On New Year’s morning, I woke leaning into a cold space in the bed. When I went downstairs to let out Maude, I did not understand why the door was locked from the outside. Rab appeared at lunchtime. He refused to talk or look at me. ‘I got drunk. I should have come home. I stayed over with friends down the road. Big deal.’ I stared at him, furious and hurt. ‘But we are in the middle of treatment. Why did you even go back after dropping me off?’ His face turned dark when I asked him why the door was locked and he pushed past me, saying, ‘For fuck’s sake, just let a man sleep.’ That New Year was quiet. He slept like the dead. So I went out visiting friends, wishing them a Happy New Year, on my own.
Everyone on the island knows Rab’s secret. Everyone knows her name. Their silence is deep and impenetrable. They are all waiting, holding their breath. Wondering who will do it. Who will tell me what everyone else already knows. Humiliation is a glinting, sharp blade. It draws others to it, irresistibly, in a dark fascination.
It comes as I am watching the children at school. A string of words, trailing smoke, so you know its embers were lit long before. I listen, my gut wrenching. It hurts to finally hear the truth. And to realise that you are the very last to know.
The bright lipstick on the mouth shaping the words somehow defines them more precisely. With the rain hammering so hard outside, and all the schoolchildren playing noisily in the small, narrow hall, it is difficult to hear myself think. I stand motionless, trying to concentrate on the message they are conveying.
‘Cheer up,’ one of the women shrugs. ‘It’s not like it happened yesterday.’
‘So you knew?’ my voice stumbles. I try to hold her eyes, only she laughs, awkwardly, and then she looks away.
It is hard to read her intention, but I want to trust.
‘I don’t know what you’re upset about,’ she tells me sagely. ‘We all got over it months ago.’
I accepted that my husband was not present during my treatment. But I did not know what everyone else knew – that it was because he was with someone else down the road. I thought we were trying for a family of our own together. Afterwards, that knowledge makes it all the harder to face those days when she helps out with a school run and comes into the playroom to collect or drop off children. I tell myself to be professional. I smile. My voice is level but strained. You do what you have to do.
‘You did not say thank you,’ one of the children wonders loudly. ‘You always say thank you.’
I look at him and sigh. It is hard to explain to a three-year-old that thank you is something you don’t always have to say.
There is only so long you can keep pain buried. It is like a seed that embeds itself deep into your tissue and starts to germinate. Its bitter harvest is reaped a few months later – a year to the day the seed was planted. It is Hogmanay. ‘I’m not going to the party,’ I insist. Cristall, my closest friend in all the world, tells me, ‘You can’t hide away for ever. I think you should go.’
She is right. She is always right. So I go.
At the bar, which is nothing more than a shelf with a few bottles, I hand over my contribution. With the raffle over and the tea, scones and sandwiches cleared away, the hard drinking is starting. The room is packed. Later, I am back at the bar, filling up my glass amid a crush of people, when I realise she is standing next to me. I do not know what to say. So I don’t say anything. And then I swallow. I am drunk. She is drunk. It’s now or never, I think.
‘Why did you do it?’ I ask.
‘Do what?’
‘Fuck my husband,’ I say.
She smiles, catlike. ‘Lies. Just lies.’
‘That’s not what he says.’
And then we talk. We were friends, of a kind, before this.
‘I thought you were my friend,’ I say. ‘I invited you to my birthday.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘And you know what? I didn’t go.’
‘We were trying for a family.’
She just smiles. ‘Bad luck,’ she says, and then she walks away.
Sometimes I wish we had never spoken. And other days I am glad we did.
It cleared the air. It helped me to feel stronger. But later things took a darker turn. Her friends dragged me outside. They were drunk, totally mortal, and the tension was palpable. Voices were raised and someone swung a punch. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, coming at me in slow motion. There was no time to think. With my reflexes already alert to the inherent risk of this situation, my body instinctively glided out of harm’s way. The punch missed me by a hair’s breadth and connected heavily with the face of one of their own. All it took was a glancing blink of comprehension and suddenly a full-scale brawl was underway.
Only I was not in it. I didn’t think about it, I just followed my legs and slipped away. Pure instinct was telling me to quit those bright lights and blend into the soft darkness, to leave that world behind me and to seek the peace of invisibility.
As I left, I heard a voice screaming behind me: ‘I’ll fuck whoever I fucking want to.’
If it wasn’t so pitiful, it would have been funny.
I am in excruciating pain physically as well as emotionally. I am not usually accident-prone but I have been unlucky. That spring I have two terrible accidents. My left hand is badly broken in a fall on the croft. And a few weeks later, my right hand is also severely injured in an incident that is still hard to talk about.
It is extraordinary to me how such an unremarkable fall could result in such a horrific shattering of bone. One minute I was upright, walking on the croft. The next I had tripped and landed awkwardly. A grassy bank shelved up to meet me, my head hit a rock and my left hand met a steep incline. It was that simple. Grass has an unseen violence when you slam on to it, head down, with your full body weight. I did not feel my hand snap. All I felt was an odd emptiness in it, a sudden giving way. I had a sense that breathing was vital, but all I could do was gasp and hold myself tight inside.
Strange, the clarity that comes when you lie stunned and immobile. I had a sudden awareness that I had been holding my breath for a very long time. That the earth is solid, stable, comforting; the dew cold, fresh and sweet like the rain. As I lay crumpled, face down and inhaling the silence, something inside me shifted. Drifting in and out of consciousness, I felt it go. It is exhausting experiencing a relationship imploding around you. You don’t hear it break until the last supporting structures shear apart.
When Maude started shoving me, over and over, I dragged myself wearily back to the empty house and crept under a blanket, my cold cheek against her wet nose, her bright amber eyes holding fast to mine.
Inside I am falling, too. Our house is empty of kindness and laughter. Outwardly, I put on a brave face, but underneath I am frightened because I do not know how to catch us. I do not know how to catch myself.
My injury makes Rab angry. He finds it hard to cope when I am ill or in pain. Sometimes our best is not good enough. And our worst has an awful inevitability that is predictable, shocking in its familiarity. It is only later that I wonder how vulnerability can fuel such deep frustration and rage in another person. Sometimes it triggers a sullen silence and at others an anger that is hard to comprehend. I am tired of hearing ‘You are making it up, there is nothing wrong with you.’ I turn away, hurt, with tears in my eyes.
Each morning, I wake afraid. I jolt out of sleep with my heart pounding in my chest. I am having a recurring dream that takes me into cold, dark water. I know I am deep below the surface but I keep struggling to reach it. I have to get there or I will run out of breath. I wake just as my breath runs out. Other times I find myself shouting with all my might but making no sound at all, my legs working, as if trying to hit invisible brakes, my right foot kicking out desperately. It is as if I am trapped in a runaway vehicle. As I come to, even though I can see my room, the light coming through the window, the sensation continues: the car is still speeding, out of control, with me in it. I cannot stop because there are never any brakes in this dream. Alw
ays, I wake properly at the same point – just before the moment of impact – with an abrupt gasp and a high, stifled cry. I sit bolt upright, trembling, hyperventilating. Then comes a dull ache as I become aware of the empty space next to me. Yet it has been this way for months.
Our life, my life with Rab, is unravelling. It is like watching a spool of thread unwinding at breakneck speed. I am sick at heart because, deep down, I know where we are headed. There is only one way this road goes.
And then one day I am sitting in the passenger seat of the Land Rover, hammering up the single-track road. I am huddled forwards, lurching from side to side. All I want to do is shut my eyes, I am so frightened, but I force myself to keep them open, wide, alert, focused on the road. I am not dreaming now. It is daytime, I am awake and my nightmare is really happening.
I am slamming my foot down hard where I want there to be brakes, but Rab fails to notice. And suddenly my voice is screaming at him, ‘Please slow down! You are scaring me!’ But he keeps driving and I keep screaming. I know we are going to crash. Abruptly, I fall silent. Screaming, or even talking, is a total waste of breath. And I need every ounce of my energy to try to stop this car.
But Rab is driving so fast and is so angry that I cannot grab the wheel or reach the brakes. I crouch in a ball sideways against the seat, doing my best to keep my hands in my lap to protect the one that is freshly set in plaster.
As we climb a hill, I can see a car approaching in the distance on the single-track lane. At the top, I know there is a blind corner and a steep bank that sits high above a ditch. And then I am screaming at him again at the top of my voice, to stop, to please just stop and let me out. It is as if he is hell-bent on driving the car, our relationship and our lives to destruction. And then, because I have nothing to hold on to, cannot hold on, I fold my body forwards in a brace position.
‘Fucking stop, Rab, for fuck’s sake, just stop!’ I am yelling. ‘Please stop, I want to get out. I just want to get out.’ And then the car cresting the blind brow of the hill is coming right at us.
I do not think. My body reacts. My fingers are on the door handle, my shoulder is leaning hard on the door and I tuck my arms into my body, make myself soft and tumble on to the road, just as Rab rams the car on to the soft verge, the heavy diesel engine spewing out burning fumes.
At times of crisis your body knows exactly what to do. All that practice slipping off Fola’s back pays off. You learn to make yourself small and invisible, wait for the ground to come rushing up to meet you and trust that the earth will be kind. Instinct is more than the fight-or-flight mechanism. It also tells you when to freeze.
I lie there, sobbing and swearing, on the road. I am shocked but unhurt. Everyone is shouting. Rab slams his fist against the dash and yells, ‘You fucking cunt!’ I think, at least it’s not just me. In a way I am relieved to hear him screaming at the other driver, because that is the moment I know for sure that he is not well, not himself. The last year, and longer, suddenly makes blinding sense. I also know that I cannot help him, for all my wanting, hoping and trying, because he will not take my help, or any that is offered. We are beyond help now.
When he yells, ‘Get in, you fucking bitch!’ I refuse. I am so tired of being scared. I do not want to get back into that car ever again. I turn and I start to walk the long road home. Only when I get there, I do not feel safe. I know that when he returns he will be silent, his rage simmering. And that feels even worse than when he shouts. I call for Maude, and immediately she comes running. When the door closes behind us, we go straight out on to the hill. I do not look back. I keep on walking. I am bruised and shaken, but I keep my eyes fixed on the sky.
Sometimes that is all you can do.
I do not understand how we have reached this point. As I walked home, I asked myself over and over if I am to blame. But in my heart I know I am not. We all make our choices and Rab has made his. His anger is self-directed. Combustion has its own physics. It is a controlled chemical reaction. Fire produces energy, anger is its vent. I shrink from its bursting flames and heat and I do not know how to put it out.
My rationality goes to pieces when I am frightened. Rab knows this. His anger hooks into my fear. It is a destructive combination. I spend more and more time outside, walking with Maude on the hills. When I come back, we sit apart, each locked in our own silence. We build walls around ourselves. Home no longer feels like home. I am uneasy and restless. For so many months I have kept this truth out of sight, wary of the prying eyes and loose tongues of others. Cristall’s eyes alone watch me turning inwards and remaining silent, preferring solitude and the hills. These days are fraught and isolating.
I can feel the multicoloured threads of our relationship being picked apart. They are daily strewn all around us. It is hard not to trip over them, for all Rab’s assurances that it is just in my mind. Love only breaks down when it is neglected, uncared for or cast aside. Gradually, we stop spinning and weaving our life together.
I glance across at him. I want to hand him a strand, to wind us closer. He is sitting beside me, but he is not present. His face is fixed and, even though I can feel the warmth of his body, he seems distant and does not reach for my hand. I wonder where he has gone, and when it was that he went. I cannot quite bring myself to ask with whom.
Love is a rhythm, a reciprocity of pulse. I feel its loss like a pain in my chest. Words, laughter and kindness become scarce. Loneliness creeps in. We are unable to comfort or sustain each other. The years of difficulty and stress have brought us both to our knees. In the end, we are unable to give each other what we each want or need. Some things that should be so easy to nourish or grasp remain cruelly just out of reach.
Later, I take Rab’s hand and touch his fingers gently with mine. ‘We had it all, you and I.’
‘I know,’ he answers. Both pairs of eyes fill with tears.
The moment is fleeting.
‘But you wanted more,’ he says angrily.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And was I wrong for that?’
He looks away quickly and lights a cigarette. We know what we both wanted, longed for. A child is a gift that others take so easily for granted.
I want to understand. I want to ask him, ‘Were you also scavenging, in your own way, to survive?’ I want to position his infidelity as a manifestation of a desire to be more honest. It is hard to do this, but I try. I tell myself that it is an act of survival. A bid to belong to something or someone that is not me. It is difficult to acknowledge that.
‘At least you were honest in what you did,’ I whisper. ‘At least you knew what you needed. Even if you went about it in the most devastating way conceivable.’ But I am unable to ask, ‘Was I really not enough? Did she, and even others, give you what I could not?’ In his eyes I see my own reflection. It is always a shock to see ourselves mirrored in another’s eyes.
Rab’s dark secret makes those last weeks of the early summer infinitely more difficult. We live separately within the house where once we loved. I have lost the babies. I talk to the GP. It is a relief to be able to talk. ‘We cannot go on like this,’ I say. I am waiting for a crisis. I can feel it looming. I do not share my fears with others. In a small community, some things are too hard to share. In the end, we construct our own truths and lies.
We have been arguing. I can feel an unsettling volatility in the room. As I turn away, I bite my lip and taste adrenaline and blood on my tongue. It has a dull, metallic tang, a scorched bitter taste around its edges. It tells me what I know inside. It says, ‘Get out now, get out while you can.’
As I turn to leave the room, Rab screams, ‘Don’t you turn your fucking back on me. Come back here, you little bitch!’ I carry on walking, unsteadily. I feel a strange separation in my body, as if inside I am ablaze, but outwardly I am frozen. These weeks have been different, with an outsize stress and darkness all of their own. There have been episodes I try not to think about. It is the silence that frightens me most of all.
I know not to
say anything. Words are not just words when they are words of hate. They carry an import and meaning that cut deep into your skin. I feel the barbs of those whispered so low I have to strain to hear them as acutely as when they are pressed right up against my face.
I have messed up. I have left a coffee cup on the windowsill. I freeze when I see it. It is wet on its underside and it will stain the wood.
‘If you do that again, I will kill you with my bare hands.’
His voice is soft. I am unsure if he is joking. That day another line is crossed. I do not feel safe to go to sleep at night. There is no lock on my door.
I watch, listen, wait. I want to mark that line we have stepped over, so I know how far we are moving from each day’s new starting point. But it is hard to draw a line with shadows. I do not want to look up, in case suddenly I find I am right on the finishing line. I do not want to be there. It is enough to bear being where I am. I do not know what to do. If we are ghosts to each other, sometimes I wonder why he should not seek someone else to permanently help him inhabit his own skin. Perhaps this will free him to know himself again.
One night, I get drunk. He gets drunk. Everyone gets drunk. We are at an island wedding in the hall. Some are drinking for the joy of it, others to escape. There are those who drink to hide the cracks in their lives exposed by others’ hopes and dreams. I drink to numb my fear. I drink to hide my pain. I stare at Rab. He is talking to a woman. They are standing close, whispering to each other. For a while I watch them. When I cannot stand it any longer, I walk slowly across the room.
‘This is my wife.’ He meets my eyes, but nothing registers. It is as if he is looking right through me. I cannot read what he is thinking. But I can sense a glistening sheen of volatility. It makes my heart start racing.
I Am an Island Page 10