Blasted Things

by Lesley Glaister

  She shudders. Perhaps in another version of life, I am living with Powell in Canada; perhaps we ride horses on the ranch with our little Aida; perhaps we have another by now; perhaps I’m happy there, and this is only a dream, the shadow side. A wicked, wicked thought comes to her: that she’d give this up in an instant, this life – yes, even Edgar – if that could be true.

  He sits beside her on the bed and puts an arm around her shoulders. ‘There, there,’ he says awkwardly.

  ‘Please,’ she says. He puts a hand on the base of her neck and the sensation is enormously comforting. Her eyelids close. Didn’t Powell’s hand rest on her neck like that? Powell, Powell. She feels the hand tighten and lift and knead and her mouth opens and his mouth is on hers – there’s a hesitation as he waits for her reaction – and she receives the kiss in a way she’s received no kiss since Powell’s.

  ‘This what you want?’ he says.

  ‘Don’t speak,’ she murmurs, eyes shut fast, breath coming fast. It’s as if flames are flickering over her lower body, an irresistible urge, and when he lays her down, when he pulls up her dress it’s Powell, and, oh, how her breath comes fast and how he enters her, and she’s in Canada and happy with him out on the prairie in the fresh, fresh air, galloping, oh, and galloping and galloping, and something happens that she’s never known – a complete extinction, an enormous soft explosion. Oh, please, let it never end, and she’s hanging onto him, onto Powell, for dear life, as if she’s sinking – until it fades and she’s aware of the sound of breath, a crash outside like the dropping of a dustbin lid. She keeps her eyes closed because when she opens them she’ll have to know what she has done.

  ‘All right?’ he says. Rough, common English voice.

  They are lying side by side on the shiny green coverlet. A fly buzzes near the ceiling. She pulls down her skirt. He sits up with his back to her, lifts his hands to remove the prosthesis, turns and lies down with his face only inches from her own. Her fingers lift to touch him; he flinches but doesn’t prevent her. The socket is a cup of puckered scar, knotted yellow in places, purple in others – rough, bristly, smooth, shiny, ridged. A landscape in miniature.

  Something happens in her heart or in her soul or in what she doesn’t know, some giving way. So this is it. This is all it is. She kisses him softly right where his eye should be, and to her amazement she sees a tear rise from a tiny fissure. There’s no eye but still, a functioning tear duct. With a feeling of enormous tenderness, of completion, she cradles his head and they are held in a moment like that until abruptly he pulls back.

  He twists away, pulls himself upright and replaces the prosthesis, adjusts his clothing, tucks in his shirt. ‘That what you wanted?’ he says. ‘Satisfied?’

  She stares up at him, pulls her knees to her chest and leans back against the headboard. She has no words. The tenderness in her is gone, reaching like tendrils of ivy in the sudden absence of a tree. In a moment perhaps there will be shame – but now she’s numb and glowing and the shock of his words, his aggressive stance, is too much, too staggering a transition.

  ‘Time I was off,’ he says. ‘I reckon a bit more for that, don’t you? I reckon fifty should cover it.’

  Her mouth opens.

  ‘Fifty to be sent to me care of the Wild Man.’

  She presses the back of her head against the headboard, cold liquid seeping between her legs. Of course it was not Powell, of course not. She looks at her own hands and up at his painted eye, which is only a painted eye.

  ‘I’ll give you till Friday,’ he says. ‘And if not, well, I don’t reckon Dr Everett’s going to be too impressed.’

  She can only stare.

  ‘See, there’s witnesses to us coming up here. The landlady for starters. I’ll get her to have a look at the state of the bed after you’ve gone.’

  He puts on his jacket and his hat, checks himself in the mirror and leaves the room. Perhaps an hour ticks past before she can move. She gets up from the bed, tidies herself, gathers her pencils and sketchbook, stows everything in her bag. Her hair’s a mess. She screws it up and pins on her hat. Her cheeks are hot, scarlet. She smooths the bedspread and goes downstairs to pay the landlady.

  24

  HOT, SO HOT, the sun striking up from the pavement as she fled, heels hammering, past the Post Office, the flowers, hair escaping from her hat. She paused to tidy herself outside Mrs Fletcher’s Hairdressing Parlour. The door stood open; it looked cool in there, and she could see no customers.

  Her feet took her inside and her voice said to the girl beside the till, ‘I’d like a bob. Might you have time now?’

  ‘I’ll ask madam.’ The girl gave her a queer look and flitted through a curtain to the back of the shop. Clem sat down heavily. Don’t think yet, don’t think. She remembered the months in bed after Edgar, the way the world ticked on without her, the beautiful blur. That lovely softness you get from Veronal. A dose now – oh, how that would soothe, make it all float away.

  Mrs Fletcher, a young woman, her own dark hair short and Marcel waved, agreed to cut Clem’s hair, once she’d been reassured that Dr Everett had consented. ‘We’ve no end of trouble with hubbies coming in raging on about us robbing them of their wives’ crowning glories and such and such.’ She laughed as she removed Clem’s hat and lifted the tangled hair between her hands. ‘You sure you want it all off?’

  ‘A short bob.’

  ‘You could sell this – it’d make a marvellous wig.’

  ‘You’re welcome to it.’

  ‘Thanks very much, I’m sure.’

  Over Clem’s shoulder, Mrs Fletcher tilted her head in the mirror. ‘I reckon it’ll suit you. Maisie, wash madam’s hair for me,’ she instructed the girl. As the warm water poured over her scalp, Clem gritted her teeth, driving Powell from her mind. Oh, but it had felt like Powell; in her heart it had been Powell.

  As Maisie combed out the wet strands, Clem gazed at her own face, cheeks flushed, eyes like painted eyes, unfocused. And then came Mrs Fletcher, snapping her scissors, the soft scrunch of the blades through thick hanks, the gradual sensation of lightness. Now every scrap of hair that Powell had touched was gone.

  ‘Want a nice wave?’ Mrs Fletcher asked, but Clem shook her head, liking the thick blunt ends of the straight hair that touched her jaw. It appeared darker than before, almost light brown with silvery lights. And when she walked out, she felt that she’d shed something heavy and soiled. Though it was difficult to keep her hat on. New hats would be required for this new style. New hats and dresses too.

  Money – a clutch in her stomach – money for hats, for frocks, of course, she’d need money. But fifty pounds? No, don’t think about that now.

  Hale did a comical double-take when, as arranged, he picked her up, but ventured no comment. The church bell chimed three times as they drove away. Dennis would still be in surgery and she hoped to be able to get into the house and up the stairs, to wash, to change, to collect herself, before he came up for tea and the inevitable argument. But it was a fait accompli; hair cannot be uncut. Until tonight when she soothed him in the way he liked – the thought of that sent a bolt of shame through her. But she should have to. And once again she should have to ask for money.

  Oh, what that man said about witnesses! Despicable creature. It was like something from a penny dreadful. And the mean, knowing expression of the landlady, eyes sharp with judgement, lips pursed tight. Oh, what had she done? It was as if she was waking, coming to: hot and shorn, a scarlet woman. Keep your eyes open, she told herself, for when she blinked there was the dim green room, the rumpled bed, the naked face. What had she done? A married woman. There was no excuse. No Powell. Powell was gone. This was real life. And what happened she had let happen. She did. It was no one else’s fault. And what happened next she must . . . somehow she must orchestrate it so that Dennis should never know. Nor Harri, nor Edgar. All must be kept safe and innocent of her . . . slip.

  The car drew up outside the house and, quietly, Clem let
herself in, hung up her hat, made for the stairs but . . .

  ‘Surprise!’ crowed Harri, jumping out into the hall followed by the twins. Clem shrieked and then Harri shrieked, and the girls shrieked. ‘My God!’ said Harri.

  ‘Auntie Clem?’ said one of the twins uncertainly, and the two of them stood staring up at her with their round hazel eyes.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Clem said – fearfully rude, she knew. But, Harri, here!

  Harri tweaked Clem’s hair. ‘What does Dennis think?’

  ‘I’ve only just had it done.’

  Mrs Hale came hurrying into the hall. ’Whatever’s the matter?’

  Harri was laughing now. ‘Oh, it’s all right, Halesy. We frightened each other half to death! Look at Clemmie’s hair!’

  Clem stood and let them look. In the hallstand mirror she could see herself: smaller-headed it seemed, sleek, her face sharper, satisfyingly different.

  ‘Is it pretty?’ asked a twin doubtfully.

  ‘Goodness gracious me,’ said Mrs Hale. ‘I’d have walked straight past you in the street, madam.’

  ‘Madam!’ Harri laughed. ‘Honestly! Halesy, bring us some tea and buns and milk for the children, do. And perhaps some bread and butter? Oh, I can’t wait to see Dennis’s face!’

  ‘It’ll be half an hour before the doctor’s ready for his tea.’

  ‘You can always refresh the pot,’ Harri said. ‘Go on,’ she wangled childishly.

  ‘Just this once then,’ Mrs Hale said, dimpling.

  ‘Isn’t she a lamb?’ Harri said.

  Edgar came staggering out into the hall, and before he could see her Clem fled upstairs. Quick, quick, quick. She stripped off her frock; there were pale prickly hairs all down her camisole, inside too. In the bathroom she scrubbed between her legs and under her arms with a soapy flannel, splashed her face with cold water and then put on one of her cooler dresses – cream shantung, shin-length, loose over her stomach and hips. Certainly she needed new dresses now, jackets; most of her clothes were old-fashioned, they would not suit her hair. An idea began to form . . . she would get the money and all would be well.

  When she entered the sitting room Edgar stared at her wide-eyed, and when she stretched her arms out, backed away.

  ‘It’s still Mama,’ Harri said. ‘Oh, bless his heart, he doesn’t know you!’ She was gleeful and envious, circling Clem as if she was an exhibit. ‘I’m getting mine done,’ she said. ‘Only I’ll have to lose a bit of weight. You look so young and’ – she giggled – ‘rather like a boy.’

  Clem ran her fingers through the hair, enjoying the way it swung back into place and the cool lightness about her neck.

  ‘I bet you D.’ll say, “You look like a flapper”! I bet you a shilling. Deal?’

  The usually tidy room was strewn with bricks and a tin spinning top and some bright wooden threading beads escaping from their string.

  ‘So what brings you here?’ Clem winced at her own formality. ‘Oh, sorry, you know what I mean.’

  Harri was fingering a tail of her own bushy hair that tumbled as usual from a messy bun. She looked flushed and matronly in her antiquated blouse and skirt, the latter splashed with paint. Her hands seamed with it too. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I do miss the place and I shall want the girls to feel at home here as they grow up.’ She giggled. ‘Fancy Mrs Hale calling you madam!’

  ‘I don’t give a fig what she calls me,’ said Clem.

  ‘It’s what she called Mum, but it seems so . . .’ She threw up her hands. ‘Anyway, you haven’t been to see us for an age.’ Harri jutted out her lip like a sulky child. ‘And the twinnies wanted to see Eddie, and I just thought, if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed.’

  ‘Actually I had thought of coming to you today but . . .’ Clem touched her hair. ‘This happened instead.’

  Harri sat on the sofa and Claris – was it? Yes, the larger twin – clambered onto her lap. ‘And . . . I have been rather sneaky,’ Harri said, a smile dancing in her eyes.

  ‘How?’

  Edgar had made his way over to Clem and stood unsteadily looking up at her, a finger in his dribbly mouth.

  ‘Touch.’ Clem put her head down to him. He reached out and poked not her hair but her cheek, and as his bright brown eyes met hers, something happened in her chest, a sensation like the twang of a rubber band, and she lifted him onto her lap, rubbed her face in his soft hair. Had she really thought she’d give him up, for an imagined life, this real, warm, solid boy?

  Watching, Harri said nothing, but nodded, as if satisfied.

  Now that she held him, Clem didn’t want to let him go. It was comforting; here she was, back with her family, where she should be and everything was all right. Everything was going to be all right.

  Mrs Hale rumbled in with the tea trolley. ‘I’ll brew another pot when the doctor’s ready,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks most awfully, Halesy,’ Harri said.

  ‘Dinah wants to know if she should take the children up to the nursery?’ Mrs Hale said.

  ‘No,’ said Harri. ‘It’s nice having them with us, isn’t it, Clem? Let her have an hour off.’

  ‘She can help me in the kitchen then,’ Mrs Hale said. ‘You know what they say about idle hands.’ She went out and they could hear her calling Dinah.

  Clem set Edgar down, and they laughed at the way he tottered across the room and sat with a thump on his bottom. Phyllis began teaching him how to build a tower with bricks, Claris cuddled on Harri’s lap, the sun flowed through the window through the vase of white roses, shining on the children’s heads, and all was well – just for a moment, a moment of balance, the way a drip can hang on a tap for a very long time before it falls.

  ‘Was it something I said?’ Harri asked.

  Clem shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been busy . . . oh, nothing really. Dennis will be so pleased you’re here. As I am, of course.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to move back in.’

  Clem rose to pour milk into beakers for the children. ‘There’s going to be such a mess!’ she said, handing out fingers of bread and butter. She popped a piece into her own mouth, realising that she was ravenous. And after all, it was nice to have Harri here, to have a busy, sunny room to preside over, and it would help not to be alone when Dennis came in and saw her hair.

  ‘How sneaky?’ she said.

  Harri grinned. ‘Well, you see, I telephoned Mrs Hale and got the date of Dennis’s golf club dinner.’

  ‘Mmm?’ The cake was cherry. Clem cut them each a slice and poured the tea.

  ‘And I knew you wouldn’t be going, so I made my dastardly plans.’

  ‘What dastardly plans?’ Clem took a bite of cake, squashing a glacé cherry between her teeth.

  ‘I’ve invited Gwen.’

  Clem stopped chewing.

  ‘Oh, don’t fret. It’s all arranged. Mrs Hale’s in on it. A ladies’ dinner. We’re having plaice, beef tournedos and apple snow. Don’t look at me like that!’

  Clem managed to swallow. ‘Why are you so keen on seeing Gwen?’

  ‘Why aren’t you? She’s your friend, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but . . . you don’t really know her, do you?’

  ‘I’d like to. Bumped into her in Seckford the other day and we got plotting!’

  Clem sipped her tea, too hot; it scalded the roof of her mouth.

  ‘And Dinah’s happy to have the girls in the nursery tonight. Worked out beautifully as Mildred wanted to visit an aunt who’s about to pop off – sadly.’ She paused for a moment to look sad, then grinned. ‘So I’ll be in my old room.’

  ‘Dastardly all right,’ Clem managed.

  The door opened and Dennis came in. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t the bad penny!’ He strode over to Harri and kissed the top of her head, ruffled Claris’s hair. ‘Good to have you back. That tea still . . .’ He turned to Clem and his jaw dropped.

  Harri sniggered.

  ‘Good God,’ said Dennis.
>
  ‘Isn’t it nice?’ Harri said.

  ‘You might have discussed it with me, darling,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Don’t be antediluvian,’ said Harri. ‘It’s her hair.’

  ‘She looks like a flapper.’

  Harri snorted. ‘See?’ she said, holding out her hand to Clem. ‘One shilling, please.’

  Dennis stood at the mantelpiece and lit himself a cigarette.

  ‘Oh yes, since you offer,’ said Harri and, grumpily, he lit one for her.

  Clem said nothing though she would have liked one too, would have liked something to do with her fingers. Instead she squashed crumbs onto her plate, licked them off her fingertips.

  Mrs Hale came in with a fresh pot of tea. ‘Any more bread and butter, or might you fancy a crumpet, doctor?’

  ‘Everything’s in order, thank you,’ Clem said when Dennis failed to respond, and Mrs Hale withdrew.

  ‘We’ll discuss it later.’ Dennis turned, frowning, rammed a piece of bread and butter into his mouth and perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘Really,’ he said, surveying the buttery smears, ‘wouldn’t it be prudent for the children to eat in the nursery?’

  Clem started as the jack-in-the-box let out a sudden raucous squawk and Phyllis and Edgar crowed with laughter.

  ‘Busy surgery?’ she said.

  He nodded curtly.

  ‘Oh Lord. Don’t sulk Dennis,’ said Harri. ‘I swear he can sulk for England – remember that time you had your fishing rod confiscated, D.? Face like fizz for a fortnight! And of course he sulked the entire time you were away, Clem.’

  Edgar got up and walked a few precarious steps, unbalanced by the top he was holding. ‘Good boy,’ Dennis said, flicking Clem a dangerous look before he leant over and span the top for him.