by Barrie Shore
‘Nuzzlebury.’
‘Hazelbury.’
‘Martlott.’
‘Minterne.’
‘Buckbury.’
‘Okeford?’
‘Oh, well done.’
The game was called Wessex, I’m in a remember now, which was a game of Eva’s invention in which she and the Man took it in turns to test how much each and the other knew about the names of the places in lots of books by a man who was called something or other. His name was Wessex, that’s what it was, and he had a profundity of roaring, boring, ruralty tales that made her into a spick and a spite. She was in a sit at the mirror in a brush of her hair and he in a sitting up of his bed wrapped in his pyjamas and innocence, counting the strokes inside his head till she got to an hundred. She knew he was soothed by the smooth of the brushing, but she was in a brittle of anger, crackling with static, presaging for a storm. Because and you see, baby dear, this was the bed where babies were meant to be made but someone had gone and forgot to leave the instructions.
It was horrid to see her so angry, but she had a good cause. And the cause is called Chapter Fifty-Three, which is also known as the Coromation because that was the year that a King was buried and a Queen got her crown.
It was a holiday day with everyone in a merry and shouting. And did I ever tell you, baby dear, that the husband of Eva had the shop that was Bob’s that was going to be sold for the dreamery spires and never was? I think the shop had marbles for sale but I can’t be sure. Something or other that some people wanted but most people didn’t, especially if they’re in a second-hand.
So and a well, the husband shut up his shop because of the Queen but it was still in a cram in an afternoon because he put a box on the counter, a bran newity Bakelite box that no one had ever seen before. It was a wireless with a picture that flickered in grey and a grain and it put everyone into a wonder and cheering.
Shall I tell you, baby dear, who was in the cram of the shop? And don’t shake your blunkety boredom nose with a no, because some of them were your relations to be, such as the mother of the son that was the husband of Eva, or so it is said.
Ho-hum.
The mother was in a pride by the front of the counter with her hands in a piety clasp and her knees at a press in case of an attack that was unprovocation that she was always in a wary about. On her either side on harder, more upright, much lesser chairs, as befitted their inferiority state, were the friends of hers that were called the Cahoots. One was a Moxie and the other was a Maiden. The Moxie was comfort and fat with the smell of a lavender, and the Maiden’s was a shrink, like a violet. She was in a subservience place because she never had a husband, she was only a sister with a brother to mind, so she didn’t count. And the mother’s smell was a smell of eucalyptus that was an obnoxion.
There were a hoi and polloi on benches behind, huggered so tight that not a one could make a scratch of their nose without a shift to the whole of the row, so that the ones at the ends toppled off to the floor. And a scrum at the back with a crane to their necks and many and another’s elbow in their ribs. And a swarm of kiddiewinks clambering the shelves like monkeys in mischief, till their mothers pinched at their calves and brought them to a crying.
I hate to hear a child cry, it makes me mourning.
And the Devil was there, perched on the mother’s dimity knee, keeping one eye on the telly box, for he had never seen such a sight before. And when the Queen appeared in the box he stamped his little feet till the mother’s knee was in an aching. But the other eye, the relishing one, did a watch on Eva and the husband of Eva.
The husband was in a please with himself because of the television box and the cram of the shop. But, oh, what a sadness Eva was in with her hair in a lank and her skirt in a droop and her petticoat showing. Charlie’s dead, we used to say. She went tippity-toe, back and fro, with a tray of tea and pieces of cake that the mother of the son had made. She looked at the husband in a timidity, do-littlish way, but he wasn’t in a noticing, or did a pretend that he wasn’t, so she never got in talk or touch of him. The only time she was in a smile was when the children clamoured her for cake, and then it was a shadow of a smile that didn’t last long.
But the Devil had a smile pinned back to his ears, and one ear was in a mind for the Coromation, and the other was cupped in a listen to the mother of the son and her chunty Cahoots.
‘See how she waves that hand of hers.’ The Maiden was in a gape of admiring. ‘She has it off to a T.’
‘’Tis what they call a royal wave.’ The Moxie had a tribe of facts kept in her head that nobody knew or cared about. ‘They learn it in the cradle before they can walk.’
It was a comical thing to see the Queen, how she flickered and rolled, Queen after Queen, wave after wave.
‘How she do jump up and down, look.’ The Maiden was in an awesome. ‘It’s likely her nerves that’s overtook. She may be royal but she do have feelings same as we.’
‘She wants to mind that crown of hers before it gets wet.’ And that was the mother of the husband of Eva, putting a damper down like she did with the fire on a night when it burned too hot.
‘Or froze to her head.’ The Moxie was in an agreement with her, that’s why she was called a Cahoot. ‘It’s snowing in London, you can tell it from the picture.’
Snow in June, it was wonderful strange.
‘The television box is a mighty invention,’ the Maiden said, as if no one had ever thought it before.
‘And your boy done well that he can afford it.’ The Moxie could be in a sting when she wanted.
The mother of the husband was in a joy at these words. She looked at her son with her heart in a swell, and the Devil whispered into her ear: this was her right, this was her due, she was a queen in the waiting. And the Devil had trouble stirring up his sleeve which he gave as a gift to the Maiden.
‘Will you see the little Prince and Princess,’ said she, all of an innocence, ‘what a sweetness they are. And their granny now, how proud she do look.’
‘Aye.’ The Moxie turned to the mother with a crocodile sigh. ‘Such a pity for you, your son and his wife. Married four years, and no little ones yet to be a comfort to you in your old age.’
Did the son hear? The son of the mother that was married to Eva? Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t, he was in a bad habit of closing his ears. But Eva did. She was in one of her smiles, with a child in a cuddle on her lap, but the smile went into a fade when she heard the Moxie’s words. ‘No little ones yet.’ Sly words, ringing in her head. No little ones yet.
The mother had a newly smile now, one that the Devil had fixed on her face, and she gave the smile to Eva, straight to her eye. ‘No,’ she said, ‘we haven’t been blessed yet.’
And that, dear baby of mine, is why Eva was in a brushing of anger when she sat at her dresser on a later that night. Oh, and that husband of hers, what a stupid he was, sitting up in his bed with a book in his hand and a blunder in his head.
‘Vindogladia.’ That’s what he said, in a hope he would make her in a happy again, but in a wrong all the time.
‘Woodyates,’ said she, all of a crosspatch, brushing her hair too hard, too fast.
‘Badger’s Clump.’
The brushery stopped. ‘Badger’s what?’
‘Clump.’
‘No idea.’ She gripped the brush so tight it made a hurt of her hand.
‘Have a guess, go on…’
‘No.’
‘You mean you give up?’
‘Yes, I give up. I give in. You win.’
‘Well, I’ll just have to tell you. It’s…’
‘I don’t care what it is. I don’t care about Hocbridge and Hellstock and…’
‘Mellstock.’
‘What?’
‘It’s called Mellstock, not Hellstock.’
‘I know.’ Oh, what a glare she was
at the mirror. ‘I know, I know, I know.’
‘Oh. Oh, I’m terribly sorry.’ He was in a hurt and offence but he hid them inside his book so that she wouldn’t take a notice. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘I’m telling you now. I’m sick of this game, sick of your books, sick of reading in bed, night after night.’ She made a pull of her hair over her shoulder and a twitch of it into a braid. ‘And I’m sick to my bones of your blasted Thomas Hardy.’
‘But, darling…’ Oh, what a blunder he was that husband of Eva’s, never in a know when to shut up.
‘Don’t call me that.’ She hurled the hairbrush, hitting his head in the mirror. ‘Darling means love, darling means passion, darling means…’
It meant a tap at the door and a plaintive voice.
‘Evelyn, dear…’
‘God Almighty, will it never end? Can’t we even quarrel in peace?’
She did a flick of her pigtail behind her back and a march to the door and a fling of it open.
‘Oh, look, it’s your mother. What a splendid surprise, how perfectly lovely.’
‘I heard a commotion, Evelyn, dear. Is anything amiss?’
‘As a matter of fact there is. My husband and I are in the middle of a marital dispute, hence the raised voices that disturbed your slumbers. No, let us be accurate, my raised voice. Your poor benighted son only quarrels in whispers, sometimes, in fact, without saying a word. An admirable skill, I envy him for it, but one, alas, that I cannot emulate.’ Oh, such a spitting Eva was in.
And did I tell you, baby dear, that your grandmamma, for it was she at the door, although it’s too early to tell you that story yet, I’ll save it for later. Did I tell how small she was? How teensy-weensy, the top of her head no higher than Eva’s chin, with a parting in her hair that had dandruff and a scalp that was white as the bone of her skull, it was a horridy thing. And a habit she had was never lifting her head, she looked at a chest and never at eyes, and when she spoke, this time that I’m telling you, on the night of the day that is called the Coromation Chapter, when Eva was in such a spit with that husband of hers; the mother looked at a button on Eva’s chest, the one in the middle that should have made sure her breast was in a decent and covered, only didn’t, it had done an undoing in her brushing of fury. And the mother said to the button, the one that was undone, ‘I should like to speak to my son.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not convenient just now,’ said the button that was Eva. ‘Your son is otherwise engaged. With his wife. If you follow my meaning.’
‘Eva…’ That was the husband at last, shuffling out of his bed and into his slippers. He never made an interference between them, between his mother and his wife, he hid in a book instead in a hope and pray it would be over in a soon and nobody’s blood in a shredding. No blood shred. Bloodshed.
‘Oh, be quiet.’ Well, and what a surprise that was. Not Eva bequietening him, it was the mother, in a bushel of temper. ‘Let your wife say whatever she has to say, I have the Lord to protect me from her.’
But the Lord didn’t come to her help, and the son was right to be fearsome, because this is what Eva said to his mother. ‘My good woman…’ Yes, that’s what she called her, the same as the Devil had done in that long time ago when he first put the mother into his league. ‘My dear good woman,’ said Eva, in her mightiest way, ‘I don’t need to tell you the best bit of a quarrel is the making-up after. The making of love, the making of those blessings you mentioned earlier today.’
‘Eva, please…’ He was in a struggle to get into his dressing gown, and all in a muddle because one of the sleeves was outside in.
‘Shut up.’ Oh, she had an angry in her that smothered them both. Smother the mother, that’s what she wanted. ‘You miserable woman, you know about passion, I suppose. You felt it once when you got your son. Or was his conception a bloodless affair? A rape.’
‘God Almighty…’ The husband was in a horror, with his elbow stuck in his dressing gown sleeve. ‘Stop it, I beg you…’
But oh, how the sparks were in a flying from Eva’s tongue, no quenching them now. ‘Is that where it comes from, your hatred of men? Is that why you punish him? Because he loves me? And I love him? Because we might have what you’ve never known, the blessing of happiness.’
Oh, dear, baby dear, this isn’t a story fit for a baby’s ears, but…
There, that’s another one.
But.
What was the but I was going to say? Oh, yes, I remember now. I was in a happiness once, that was the but. And so was the Man, he was happy, on a day with a daisy, when…
No, I’m going in a wrong and all over the place. It wasn’t the Man, it was the other one, the man which was the husband of Eva. I wish I could remember his name. He wasn’t in a happy at all that night, the night of the day that was the Coromation, when everyone else was all of an expectancy and hope. When his mother went back to her bed in a shock and a prayer. When he went downstairs in a trepidation to find his wife. Whose name was called Eva.
She was in a lean on the counter by the chesspot in the lamplight, playing a game all by and herself. He stopped in the doorway to see what a mood she was in, and if and her anger was still in a bubble and shouting.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. But she didn’t look up.
‘And me. So am I.’
Sorry for what? Sorry for whom? His wife? His mother? Or was it himself? Why was he in such an appeasing? Why didn’t he take up a cudgel against her, right or wrong, for the sake of his mother? Why didn’t he curse and shout for once in his life? Why didn’t he make a defence of himself? Because that wasn’t his way, that was his trouble. And he wasn’t a bully, which is why Eva was in a love of him in spite of herself. Oh, dear, how silly they were, how missing each other, like a dance when your partner gets all out of step and treads on your toes.
They stood on an either and side of the counter and in the way that they had when neither of them was knowing what to do next, they arranged the chess into lines of a battle.
And the bookshelves creaked in the quiet of the night.
She picked up a pawn and stroked its head. ‘Do you know what my father said to me once?’
He picked up a bishop and polished its mitre. ‘No, what?’
‘A man doesn’t want a woman that’s clever, that’s what he said. He wants a woman that puts food on his table, clean sheets on his bed, fresh shirts on his back. He wants a woman that knows her place.’
‘God above, that’s not the kind of woman I want.’
‘Of course you don’t. You’ve got your mother.’ She picked up another pawn, black in her right hand, white in her left, pretended to swap them behind her back. ‘But what about me? This sham of a marriage, what’s in it for me? I don’t put the food on your table, or wash your shirts, I’m not allowed in the kitchen at all, I can’t even bake you a cake if I want.’ She offered her fists. ‘I’m nobody, nothing.’
‘Eva, dar…’ He was going to say darling, and remembered in time. Don’t call me that. Darling means love, darling means passion… So he tapped her hand instead, the one with the wedding ring on her finger. This sham of a marriage.
‘Why do you always do that? It’s so annoying.’
‘Because I know you like black the best.’
‘That’s cheating.’
‘I’m not the one cheating, you are.’
‘How do you work that out?’
‘You know which hand I’m going to choose, so you make sure I get white. That’s cheating.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
She put the pawns back on the board and he turned it round with a little smile on his face, a smile of relief, thinking the storm was over. He was wrong. He was always wrong. The storm was quieter but it was rumbling back.
‘There was something else my dad said to me.’
‘Oh, yes?’ He was still i
n his smile, wondering which gambit to play. ‘Is it going to be something I don’t want to hear?’ He picked up a pawn. King’s pawn.
‘I don’t know, I expect so. A man wants a woman to warm his bed, that’s what my father said. A woman that keeps her legs open and her trap shut.’
‘Dear God.’ He put his pawn back on its square. ‘How grim, how revolting. No wonder you hated him.’
‘Yes, I did, he was a brute. But he had a point. I share your bed, but I don’t keep it warm. I’d open my legs any time if you asked, but you don’t. I do keep my trap shut, but I can’t any more.’ She picked the pawn he had discarded, stroked the small dome of its head. ‘I want a child.’
‘What, a baby, you mean?’
‘Yes. A nice, fat baby with dimples in his knees. We always said we would have them.’
‘So we did. Half a dozen at least.’
She smiled in a bleak. ‘Just the one would do.’
She put the pawn down and the silence came back, and the books on the shelves whispered and sighed. And white still to play.
‘I don’t know what to do.’
Why didn’t she slap him? I would have done. But she didn’t, because she wasn’t a bully either as well. And she loved him.
‘It’s perfectly simple.’ Eva picked up her king and queen, made a mime of them kissing each other. ‘We have to make love.’
Love.
‘How can we? You know how things are.’
‘I believe it’s possible to do these things quietly. Or if you’re worried about the creaking of bedsprings or shrieks of uncontrollable delight from your over-excited, not to say astonished, wife, we could do it down here.’
‘What, here? In the shop?’
‘Why not? The door’s locked, the blinds are down, we can turn the lamp off in case an interested crowd gathers on the pavement outside.’
He wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t. He wanted to cry, and he wouldn’t. And when a burst of laughter came from the street, it seemed like a mockery.
She ran to the door and lifted the blind.
‘What a lot of people there are, they must be on their way to the fireworks display. How happy they are. Oh, and look, there’s Mr Whatnot… you know, that chap at the library, how pompous he is. And I suppose that’s his wife… what a funny little woman. And all their little kiddiewinks… one, two, three, four, five… five, just imagine, and another one on the way by the look of her. They obviously have a most active love life, positively rampant, judging by the numbers of offspring involved. Perhaps we should invite them in and ask for instruction.’