too. Busy with something else. Often she waits for me. Not this morning. There must be another, more urgent activity. Perhaps the woman in pastel. Stay right here. Mrs S walks quickly to her husband. She reaches up and whispers in his ear. He turns briefly to look at me. I wave, embarrassed. Before she leaves he puts his hand on her buttock and squeezes, the dress riding up her thigh an inch. Done a hundred times. He does not realize, or does not care, that I can see. One of the pastel women tries to engage her and she instead steps backwards, shaking her head politely, indicating that she must be on her way.
Escaped, she makes a face, a face only for me. Forehead flattened out, eyes wide. Let’s go then. Where? To buy cigarettes, unless you have some. No, I don’t really smoke, not anymore. Not anymore? No. Aren’t you rather young to have already had and abandoned a habit? The only personal question she has ever asked me. I panic. No, maybe. We follow the path out of the church, using the front entrance, avoiding the passageway that leads past the dead girls. Out on the road she walks even faster. I struggle to keep up. Are you OK? Me? Fine. You better buy them, the cigarettes, I shouldn’t be seen I suppose, The Girls might, well, they might find it a little too encouraging. Sure. Here. She digs in her handbag and finds a note. Use this. It’s fine. No, no, it’s my terrible idea, come on, at least let me fund it. I have almost no money. I take hers. Shame will continue its reinventions. No matter what I do.
The garage is busier than usual. Three cars fill the space between the pumps. Customers in shorts and t-shirts, ready to be outdoors, desperate to get somewhere else. I recognize the mechanic, helping. He doesn’t recognize me. Smell of petrol, the chemicals hard at work in a floor cleaner. The man behind the counter fiddles with his earring. He doesn’t recognize me either. I am nervous. I choose us the same lurid ice lollies I ate before, both blue, and take them to the counter. And some cigarettes please. What kind? He nods at the selection behind him. I don’t deliberate. That one. At random I select a gold packet. He frowns. I have revealed something in my choice. Have a good one. Yeh. He goes back to his earring. I am almost outside when I remember. Wait, a lighter, one lighter too. They’re just there. Right. Quid yeh. OK. I drop the coin. He peers over the counter. There, it’s there. I crawl towards the shelves stacked with tins. There, right there, by your leg. I pick it up and wipe it clean on my t-shirt. Thanks.
Mrs S waits on the forecourt where I left her, in full sun. The mechanic looks at her approvingly but she doesn’t notice, or at least has learned how to disengage from such looks. Got them? I wave the packet. Oh good, great. And these. I rip open my ice lolly with my teeth and suck. Blue slick against my chin. For you? Oh. She holds it. Will you open it? I rip hers too. She pushes it up and out, letting pieces break and fall to the tarmac. Blue pooling stickily against the hot black. How disgusting. Still she eats it. Wipes the stain from her chin. Where shall we go? This way. I follow her around the back of the garage. Car parts scatter the grassy area. Two minibuses succumb to rust, jagged holes happening through the doors, over the wheels. She picks her way through the engines, the tyres. Beyond is one field, then another. She climbs over a stile and lands softly on the grass, barely green. We’ll find a spot. My church clothes are stark. The collar of the polyester jacket rubbing raw against my neck. I fold it over my arm. She strides ahead, a picture, leading me once again into sky, into fell. Ahead suddenly she stops. Quick, quick, let’s go back, back that way. Shimmering by the next wall is a group of people, maybe some of The Girls, also with their cigarettes.
She is shocked, laughing, making me run, pushing at the small of my back. I drop my jacket and she picks it up, still running, slipping her arms inside. It is too big for her, I am broader, flapping about her torso. Here, quick. Back over the stile. She retraces her route through the debris, settling beside one of the old minivans, the lesser destroyed of the pair. She tries the handle. It won’t budge. You, you do it. I place my foot over the wheel arch and wrench. It opens. My fingers throb with the effort. Well done you. Go on, get in. The front plunges forward with our weight then stops with a clank as it finds the ground. There, it’s fine. She removes my jacket and drapes it across the dashboard.
The surreality of her in the driver’s seat, the steering wheel missing, her expression expectant. Her hand is outstretched. I put my own hand inside. Fingers motionless against her palm. She doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything straight away. No, a cigarette, the cigarettes. Of course. I retreat. Pull the packet from my back pocket. Here. Oh shit, a lighter, we don’t have a lighter. I produce that too. Relieved to feel useful. The sensation of her skin still burns my fingertips. Ah you’re a genius, truly, you think of everything. She does not mention my hand, where it was only seconds ago. She is classy, does not want me to feel ashamed.
She lights the cigarette herself. I would have liked to have done it for her. Concentrates. A mole at her jaw, another underneath her ear. Glances at me. I don’t look away. The window on my side is broken. Hers is closed. The cigarette glows. She does not yet take a drag but instead tries the window. It won’t give. Fuck. Only last minute she smokes. Long, practised. Her head hits the seat as she exhales. Does he know you smoke? I don’t smoke. She opens one eye. You’re not having one? No thanks. So it’s just me. I’m here for moral support. Crucial, I suppose I couldn’t have done it without you. Did you use to smoke? Obviously. I think I annoy her. My nightmare, to annoy her. I sit in silence. She finishes the cigarette and lights another.
I can go, if you want. Why would you go? Is the smoke bothering you? No, you just seem like you want to be alone. Well I don’t. She bends. Arches her back off the seat in a catlike stretch. I spend plenty of time alone, and he does know I smoke, that I used to anyway, the worst thing about me apparently. You gave up? For him, yes. How long has it been? What, since I’ve been married? No, since your last cigarette. She laughs. Same timeline, though I suppose, really, twenty years or so, I must have been as young as you, imagine. Well I’m twenty-two. Said aloud I realize I sound younger, I tie myself in knots. Right, sorry, well let’s make this a fair exchange, you tell me something, some bad habit. There’s nothing so interesting about me. I don’t believe that. Outside, the sound of cars. Non-stop up and down the country road. Everyone urgent in this weather. Unable to deny the unrelenting good fortune. Determined to boil, the desperation to be outside quickly foiled by the heat’s reality, they don’t care.
I don’t talk to my dad. I correct myself, wanting her formality, to measure up. My father, he doesn’t talk to me anymore. No? No. The brakes of a lorry release their huge breath. Will you tell me why? He doesn’t approve of me. The sound of her smoking fills the silence. Her wrap dress will smell of tobacco. He might guess, Mr S, putting his nose to its shoulder. She will already have an excuse prepared, better than an excuse, a reason. Her husband will choose to believe it. He doesn’t approve of you, your father? No, he wants me to be traditional, he’s a traditional guy, he likes marriage, women in aprons. And you don’t wear an apron? Oh I burn everything. She frowns. I messed up the joke. I try again: I mean I’m a terrible cook, I’m bad in the kitchen. Oh I like cooking, there’s pleasure to be had in feeding people.
The mechanic calls out to someone who is too rough with the pump. She freezes as if he is shouting at her. After a second she realizes he is still on the forecourt, nowhere nearby. Her body relaxes. I take the opportunity to laugh. Very funny, very funny, I used to be much better at breaking the rules. Not me. No? She has got me wrong, has assumed my sexuality, as yet unspoken between us, makes me bold. I correct her. I don’t know, if I could, I think I’d be as normal as possible. She smiles. Don’t be normal, don’t bother. That ease of hers, that ease which makes me jealous, it is born from our precise difference. She looks for a way out, I look for a way in.
Oh I miss it, I miss this. She attempts a smoke ring but fails. Another drag. This time she puckers her mouth in a tighter circle, tension crinkling her lips. The shape appears suddenly, then slowly, expanding, thinning. Soon it is too large for its own density and fades away. She performs three more, each one exact and quickly frail. Impressive. Thank you. Here she is, the reformed rebel. I want to be toyed with. Who taught you to do that? Oh, I can’t remember. She does remember but will not say. The packet of cigarettes is picked up and put down again. Her watch looked at. Our time together is over. You need to go? Yes, I’m afraid. There is enough disappointment in her voice to satisfy me. She hands over the packet. Why not hide those here? You think? Yeh, I don’t want to be caught with them either, The Nurse would kill me. From the passenger seat I bang open the glovebox. An old can of Coke, dead wasps, the faded wrapper of a chocolate bar. I nestle the cigarettes in between. Our secret.
The Girls wear black lace veils over their faces. Held awkwardly in place by childish hair clips. Pink, blue, green. Discomfort is obvious in the constant movement of their fingers, popping the clips open and closing them again, flinching at the hard snap against their skulls. The drama teacher helps. She walks between the group, adjusting and readjusting the length of each veil, until the fabric is flush with their chins. Stand over there. They move to the back of the room. Not yet on stage but just before it. Let’s try again. The Girls, at varying volumes, recite a few lines in what I recognize as Spanish. Six of them. Five I already know from painting the scenery. This evening they are still in uniform. Blue ties slackened, some only in their navy socks, dust collecting under their toes, black shoes lumped against the wall.
No, no, roll the r, roll the rs. The drama teacher sits metres away, in the first row of fold-out chairs used for the audience. Verde, verde, verde. The tip of her tongue quickly flicks each word. It is impressive. Accent executed without embarrassment. The drama teacher has obviously forged some intimate connection to Spain. I imagine a second home in a charming town, near a lesser-known beach, shops fragrant and local. Try, try. The Girls take deep breaths and close their eyes, dropping their foreheads to their navels. An attempt to centre themselves, to arrive at some sort of moment. Most likely a technique learned from the drama teacher. She turns suddenly, calling out to my seat on the last row. And you, do you speak Spanish? Afraid not. Never mind then. She twists back around. Can I see? Of course. Without looking in my direction she holds out a photocopy. I am required to get up, the chair pinging loudly behind me, to retrieve it from her hand. My footsteps fall heavily. The Girls stare impatiently.
The photocopy is not a section of script but a different Lorca poem. Romance Sonámbulo. Both the original Spanish and an English translation fill the page, side by side. Verde que te quiero verde. Green how I want you green. Green, how I want you green. I have the drama teacher’s notes. Commas and slashes added for breath. The word green needlessly highlighted at each appearance. Green wind, green branches, green flesh, green hair. The first verse has been circled off, indicating that The Girls will only read the very beginning. Again. She claps her hands. The Girls dramatize the rs. I would laugh were it not for their earnestness. Matching stances, hands knotted behind their backs. Better, better, much better, take five, people. She claps her hands again. The Girls relax. Two hop up on the stage and bang their heels against the wood. They carefully lift the veils to talk, not wanting to dislodge the clips, letting only their mouths move.
The door opens slowly to reveal Mrs S. The Girls pretend not to notice. This is their territory. Even if only for the next hour. I feel it too. Holding the door steady so it does not creak, she moves inside. Don’t worry darling, we’re taking a minute. The drama teacher reaches out her arms. It’s a joy to have you. Oh good. You’ve arrived at a breakthrough moment. Wonderful. She sits on the other side of the drama teacher, leaving one seat between them. The theatre is impressive. Small, as if part of some legendary city legacy, the compact design lifted from a famous district of other, similar spaces. Mrs S sees me. She discusses something quietly with the drama teacher. They are friendly, touching arms. Perhaps they are close. Perhaps the drama teacher and her matching husband were the dinner guests.
Right! The drama teacher stands. Mrs S crosses one foot over the other. She is casual. Only a white t-shirt and grey skirt. An outfit I have seen before, except, today, a gold wristwatch. The Girls pull the black veils over their faces. Let’s do a scene, shall we? The drama teacher lifts a slim book from her bag. Let’s start from the very beginning, a very good place to start. The last line is sung. The tune recognizable although I can’t place it. Her voice, too, has the quiver of training, vocal cords disciplined and hefty. Quick quick, set it up. Chairs are dragged across the floor. The theatre’s acoustics are buoyed by the large scrape. A space in want of constant noise. Mrs S moves as if to help, then changes her mind, readjusting in her seat, the foot crossed and recrossed. Thick photocopies of the script are retrieved from The Girls’ book bags.
