This Is All

by Aidan Chambers

  going to take ages and she’d been looking forward to it for days. But in the middle of the process her period began very painfully. She knew what it was; her mother had prepared her. But she didn’t dare say anything, and couldn’t stop the hair remake. So she sat in agony, looking at herself in the mirror, pale and scared. The pain was so bad, she put her hands under the gown and opened the top of her jeans and held her tummy to soothe it.

  Periods, periods! They can cause such embarrassment. One day in my early times when I was using a sanitary towel I was shopping in a department store and needed to go to the loo so went to the one in the shop. There were no sanitary bags left, and I’d been strictly taught not to flush towels down the pan. So I took a blouse I’d just bought out of its plastic packaging and stuffed the soiled towel in the packaging and put everything back into my shoulder bag. Don’t ask me why we do these stupid things, but after I’d finished my shopping, I managed to leave my bag in the shop. Had to go back of course to claim it. I was fourteen at the time. You can imagine how I felt. A woman supervisor, a middle-aged trout of haughty bearing, was called to deal with me. Oh yes, says she, a bag has been found, would you care to describe it? What colour, what shape? And that done: Please list the contents. I did so, but omitted to mention the used sanitary towel. Well, who wouldn’t? Then, whether because she was a woman who strictly followed the letter of the law on all occasions or because she was a vindictive old hag by nature I don’t know, but she proceeded to unpack my bag with the hyper caution of a bomb disposal expert dismantling a booby-trapped mine, laying out each item in regimented order on the counter between us, where everyone, shop assistants and passing customers, could see them. When she reached the sanitary towel clearly visible inside the transparent plastic packet stamped with the shop’s distinctive logo, she lifted it out between finger and thumb as if she had found a parcel of biological

  A cosy smell of cooking filled the house, making me feel hungry.

  ‘Have a seat,’ Ms M. said.

  I sat at the kitchen table, facing the window above the sink that looked out onto the strip of garden. Rain was just starting to fall, not heavy, a thin veil; the table and chairs under the apple tree were already glistening as if newly varnished.

  Ms M. lifted a large metal pot out of the oven and set it down on top of the stove.

  ‘Vegetable soup. I make it once a week.’

  ‘Smells good.’

  ‘Like to try some?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Best to let it cool for a while. Tastes better when it’s not bubbling hot. Want something to drink while we wait? There’s some fresh orange juice. Tea or coffee or—’

  ‘Orange would be good.’

  She poured a glass, then poured herself a glass of white wine from an already open bottle, saying, ‘I’d offer you one, but thought you probably shouldn’t?’

  ‘The orange is fine.’

  ‘With a touch of wine in it? Just to sharpen it up a bit.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  She sat opposite. We drank. Looked at each other. Smiled. I felt quite shy all of a sudden.

  ‘Well?’

  I opened my bag, took out the egg, the card and the book, and laid them on the table between us.

  ‘I tried the Murdoch. You were right. I’m not ready for it. I thought you might want the card back, because your pack won’t be complete without it, and if you used it again you couldn’t be told to be calm, which is good advice sometimes – it was for me anyway. And I know you gave me the egg, but I thought I’d better make sure, because, well, just in case.’

  ‘You like it?’

  weaponry of mass destruction sufficient to poison the entire population of the world, and pulled a face of monumentally horrified disgust before uttering in magisterial tones that would not have disgraced Joseph Stalin or Adolf Hitler addressing a mass rally of enemies of the state the words, ‘And WHAT have we HERE?’ To which I made no reply, being by then incapable of speech. There were giggles from the on-looking assistants, and a gasp from a prissy customer poking her nose in – served her right! After holding up the offending article to the public gaze for long enough to make me wish to die by any means she cared to choose so long as it was swift, Ms Joseph Hitler placed the sanitary towel on the counter beside the rest of my belongings, turned on the heels of her court shoes and stalked off, leaving me to repack my bag and exit the shop with more urgency than was wise, because it resulted in more clumsiness than I care to remember. As I did so, I could feel one or two of the shop assistants viewing me with sympathy – which normal woman wouldn’t? – but luckily no one spoke words of reassurance or comfort because if they had I would surely have broken down in tears and hated myself even more.

  Periods. Everyone says they are foul, they hurt, are a nuisance, cause accidents, they stink, etc. Men hate talking about them or make rude jokes. But I love my periods. They are my barometer, the weather forecast of my personal climate. They give me a clear indication of the state of my health, mentally as well as physically. When they arrive they bring with them a kind of inner collapse. Something inside me shifts, so that life seems softer and kinder. Even the pain is a relief, a catharsis. Oddly enough, during the pain, I somehow need a kind of violence to cure it. I want someone to hold my feet firmly and push them back, which Doris used to do and your father does for me these days. And sometimes I even want someone to walk on my back as I lie front down on the floor, which

  ‘It’s lovely. Very soothing. I’ve been using it as a worry bead.’

  ‘Then why not keep it?’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘And I’d like you to have it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You know what it is?’

  ‘A pottery egg.’

  ‘But a special egg. An egg snjófuglsins. Tákn um draum.’ We both laughed. ‘If that’s how you say it! Icelandic. The egg of the snowbird. The symbol of a dream. Or so it said on the box.’

  I picked it up, felt again its neat weighty fit in my hand.

  ‘Given to me by a good friend,’ Ms M. said.

  ‘But if it was a gift from a friend—’

  ‘Some gifts are meant for passing on, don’t you think? From friend to friend.’

  I looked at her. She looked firmly back.

  ‘I’ve brought nothing for you,’ I said.

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘But I’d like to.’

  ‘Just because I’ve given something to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why then?’

  I shrugged, unable to say what I wanted to say. ‘Just because I want to give you something.’

  ‘All right. In that case. There is something I’d like.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of your poems. The ones you write only for yourself.’

  I was stunned. Really felt as if she’d hit me on the head with a hammer. I had to swallow hard. Wanted to have a drink but couldn’t trust myself to lift the glass without shaking.

  ‘How,’ I managed to say, ‘d’you know?’

  ‘Your father told me.’

  ‘Dad!’ My mouth tightened. ‘He shouldn’t have. It’s private.’

  Izumi used to do and your father does for me now, which is better because he is heavier than Izumi was and I want a man’s heaviness on me then, just as during sex a man’s heaviness increases the pleasure. But this physical treatment must be done with deep love and gentleness. Otherwise, it is the worst kind of assault. Also rubbing the lower part of my stomach and the top of my pelvic bone helps me, and then down between my legs very softly, talking out loud all the time. And the pain is not there when I’m being made love to, which surprises me a little, still. I suppose the body is energised during sex in a way that clears away or perhaps anaesthetises the pain.

  I love my periods because they make me feel part of nature. Like the seasons. I love their rhythm and their regularity, I love the way my body gives little signs. They also highlight my proble
ms so I can see them more clearly. As I’ve told you, in the few days before, I feel as if all the energy is being sucked out of my brain and as if my body is being revved up. I feel a wide range of things, highs and lows, which are magnifications, extremes of how I am myself, as a person, all the time. Images and crystal-clear thoughts will sometimes come to me that never come at other times, not even in dreams. And when my periods have started I sleep deeply, feel a sense of relief, and that everything will be all right. For me, while they are on, it’s important to eat only what suits my periods. Not too much. Light food. Bananas are a special favourite.

  I still wear sanitary towels when I feel like it, rather than use a tampon. I know they are troublesome. But I love the freedom they allow for the blood to flow out of me. I can be walking along a street and, whoosh! there it goes, and I smile to myself with pleasure.

  Every month is different. And I like that unpredictable element in the predictably regular occurrence. I like to watch it, note it, think about it afterwards.

  ‘He’s very proud of you. I’m your English teacher. And he knows you like me.’

  ‘He told you that as well?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t need to. I’ve taught you for five years. I’d be a pretty poor teacher if I didn’t know you well by now. He wanted me to know about your poems because he’s proud that you write them. You know what fathers are like about their daughters. Especially when you’re an only child. There’s nothing more precious to them in all the world.’

  ‘Still—!’

  ‘Don’t be cross with him. Or with me.’

  ‘I’m not cross with you.’

  ‘I’m just as proud as he is that you write poetry and keep it secret. I think that’s admirable.’

  ‘They’re not really poems. I wouldn’t call them that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They aren’t good enough.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘I say.’

  ‘Are you the only one whose opinion matters?’

  ‘Yes. Till I decide I’ve written one that’s good enough for other people to see.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s the only reason?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘You might be too afraid to show them to anyone in case they didn’t like them and you’d be so upset it would put you off writing any more.’

  She was right. But it’s hard to admit such a thing.

  I thought for a while, rolling the snowbird’s egg in my hand and looking at it. Ms M. waited.

  I said, ‘I don’t care what most people think. I wouldn’t bother showing them anyway. But I do care what some people think, and I suppose, yes, if they didn’t like them, it might put me off.’

  I’m telling you all this, my child, because no one said it to me before my periods began. Even Doris, who prepared me for my menarche, was brief and matter-of-fact and said nothing much about herself. And because it is something so intimate and personal and so different for every woman, while being just the same too, sharing our experience and celebrating it is surely proper and necessary, at least with those you love most closely and most dearly?

  Sayings I like

  There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. – Hamlet in Hamlet by Will Shakespeare, 1560–1613, the world’s greatest writer.

  I am only myself when I am alone. – Marcel Proust, 1871–1922, French writer of the world’s longest novel, which I have not (yet) read.

  Security is mortal’s chiefest enemy. – Hecate in Macbeth by Will Shakes.

  All religions will pass, but this will remain: simply sitting in a chair and gazing into the distance. – V. V. Rozanov, 1856–1919, Russian critic.

  His desire is boundless but his act a slave to limit. – Troilus and Cressida by Will Shakes. This applies to every boy and every man I have so far encountered, including my Will.

  Two Moral Tales

  1. Bad hair day

  When I was about eight I had very long auburn hair. Everyone told me how beautiful it was. Dad loved to stroke it. Doris spent hours brushing it. I liked these affectionate and soothing caresses, and I coveted people’s admiration.

  At that time, a boy of my age came to live next door to Doris. His name was Karl Svensson, which I thought a

  ‘Am I one of the people you don’t care about or you do care about?’

  ‘Do care.’

  ‘Then I’d be honoured, truly, to be allowed to read one.’

  I bent my head to my glass and slurped up a drink.

  Ms M. said, ‘How important is poetry to you? Writing poetry, I mean.’

  I’d never told anyone except Will. And I’d never explained it to him, never discussed it. Just stated it in return for his telling me about the importance of trees to him. But now I knew I wanted to tell Ms M. Only her. I wanted to hear what saying it sounded like.

  I said, ‘It’s difficult to explain.’

  ‘Want to try? Promise not to interrupt or comment.’

  I made myself say, ‘Writing poetry is the most important thing to me. The most important thing I can do. Want to do. You know – of all the things I might do, like, I dunno, like having a family or a career or – or whatever. Writing poetry is the only thing that – appeals to me. The only thing I do that feels it’s me. Well,’ I added, grinning. ‘There is one other thing.’

  ‘I think I know what you mean.’ She laughed.

  ‘But poetry is me. Me on my own. I don’t need anybody else to do it. And it’s just, when I’m writing what I hope will become poetry one day, I feel – I feel I’m me and I feel I’m at home. Where I belong … I know that sounds silly, poetry not being a place—’

  ‘Not silly at all. And as a matter of fact, when you come to think about it, poetry is a place.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘It’s an object, isn’t it? Made of words. Like a house is made of bricks and a town is made of buildings and a wood is made of trees. You can belong to a house, and to a town, and I’m sure your Will says you can belong to a wood.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

  glamorous foreign name. He was tall and lithe with large blue eyes and blond hair, and the kind of blond skin that tans so succulently. I adored him at once, and courted him with little gifts and invitations to play. Soon we became inseparable friends.

  Late one lovely summer afternoon we were sitting under Doris’s apple tree. We had been playing together all day and now were tired and I think a little bored. We began talking about people we admired. (Our tastes were disappointingly predictable. Karl liked sportsmen and pop stars, I liked actresses and supermodels.) At the time, very short hair was the height of fashion for women as well as men. Only that week Karl had persuaded his doting mother to allow him to have his hair cut so short it was no more than stubble all over. I rather liked it. He had a beautiful round head, which suited such a close crop. I asked if his hair was prickly. He invited me to feel it. It was soft and strangely pleasant. Stroking it made me tingle. This is my first memory of sexual excitement, though I did not know what it was at the time, only that the sensation was very nice and I wanted it to go on.

  We remained like this for some time, Karl stock-still, enjoying my caresses and me hypnotised by the pleasure of fondling his head.

  After a while, I said how much I wished I had short hair too. Karl said I would look good with very short hair and I should ask my father to let me have it cut. I said I knew he wouldn’t because he loved my long hair so much. But, Karl said, it was my hair, I should be able to do whatever I wanted with it, and anyway, it would grow long again quite soon, so having it cut short was no big deal. Well, I said, I just knew Dad wouldn’t agree.

  ‘I’ll cut it,’ Karl said. ‘Then your father can’t do anything about it.’

  Before I could reply he jumped up and climbed over the

  ‘Most people haven’t. Is it an option?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you feel you have any choice about writing it or not writing it?
’

  ‘No. I have to do it. I just have to do it.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You do? How?’

  ‘I’m like that too. But not about writing poetry.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I’ll tell you another day. Don’t want to complicate things.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But? There is a but coming, isn’t there?’

  ‘If I were – if I were, because I’m not saying I will – if I were to let you see some of my, well – I call them mopes, because they aren’t good enough to be called poems yet. If I were to show you some of my mopes, the trouble is I might feel a bit confused.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, my poems, my mopes, are me. They really are me. They aren’t school things. I don’t want them to be marked or graded or assessed or discussed like we discuss poems at school, or anything like that. And, well, you’re my English teacher, and I do like you, it’s true, but still.’

  Ms M. waited a moment before saying, ‘Let me tell you something and then ask you something. Yes?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I keep my private life, my personal life separate from my school life. You know that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because I don’t want my two lives to be confused. I don’t want my private life to be marked and graded and assessed and enquired into by—’ She stopped.

  ‘By us. By us kids.’

  ‘Exactly. Or my colleagues either, come to that. But I’ve allowed you to visit. I’ve allowed you into my home. My private place.’

  fence into his garden (the route we always used to visit each other, the proper way being much too boring and unadventurous). Soon he reappeared with a pair of scissors and a comb. I felt a nervous twinge of doubt but couldn’t stop him. I was afraid that if I did I’d lose his approval, which mattered much more to me than upsetting Dad.

  Without a breath of hesitation Karl took a hank of my hair and began hacking and chopping with buzzy enthusiasm. At first, long strands of my sheared locks fell at my feet like amputated tails. Shorter tresses followed, like fingerfuls of plucked fur. And then, as Karl snipped as close to my head as he dared, a thin drizzle of auburn rain.