The Knotted House

by Ruth Skrine

  Over our meal we talk of other things. Quentin becomes cheerful as he tucks into roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. When I tell him about Beth’s invitation to Cornwall he looks pleased for me.

  ‘What about you? What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ll try and see the children. I would still like to persuade them to come up here. There are so many places we could go and I do miss them.’

  He turns his half-full beer glass, tipping it to watch the play of light on the curved surface of liquid showing through the disappearing froth. A lost look passes over his face as he puts his knife and fork together on his empty plate. I want to cradle his head in my arms to protect him from hurt. The feeling is new to me, a dimension of love I have not experienced before. The surrounding families, tucking into their Sunday lunch, make me feel shy, so I just touch his face lightly with my finger. He looks up and gives me a wistful smile before changing the subject.

  ‘What about that girl from school that you were so worried about? Have you heard anything of her recently?’

  ‘Jane? She’s coming to tea when I get back from Cornwall.’

  ‘That’ll be nice. What will you do with her?’

  ‘I’ve promised she can play with the doll’s house. That was how I tempted her to come.’

  ‘Did she need tempting?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She wanted to bring a baby with her for company!’

  ‘Poor kid.’

  For the first time I find the picture of her playing with the doll’s house disturbing. She might relive her own experiences with my toys. Children are encouraged to play out their traumas in therapy. I will hate it if my little pipe cleaner people begin to get violent.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I was just thinking of the games children play. I think I will get some new people for the doll’s house; the others are grubby and worn.’

  ‘That’s what makes them so charming.’

  ‘Jane should have some new ones of her own that she can take home with her.’

  ‘You’re always thinking of other people instead of trying to get yourself sorted out.’

  That is not fair. ‘I am trying.’

  He looks unconvinced. ‘I don’t see how sex can be such a problem in this day and age. Surely you had some sex education?’

  ‘I’ve even given some in my day. It’s not the same.’ I crave his sympathy but it is unrealistic to expect him to fathom a problem that remains a mystery to me. ‘All that talk is out there. My difficulty is inside.’

  He doesn’t answer. As we walk back along the canal he says he has a bit of a headache. At my front door he kisses my cheek and goes off in search of some aspirin.

  Chapter 17

  The sun is shining on the first day of the Easter holidays. As I stand on the balcony, revelling in my freedom, Quentin walks down the back path. He turns to wave and the feeling of unease that has been nagging me disappears. Since our visit to the churchyard he has been busy appointing two new physiotherapists to his department. Sifting the forms, deciding on a short list and interviewing the candidates has left little time for me. But I have put no pressure on him. My efforts to find out about my body have stalled and I don’t want to disappoint him again.

  The problem must be sorted before I leave for Cornwall. Each day in my bath I tell my fingers to explore, but nothing happens. My hands are happy down there now, the feel of the crinkled bits of skin no longer frightening. But the passage still eludes me. It would be so easy to push into the wrong place, or my finger might go in too far.

  I refuse to let the thought spoil such a lovely day. I need some new clothes for the trip so I decide to go shopping. Beth has arranged to call for me soon after eight tomorrow morning. They want to reach Sennen before dark and it is a long drive. Meanwhile, the day stretches in front of me full of promise.

  Walking down to the town the sun is warm on my back. In the second shop I find a trouser suit. The material is soft and crease resistant, suitable for travelling. The colour is somewhere between orange and brown, not attractive when described in those words, but it kindles shades in my mousy hair that are normally hidden. I buy two shirts, one a lovely brick red, the other lime green. Both of them have deep cuffs and well-shaped collars that stand up just enough to frame my neck. I feel a million dollars walking home in my new clothes and am just sorry that Quentin is shut away in that stuffy old hospital.

  The phone is ringing as I open the door. ‘Hi, this is John speaking.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The minister from the chapel. No news I’m afraid. I’ve searched all my records for the early eighteen hundreds, and I can find no-one called Edward Curry.’

  I thank him for his help. He must have heard the disappointment in my voice for he adds, ‘There are several reasons why he might not be listed. Can you tell me any more about him? Was he a relative?’

  ‘Not exactly. It’s a long story. He was a blacksmith in Lower Ditchley and an elder of the chapel.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. The date of his death would make it possible to get a copy of his death certificate.’

  ‘But…’ he stops. ‘Which year did you say he died?’

  ‘1813’.

  ‘Death certificates didn’t start till 1837.’

  I sink into the chair that Susan and Quentin put so thoughtfully by the phone when they reorganised the furniture. The girl in the library misled me. All that trouble for nothing.

  John continues talking. ‘He may have died when he was outside this area. Or… ’he pauses again.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The rules were very strict in those days. If there was doubt about the cause of his death, the elders may not have recorded it.’

  ‘Does that mean there’s no way I can trace him?’

  When he speaks his voice is tentative. ‘I’ve been interested in family research for a long time. If it were a violent death, or there was something unnatural about it, there would have been an inquest. The coroner’s records go back to the eighteenth century but they’re very incomplete. The ones that are left are kept in the archivist’s office at the Guildhall.’

  ‘Can I get to see them?’

  ‘I don’t want to raise your hopes but it might just be worth making an appointment with him. He’s a nice man and always pleased to see people with a genuine interest.’

  ‘Well, you’re nice too, you’ve been so helpful.’ Somehow the man’s manner makes it possible for me to blurt out the crude compliment.

  He laughs. ‘I try to be of use where I can. Call me again if there’s anything else.’

  I thank him and put the phone down. There is no time to see the archivist before leaving for Cornwall, but at least one more avenue will be waiting for me to explore when I get back.

  I stand in my bra and pants looking at myself in the mirror. It is not a bad body; there are no obvious signs that I am different from other women. My new clothes are folded neatly on the back of the chair, with clean underwear ready for the early start. If I don’t make a real effort now the chance will have slipped by once again.

  Very deliberately I go into the bathroom and take the tube of K-Y jelly Quentin has bought me. He instructed me to put plenty on my finger, speaking in the detached voice of a cold, white-coated professional, not the man with whom I had laughed and danced round a bonfire. What has to be done is a serious, grown-up thing.

  Balancing with my left hand on the edge of the bath, the other fingers edge down my stomach. I feel dizzy. I can’t do it. Looking round the room to see if there is a niche where I can find support, I realise that three of the corners are occupied – by the basin, bath and loo. The door interrupts the fourth. The other bathroom may be better. At least the seal curtains will not be flapping at me.

  Wiping the jelly off my fingers I pick up the tube and take my dressing gown out of the suitcase where I had folded it ready for the journey. I head downstairs to the green bathroom next t
o my mother’s bedroom. The corner where the basket for the dirty clothes used to stand is empty. My back fits into the angle where the two walls meet. The fear of falling is still with me, so I allow my body to slide down until I am sitting on the floor, supported on either side. If I do faint the hard surfaces that press against my shoulder blades will hold me together.

  I bend my legs. Putting more jelly on my fingers I try again. The bathroom blurs. I squeeze my eyes tight, fighting down the nausea in my throat. My other hand comes across to take hold of the wrist and drag it away. The two sides of me are locked in battle, but my right hand has always been strong. I draw on every particle of fortitude I can muster to conquer my fear. As I do so my index finger slips into softness. It is further in than ever before. I snatch it out, uncertain where it went. Resting my head in my hands I realise there is a hole. But I had felt no pain. There has been no need to force a passage through my flesh as I had always imagined. How had it got inside without the agony that girl suffered when she fell on the stick?

  Looking up, a brown mark seems to appear on the wall in front of me. The image is thick at one end, tapering out at the other. My guts lurch with excitement and guilt as I remember that I had enjoyed smearing the shit. I must have been very young. The voice of my father echoes in my ears as I hear him telling me not to be such a messy girl. We have to clear it up before my grandmother sees it. He is washing out the small towel that still hangs on the loo handle, the word “lavatory” picked out in blue.

  I blink at my long legs stretched out in front of me. Raising my eyes I see there is no mark now to sully the smooth expanse of green wall. I Struggle up and drop the toilet seat to sit on it as more memories buffet my head. My father leads me from the bathroom to see my new sister. My mother is lying in bed, but she pushes me away, her breasts too sore to cuddle me. I am supposed to kiss the shrivelled face and I bend low over the crib with pursed lips, not going near enough to touch her wrinkled skin. My father takes me away to the kitchen where my grandmother gives me a biscuit.

  Leaning over the basin I heave, but nothing comes up. Other girls can use tampax and explore their bodies without difficulty. For me the terror is so great, and my reserves of courage so small, that I want to run away. I draw a deep breath. After spending my whole life with the belief that my body is deformed, it is difficult to realise I have felt inside and survived. I did not faint or die or kill anybody as far as I can tell. A ray of light makes me look up and see that the sun is setting, painting the horizon in shades of yellow and gold. I am not so different after all. The tremors now shaking my body may be due to excitement as much as fear. My head jerks up with determination. No distant memories will stop me now.

  Taking the jelly with me, I go back to my corner. It is easier this time, but deep inside there is a cavern with no walls and no end. The feeling is scary; the softness gives way to an empty space with no boundaries. Things could get lost in there. My finger could touch something, perhaps my liver or one of my kidneys. I begin to slip forward away from the wall. Jerking my finger out I clasp my knees and let myself sink sideways onto the floor. After a few minutes the room steadies, and I sit up. The anatomy of the female tract is very familiar, I have drawn it often enough in class. Of course the end will be blocked by my cervix; my finger is just not long enough to reach it. As I try to take in the full meaning of what has happened my joints soften and my whole body feels lighter. I get to my feet. Not bothering with pants I push my arms into my dressing gown, clasp it round me and hurry out of the room. My shoes and slippers are upstairs, they can wait. The impulse to share my news with Quentin is so strong that I am in danger of tripping as I speed down the stairs. How pleased he will be. I fly into his living room without knocking. It is empty. The door to his bedroom is closed. My delight carries me towards it. My fingers are on the handle. I can’t stop, even when the sound of a high pitched giggle reaches me from the other side.

  Two heads turn towards me from the bed. I freeze in mid-step, part of a three-person tableau. Susan moves first, turning her head away in slow motion so that her reddened face disappears from my view and I am left looking at the back of her head. Normally her grey hair is smooth. Now it is messed up, the strands running in all directions.

  The door behind me bangs shut, breaking the stillness. Quentin pulls himself off her, rolling into the space between her body and the wall, taking the duvet with him. The top of Susan’s body is left exposed, her breasts flopped to the sides. The memory of my own breasts, vulnerable in that very bed, spurs me into action. I turn, fling the door open and flee into my house, up the stairs past the green bathroom and on up again into my own room. Hurling the door shut behind me I fumble with the key, managing to turn it before throwing myself on the bed.

  Every muscle of my body is rigid. If I twitch an eyelid or unbend a finger, flick my tongue or wiggle my toes, I will disintegrate. What a naive fool to trust so blindly. With teeth jammed together and my neck in spasm I ball my fists so tight that the nails dig into my palms.

  Time passes. My body hurts all over. I am cold, but can’t move to cover myself. A stair creaks and there are three taps on the door.

  ‘Meena?’ Quentin whispers.

  Somehow my chest loosens enough to get some air into my mummified body. ‘Go away.’

  ‘Let me in.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can explain.’

  ‘Go away.’ He has to leave me alone. ‘Go away, or I’ll kill you.’ The words come out cold and accurate.

  ‘Meena, let me explain.’ He tries the door handle.

  There is no point in answering him. After several minutes his footsteps retreat down the stairs. I allow time for him to get clear of my house. Then, throwing on an old pair of trousers and a sweater, I creep down to lock the communicating door. The bolts at the top and bottom won’t move. There has never been a reason to bother with them before. The oil can is in the glory hole, where Quentin replaced it after working on the back gate. I pour so much of it onto the rusty metal that streams run down and collect in pools on the floor. No matter if the ground is slippery, no one will be coming this way while I still own the house. Wiggling the bolts loose I shoot them across, determined that I will never be humiliated in this way again. My house will be a fortress, strong enough to repel all invaders.

  As I climb back to my bedroom I don’t bother to look at the pictures on the stairs. They are nothing but dead people, of no interest to me now. I pull the duvet round my shoulders and sit staring into space. The phone rings and rings. When it doesn’t stop I have to go down and answer it in case Briony or Beth needs me.

  ‘Meena?’ Susan sounds distant. I slam the receiver back on its hook. After a moment I take it off again and lay it down by the side. Too bad if my family want me; they will have to wait till morning.

  In the kitchen I try to open a bottle of wine. The cork breaks and as I use a knife to dig out the remains it slips. ‘Bugger it.’ I suck my finger, tasting blood but feeling no pain. At the sink I hold my hand under the cold tap. A steady stream of dark red runs from the finger mingling with the water. Numbness spread up from my hand to my whole body as I watch the pink liquid running away through the plug hole. What luck if I were to bleed to death – but the colour fades. A roll of kitchen paper is at hand and I tear some to press onto the wound. After a few moments I examine the damage. The cut is quite deep but it has missed the nail. I push the remains of the cork into the liquid with the handle of a spoon. The movement starts the bleeding again, and red drops fall to mix with some spilt wine. Tearing off several sheets I twist one round the finger and leave a pile to absorb the mess on the table.

  On my way upstairs I grab a tumbler from the green bathroom and trudge up the next flight. Sitting on the edge of my bed I fill it to the brim. The wine tastes sour. Pieces of cork are gritty in my mouth. I should have filtered them out… but what the hell.

  I tip my head back and glug without taking a breath until the glass is empty. In the gloom outside
a patch of deeper darkness is the shadow of the oak tree. On the table the family treasures that I have collected do not matter any more. Who is there to care if I make myself ill? I refill my tumbler. A light has been switched off inside and I am nothing but an empty husk. If I die, Beth will find me in the morning. She can take over the job of clearing the house and good luck to her.

  I set the alarm for sixo’clock so as to be ready when they call for me. If I leave early I can avoid the risk of meeting Susan or Quentin. As the names join in my head I clench my teeth again. I will not think of them – better to think of nothing. But I cannot stop the thoughts chasing each other round my mind, the people of past and present all jumbled up. I have to find something solid to steady me. Crossing the room to my dressing table I avoid my reflection in the mirror and open the drawers, one by one, not knowing what I am looking for. But when I take out my mother’s tortoise-shell hairbrush, I hold it in my hands, rubbing my thumb over the cracked back. She was marvellous when my marriage broke, asking no questions but just being there. Through her silence I had felt her concern reaching out. Her unspoken love sustained me. Now I am entirely alone, denied even the company of my neighbour. Surely Quentin could not prefer Susan, of all people. She is old and fat and full of stale platitudes. As a trainee counsellor she should damn well know better.

  My hand is throbbing. I put the brush back and fetch a plaster to replace the blood-soaked kitchen paper. The edges of the cut are gaping. It is deeper than the graze on Jane’s leg, that wound I dressed so carefully in the staff toilets. That was soon after I had met Quentin…

  I walk back to the bed and pick up the glass. Twisting it in my hand, I study the depths of colour, the wine more purple than the scarlet of my blood. It is my own doing. When I rushed off to visit Briony in hospital I told Quentin to take Susan to the theatre in my place. How could I have been so gullible? But my sister needed me. It was her fault; everything was Briony’s fault. No, that’s not fair. My sister is all I have left and I love her.