by L. G. Vey
She could have any man, even without her father’s money, but she wants me. She cast a spell on me, like they say in the songs. I’m bewitched.
I’m going to get nowhere with this journal if I keep falling into whimsy.
Being married is a funny old business, as is having a house of your own. I keep forgetting I’m the master of Holt House now, and think I shouldn’t put my feet on the furniture. Well, I shouldn’t really. Gwen doesn’t like it. It’s all new, bought with the money we were given as a nest egg, and we bought a grand big bed with it, and a dressing set, and all sorts of kitchen things. A Welsh dresser and table and chairs, and a three and two, and even a single bed and a smart wardrobe for the spare room, for when a family starts to come along. That’s what Gwen said. I had nothing to bring, nothing that was good enough, but she brought the smart china plates she picked out that she said were perfect for the house, and a grandfather clock that’s been in her family forever.
One day, when I start making proper money of my own in the insurance business, I’ll give her something good as a wedding present, something just from me to her.
When I speak to her like that, about my private thoughts, she makes a face and says twaddle. I thought women were meant to like all that – getting to know your deep feelings. Perhaps she’ll come round to it. But, for now, I’ll make a new fort, just for me. A diary. A fort of words and paper, built from the joy of our marriage. Built to last.
There I go again. Twaddle.
*
Holt House – it’s a good name for it, here, deep in the Holtwood. I like the way it feels like part of the wood, as if the plants and animals could come right up to the door. It’s not been lived in before, having been built by a rich family in London who went bankrupt and lost both sons in the war. Gwen’s dad snapped it up for a song. It makes me wonder if somebody’s loss is always somebody else’s gain, and the world has a balance that won’t be appreciated until it all comes to an end.
I mentioned it to Gwen over breakfast yesterday and she said it was beyond her. Then she packed me off to the shed, it being a Saturday. I’ve got some old tools, now, so the shed is starting to feel like my place. One of the other insurance agents was having a clear out before his retirement and he gave me a big tea chest of his old things, saying a man should have his own bits and pieces. I’m still looking through it, and finding all sorts in there. I set up some shelves and hammered in some nails for hanging things up. It’s a man’s place now, all right.
I tried to show Gwen but she wouldn’t come outside. She says the wood is watching her, and she can hear the wild animals moving about. I’ve cut it back a fair bit, but she’s still not keen. Maybe she’s expecting already. I’ve heard women can come up with funny ideas when they’re in the family way.
I should leave her alone, then, until she tells me in her own time, but I can’t, I can’t, it’s out of my control when she puts on that nightdress and lets down her hair. Something comes over me, and I get that feeling I used to get during the war when they were bombing and I just wanted to squeeze and squeeze until it was over. I’d leave big bruises on my own leg, grabbing it and grabbing it, the pain of it would be the only thing that got me through. And now when I’m with Gwen and she’s lying there, it builds and builds and before I know it I’ve got my hands on her neck. She says she doesn’t mind, after, and she understands. But still, I shouldn’t do it. I know that.
I’ll find a way to make it up to her. I’ll be gentle, and I won’t take advantage of her. I’ll do something about the wood, too, to shake her out of her funny thoughts.
*
When her father let us have this house, it was on the understanding that he’d have no say in what we did with it. Make it your own – he said. And I’m grateful, of course I am.
Well.
I got home from work and found a pile of new wood, long sawn planks, sat by my shed. A present from father – says Gwen. I ask for what. For a fence. To keep out the woods.
He never once mentioned it to me, at work, or said – what’s this about Gwen and the woods? We could have discussed it, man to man.
So now I have to build a fence, and I’ve got no choice in the matter.
*
I don’t mind a fence, if I’m honest. I like to feel that we belong to the Holtwood, because it’s always been a safe place to me, but that’s neither here nor there. Gwen doesn’t sit well with it and that’s that. It’s only the way it was done that bothers me. If she’d have asked me, I’d have got the wood and built her a fence without prodding.
She’s got one of those powder compacts out and is dabbing at her neck as I write. Well, let her. If she doesn’t want to be honest with me about her feelings on the matter then I can’t help it. I had to ask her out loud, eventually. I said – are we having a child? She blushed, and said – no. I’ve been tiptoeing around her for months, not even looking sideways at her, and she must have known what I was hoping for. She could have put me out of my misery, but no, she forced me to ask her.
I’ll not start on that fence until I’m good and ready.
Down in the shed yesterday I took one of the planks from the pile and cut it to pieces with a saw I got given in that old tea chest. Then I hammered it all together to make a fort, just like I used to make. It was all splintered edges and rough wood, but I’ll keep making changes to it and get it how I want it. I wish I had someone to show it off to, if I’m honest, but it will have to be just for me, just like those old grass and stick forts in the Holtwood used to be just for me.
*
I’m sorry I argued with her, but she does push me with her silences.
It turns out I’m not much of an insurance salesman. I knew it before her father called me into his office for a chat, of course. Still, he says he’ll keep me on and I can do paperwork and make myself useful. He says he’s not well, and it’ll help to have an extra pair of hands close by.
At the bottom of the tea chest I found four old traps, and a book on trapping. It’s given me an idea.
*
The fence is slow work, and she bothers me about it, and it leads to yet more rows, and then I lose my temper, and I’d swear she does it deliberately. But it will all come good once I’ve got enough pelts. I’ve been playing around with the traps and reading the book when I’m down the shed.
The book says that otters can be difficult to trap. They’re clever. They don’t fall for much, but if you place the traps close to each other instead of far apart you stand a better chance. That’s because otters have a strong sense of loyalty. So if one gets hurt, and it cries out, others come running to see what’s up. That surprises me, I have to say. I thought all creatures ran away from sounds of pain.
It strikes me as cruel, but that’s the way of it, otters being pests. Gwen wants all the animals gone apart from the ones on those china plates in the hall. Well, I can’t get rid of the wood for her, but I can certainly deal with the otters and give her a nice surprise into the bargain. I’ll go out early tomorrow morning and set the traps, just as it says in the book, and see how it goes.
*
I couldn’t write before this. I couldn’t think of words to describe it. The sounds it made, and the way it looked at me. But I want to put it down here, on paper, so it’s recorded. Not that I’ll ever forget it. I wouldn’t want to ever forget it. Some things change you.
I heard it as soon as I stepped out of the house, through the back door. It was faint, but it was there, on the wind that blows from the river. I collected a shovel from the shed and followed it, walking slowly, not wanting to get there. I should have walked faster, but I couldn’t bring myself to hurry to it. I didn’t want to see what was there, in the trap. The screaming was not like the noise an animal would make. It sounded, to me, like a child in fear, in pain. I was terrified I had caught some young boy while he was out playing, in the woods, and I didn’t know what I would do.
So it was a relief to find it, in one way. The screaming stopped when it la
id eyes on me, and I saw it watching me with an intelligence to it, even through the state of its front leg. It was a young otter, the size of a cat, and just as clever, I’d say. It looked at me like it knew I’d set that trap, and what I’d done to it.
I was surprised to have caught it, to be honest. It looked too keen to have been lured by the scent of the fish I left out. But then I saw what was in the next trap along – placed nearby as the book suggested – and I understood it. I’d caught an older one first, a fully grown one, and it was dead already, perhaps from the pain. I bet it had called for hours before it died, and this younger one had come to its screams.
I don’t know if that’s true, of course, but that’s how it felt to me, and that’s why I hit the young one quick, with the shovel, whacked it on the head twice so the skull was bashed in. So it was done with.
There. That’s how it was. Now I won’t forget it, how it felt the first time, and it won’t bother me so much to go on. I don’t seem to be able to hold things in my head so well. Not the bad things. I should remember the sight of bruises on Gwen makes me feel sick, but still I put more there. She never says she minds, that’s the thing. She should say it isn’t right.
It can’t be right.
Skinning them was a delicate business, but the book described it well and I followed the pictures. First I made cuts around all four feet, and down the length of the tail. Then one long cut down each back leg, and I got my fingers up inside and simply pulled the pelt down, like taking off a tight vest in a way, working with my knife in the places where it wouldn’t come. It was a good start, but then I reached the head, and had to get the knife further in between the skin and the ears and eyes, and I think I made a right mess of it, but it wouldn’t come free, no matter what I did. In the end I simply sliced through those bits, and there was a bit of blood and mess that got on the fur, which the book says should be avoided so as not to spoil the quality of it.
Next I have to flesh them. The book tells me how to do that too. I’ll work out the cutting and stitching later, and I’ll set the traps again tonight.
*
It came to me, this morning, over toast and tea, that things have been better between Gwen and me since I started trapping. It takes all the anger out of me.
It’s not only that – it’s the process of making the skins usable that calms me right down too. I made a wood frame and set it up behind the shed, where Gwen can’t see from the house, and I stretched and scraped down the skins there. I started at the neck, using my fingernails, and a whole sheet of fine white fat came off, leaving only the fur behind. It was rhythmic, soothing work, once I got past the smell.
Then I lay the skins in the shed, on the bench, and worked it with my hands, rubbing and rubbing. I used a stone mostly, as the book says to do, but I liked the feel of it on my hands too. I’ve rubbed my own skin raw in the process, and now I’ve toughened up, and have a proper working pair of hands. I’m proud of them, and of the way my skins have dried to a loose, supple material I can work with.
Next I’ll have to get a needle and thread from Gwen’s sewing basket, without her seeing, and have a practice ready for the next bit.
*
I have the back and the sleeves made. I took one of Gwen’s old bedjackets down to the shed with me, and used that as a guide to getting the shape and size right. I think it’s going to be very fine.
I’m reluctant to cut it, is the only thing. Those skins are so precious to me. I can’t explain it. But Gwen is more important, and this is my way to show her.
She’s still on at me to finish the fence, which is a bit of a sore point between us. It’s about half way now, and I’m making a good job of it, too. She says I’m a slow worker, but I like things to be right. I won’t bite back at her. I’ve learned a bit of self control.
It’s been all the better for that in the bedroom, too. She asked me the other night, afterwards, if I didn’t need to be rough any more. That’s how she put it. I said no. She seemed happy with that.
*
It’s done.
I’ve hung up the traps in the shed and I won’t be taking them down again. It was hard, to get the final few. I reckon there aren’t many otters left in the Holtwood now. Or perhaps they got wise to me, and hid themselves away. I must be a monster to them, and to all the animals in that wood. It felt like they were watching me as I laid my traps, towards the end. I don’t think I could bear to set foot inside it again.
But this coat! I made it, and it is a thing of beauty. It’s a present fit for her. And I feel older and wiser for having made it. I understand better how to be a proper husband.
I’ll give her the coat tonight, after dinner.
*
How much time has passed? I don’t know. I wrote the last entry in this book in the autumn, and now it’s spring again, and the bloody fence is nearly finished and we are still not talking to each other.
There are things we say, of course, like – what’s for tea? and – do you want an egg on that? But there are lots of things that don’t get a mention. I don’t think it’s so terrible. Between a husband and wife, memories build up, and some are worth cherishing and some aren’t. If we don’t talk about the bad ones, perhaps they’ll fade.
I’m sitting upstairs writing this while she makes dinner. What was going to be a nursery became a spare room, and then it became my room. It’ll never be a nursery now. A couple have to share the same bed to make children.
But I confess I don’t want to call it my room. My room and her room. I don’t want that.
At the back of the wardrobe, just across from the bed, is the coat I made for her. I gave it to her with such a fanfare: I led her through to the parlour, I poured her a sherry, and I told her I had a present worthy of her. How could it have looked so pretty to my eyes and so ugly to hers? I still don’t understand it. She said – take it away Fred, take it away, it smells, and she flapped her hands at it, and demanded it was removed from the house. I had to sneak it back inside, later, and hide it away. I couldn’t bear to leave it in my shed.
I made it for you – I told her. A fur coat. Real otter fur. Twenty-three of them.
I can’t have it in the house – she said. It’s evil. I’m trying to keep all that stuff out. Don’t you know me at all?
Evil, that was the word she used.
So it sits in the wardrobe.
I couldn’t have been wrong about it entirely, could I? There must be something good in it. I made it. It’s a part of me. So there must be.
*
The fence is finished.
It’s harder to get out the door to go to work. Gwen doesn’t seem to mind either way. Since her father’s death the business went over to me, but it runs itself if I’m honest. I’ve had an offer to buy it out from a bigger company, and then we’ll be set for life, if we go on as we are. Not going anywhere. Not doing anything.
She’s given me my next task. She wants a proper lawn, she says – tidy, respectful. Not growing wild.
I wonder what that means to her. If she realises that you just can’t keep all the wildness out. It’ll still be there, watching.
She gave me a kiss on the cheek once the fence was finished.
*
I haven’t written in so long. I can’t even tell how long. I should have put dates on this. When I look back through it, it seems all like it happened yesterday and years ago, all at once.
I can’t remember when I last left this house.
I drilled a hole in the fence. Just a little one. I heard voices, and I wanted to see. What was out there, beyond.
It was a father and son, walking past, and the boy was full of excitement. He said – Will we see any, Dad? The father encouraged him – These woods are full of otters, maybe we’ll get lucky. Let’s try down by the river. Off they went.
I whispered through the hole, after them. You won’t see any – I said. I killed them all.
But that was a long time ago. Gwen hasn’t spotted the hole. I don’t t
hink she sees anything the way I do. I see black, she sees white.
I keep the lawn perfect, and she thinks it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. That controlled, restrained cut grass. Nothing grows free in our garden. I sit on the bench and drink my tea, and I do as I am told and I never touch her. I find I don’t even want to any more. I think she’s the evil one, not me. She’s cast a spell on me. I can’t leave. I can’t think proper thoughts. I’m not a man any more, not a real one. She’s taken it from me.
*
The boy and his father came round. I’ve seen them many times since, but I didn’t know Gwen had been talking to them. She says they met in the shop, but I can’t remember her ever going to the shop. I can’t remember much of anything.
The boy’s mother was ill, Gwen said, and we had agreed to look after him for the night. He was a scrap of a thing, lost, his mouth all loose and trembling, and he looked nothing like the times I’ve watched him go past the fence. And I thought I’d cheer him up, and I took him down to the shed and showed him the fort I’d made.
Then I remembered he’d been looking for otters, and it seemed sad to me that he’d never touch one. The fur is so soft. So I took him upstairs and opened the wardrobe. It was such a lark to show it off, and to think that finally somebody would appreciate it. Well, I should say, I thought it would be and perhaps that meant I wasn’t paying enough attention to what the boy thought of it all.
He fell forward, and I caught him by the back of his jumper, and set him back on his feet. The look he gave me. He was afraid of me. I felt sick to my stomach, about it, after, when I’d had time to think.