Girl in Profile

by Zillah Bethell

  I get up, go into the kitchen, start the washing-up.

  Elizabeth

  Orgasms/Fairy Knickers/The Language of Death

  Peter Pan’s wheelchair leans like a nonchalant bike against the rotten fence surrounding the ornamental pond. He’s stuffing the bird feeder with the bread roll he pocketed at lunch. Yes, High View House has an ornamental pond – it’s in the brochure – with two resident goldfish. I’ve only fathomed one.

  Blue Grass by Elizabeth Arden. On the wrists, behind the ears. The stephanotis approaches, divining her way forward with her stick. We sink into the bench bequeathed by a relative of someone who sat and sank. Soon the earth will envelop us, liquefy our hearts until, tired of her embraces, we will pop out somewhere else like a ghostly snowdrop or brittle laugh. I’ve wet myself again just thinking about laughing and the other orifice feels uncomfortably damp. I do ten Kegels – this is worse than post-partum – and thank heaven for plastic knickers. Headwear, footwear, underwear is my motto, though I no longer support the upper balcony. It lolls against my ribcage like my brain lolls in my skull, like students loll on the grass (though I’m quite sure my daughter never did, even at Cambridge), like Freckles’ tongue used to loll out the side of his mouth. Better without, Tinkerbell says, in case of an emergency. What kind of emergency, I wonder? I was brought up to have clean underwear in case of an emergency, not no underwear at all. I have considered faking an emergency, however, faking an attack. Then they would have to visit. Well, I faked orgasms for forty years, there can’t be much difference. Ow ow ow.

  “Not since Jerry Song broke it off with me,” the stepahanotis is whispering, “have I been so insulted.”

  “Who?”

  “The love of my life.”

  “Oh.”

  “Eleanor said I was too fragile, though.”

  “Broad-bodied chaser.” Peter Pan, all gravy and gravitas at lunch, is strangely ebullient now. It must be the lack of food. He’s stalking a dragonfly with his binoculars. “Like a gigantic wasp. Copulation brief, mid-air.” He wants to know what the sausages were like. All gravy and gravitas, I tell him. He sighs. “In comics, the little boy always drooled over bangers sticking out of mash in those thought balloons.”

  Satie is coming from the Blue Room. Three Gymnopédies. Sad, faltering, slow. How ironic. We sit in the sun yet still feel cold, and our dreams are old and diaphanous as a fairy’s wing. Blue-veined. I can hear the tick-tock of Wendy’s heart. Sad, faltering, slow. If the music were fast and furious we might just stand a chance.

  Dear James, I will scribble. I was Coppélia last night. I soared, the crowd roared. But let me tell you, training to become a ballerina is not inconsequential. There is sweat, sweat and more sweat. Strains, breaks, agony, tears beneath the perfect veneer, the polished show. Imagine a swan gliding on the surface of a pond and then think of the little webbed feet paddling beneath. The unknown depths, the reeds, the water snakes, the snares. Paddling for dear life, just to glide. Is it worth it for that moment of soaring?

  “Eleanor warned him off.” Wendy’s in the light but still in the shade. “Of course she knew best.”

  Too fragile, yes. We are all too fragile for what life has in store. Too diaphanous by half. Look at Peter Pan over there nibbling at some fungus growing from the rotten fence surrounding the ornamental pond where one widowed goldfish still lives. Fungus that looks like a pair of frilly knickers. He’s chowing down on frilly knickers, the dirty bugger, like Freckles used to lick and slurp his own balls. He must be famished.

  I wonder what will grow on me when I am in the ground. Who will drool into my bangers and mash, my old and hairy minge? Down there. Down there. I need to learn the language of death. Is it diaphanous as a bat’s wing, fairy knickers, a vowel through which our soul has fled? Multiple o’s. O, o, o.

  Gwen

  Ordinary Colours

  He sends a basket of plums instead of himself, with a note on how to cook them: boil with sugar and a liquorice stick. They will exude a syrup. I’m sure they will. I’ve eaten three with custard and Edgar has licked a couple, his cinabre green eyes blazing like an apple tree fire in the Preseli mountains, the Garden of Eden. Does thorny Rose know she grows a vulva tree next to his dogs, the pond? I am reading Pamela from the library and The Idiot by Dostoevsky. I have even copied out a quote from Balzac for him: “qui voit la fleur, doit voir le soleil”. Improving myself for him. Muscling up in the shadows so that I can be strong in the light with him. Biceps, triceps, gluteus maximus. If I can see the flowers, I must be able to see the sun. Ida has run up an outfit for me on her machine. Crimson faille. When I wear it, the men in the street will shout out “jolie fille, belle femme” because I am. Ida is expecting her fifth, alas. My brother is a satyr. Thank God my children with Rodin are made out of bronze, marble and stone. Dreams of stone. Je suis belle, ô mortels! comme un rêve de pierre. Stone is immortal. It doesn’t die.

  I sketch myself in the mirror, sketching, representing myself as an artist (not a model or a muse), though I am barely there, a mere outline. You could stick your hand through me and tap Edgar Quinet on the head. I am absorbed into my surroundings, part of the grime, woodworm, molecules, dust. Is there a space beneath the surface of things for me to inhabit? How to find the colours ordinary life wears yet infuse them with the radiance and longing of memory, dream, desire? The green tea I poured for you from my ordinary teapot; the table we made no ordinary love on; the curtains we drew back to watch the ordinary starlight… What happened to me that I would happily darn his socks for him? What happened to the girl at Slade who drew the discobolus with tomato-coloured chalk, who cycled miles for the first daffodils? A strange little animal, they said of me there, addicted to violets and a little way of saying “oh dear” all the time, an emotion spontaneously voiced yet curbed. Passion and restraint at war within me. I wore black to emphasise my fragility, my neat little hands and—

  Mon Maître,

  My hands are in perfect condition, I can assure you, if you want to finish Whistler’s Muse. You cannot leave her without any arms. Thank you for the plums, which were delicious, though I would have eaten you with more relish. Please come. My body longs to be fevered, maddened, exalted with yours once more. I have cancelled all my engagements next week so you are free to visit whenever you wish. I have a new outfit to show you. I shall wait in my room, and if you do not come I shall wait at the station. My outfit is red so you shan’t miss me this time. A man followed me the other day in the street, leering at me and, I think, trying to unbutton himself. I threw a tin of pâté at him, which made me angry afterwards because it was Edgar’s supper. I am reading Pamela, your favourite book, and I have some ideas on painting I want to discuss. How to represent the magic, the personality of ordinary objects as the symbolist poets aspire to do.

  With impatience,

  your Gwendolen Marie.

  God help me that I would happily darn his socks for him; allow my heart to dangle like a raindrop in his necklace of webs; be a mote of dust in his beam of light. Instead of my own.

  Elizabeth

  Sweating

  You’re the hyacinth girl, Peter Pan said when he saw all the flowers in my room. I used to fake orgasms for them. Flowers galorey my husband would bring the morning after, I can tell you. They look like viruses under the microscope according to my daughter. She’s at the cutting edge of her profession, as is my son. They were too busy to come even though I nearly died. Let’s hope the cuts don’t run too deep. There’s a letter from him somewhere I believe. Ah, yes.

  Dear Elizabeth… (since when did he start calling me that?) Boy, you lead an exciting life. Oh, keep telling yourself that, my lad, if it makes you feel any better about shoving your mother out of sight, out of her poor old mind. I’ve gotten a little stir-crazy the last few days as we’ve had lockdown due to the weather. Ah, yes, I presume they cannot film when the weather is inclement as it often is in the remote areas my son ventures into – all for the sake of a language.
He braves mistrals, monsoons, tornadoes and typhoons in order to record the last living dialects. “A language should be allowed to expire or expand on its own.” I wish he showed me the same compassion. I’m just a bunch of words after all: old, still beautiful, dying (like Egypt in Antony and Cleopatra). I should be allowed to expire or expand on my own. Look at Peter Pan over there expiring at the rate of a bar of pubic hair-knotted soap, and everyone conspicuously fails to notice, whereas I fake an attack and all hell breaks wind. Sulphurously unjust if you ask me.

  Talking of sweat, I like to sweat as it sure makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something. I went to rec today. I did my dips, a hundred to be exact, and ran a mile and a half, so my total walking and running came to nine miles. I used all of the two hours and forty minutes we got today. My ankles are sore, but I feel good about what I accomplished. I guess I should explain the dips I do. The dip bar is poured in concrete with two handles four to five feet off the ground. It then has two handles similar to a bicycle’s handle bars coming out. You lower your body down and raise back up, it works the shoulders, back, chest and backs of your arms real good. I try to do them every day I go out. Softball days I normally skip them. I weigh about 225 to 228 now, and with that much weight I feel I do real well. I feel good about them, so I guess that’s what counts.

  We had some young Christian kids, aged I’d say 14 to 16, come in the prison on our side of the camp and plant flowers.

  Wherever has he got to now? Potosi Correctional Centre? Dear lord. Whatever kind of language do they speak in there? Oh, I see, it’s from James… Silly me.

  I think they did a fine job and the colours kind of put a bright spot in my day. Most of the guys couldn’t care less, but I look them over from about twenty to thirty feet away every day. I miss a lot of the stuff from the streets, some things as small as trees and good grass all the way to food and such. I always liked working in the flowers and garden and even mowing the grass, things people take for granted in the outside world. Sometimes it rains on our rec period and I just stay out in it because it’s refreshing to me.

  The movie, The Natural, is a pretty decent movie. It’ll kind of show you the game of baseball.

  Whyever would I want to know about that? Just like my husband, harpooning on about some film or other when I’m trying to do the washing-up. Feigning an interest in his interests. Feigning an interest in his cock. My mouth had to feign an interest, my hands had to feign an interest, my frou-frou had to feign an interest, and it was flowers galorey the morning after, I can tell you.

  Most movies about baseball make home runs out to be the whole game. Baseball is a great game, but there’s so much more to it than home runs. Some of the game’s greatest hitters like Roger Hornsby and Pete Rose made a living off of singles and doubles. Pete Rose got his nickname by the way he played the game. Charlie Hustle. Everything he did he did wide open, running bases and playing defence. Never slowed down, just pushed himself to the limit all the time. In my eyes, Pete Rose was and is the greatest player of the game of baseball. He’s the all time hits leader. If you ever get to the US, do catch a baseball game, they’re fun.

  The 24th of July marked the 3rd year anniversary of my case. It seems so long ago. I took so many things for granted in the free world. People out there should be happy to mow the grass, wash and wax the car, do their own laundry and wash dishes in a real sink and not a little wash basin like we have. Like I say, it’s amazing how nice I had it out there. I’m also an alcoholic and it was involved in my case. I thought I needed it to get through the day when I wasn’t trucking. Please believe me I never drank when driving the tractor trailer, but I sure as hell did when I wasn’t. I, my friend, was a fool. It clouded my judgement, and together with depression I allowed it to ruin my life. I’m so sorry for all the wrongs I did. If nothing else comes of my case, I hope I can detour some kid from a life of crime and wrongdoings.

  Like I preach to my aunt up in Quincy, Illinois, you need to enjoy life and live it to the fullest. Travel, do picnics or just go fishing. Do all the fun things you ever wanted. Tomorrow has no guarantees. You’re in my prayers and in my heart. Oh, and Elizabeth.

  Yes, my dear?

  You don’t know how much I’d like to see you dance.

  Oh, James, they threw hyacinths, littering the stage floor like confetti. I sit at my dressing table – en déshabillé – tubes and tubes of kohl and mascara. It’s the devil’s own job to get off, I can tell you. I use Ponds cold cream and a flannel. Pots and pots of hyacinths. Flowers galore my boyfriend would bring the morning after a night’s performance. You are the hyacinth girl, they shout from the stage door. (I have a persistently stubborn admirer. “You are the hyacinth girl, Coppelia,” he shouts.)

  Gwen

  Gates of Hell

  I hang with aching fingers over the precipice of rejection. You have lumbago, you say. Lumbago, is it? Halfway up a ladder in your white smock working on your Gates of Hell. I’m at the gates of hell, a disembodied fragment yelling frenziedly, repeatedly, but you don’t deign to hear me. I love you, damn you Auguste Rodin, you and your Gates of Hell. I can smell your beard trimmed, singed and lavender-scented through the open window, vying with the coconut of the gorse and the rabbit droppings I stand on tiptoe to avoid. (Imagine the nuns of the Sacred Heart creeping to their early morning devotions over bead upon bead of rosary rabbit droppings, sleeping dandelions and buttercups, and now it is the Hotel Biron – a banquet of balls and bare buttocks.) It is dusk. It is always dusk. My shadow fled three hours ago at least (back to Tenby of the Fishes I’ll bet). I’ve only ever seen you at dusk, heading for the Gare des Invalides, back to thorny Rose and sweet domesticity; or in the candlelight of your studio when we “collaborated” on the floor and you pinned a note to the door that said Monsieur Rodin is visiting cathedrals. If I see that note tonight I shall surely slip, my fingers leaving an indelible print on the edge of the precipice. Rilke, your secretary, holds the ladder secure. Rilke obsessed with virginity, Rilke obsessed with death. Rilke the solitary beholding the mysteries through his lunettes. Oh, you men. You keep your wives, mistresses and children in separate little rooms in your head where we pace and wait, pace and wait, scuffing up the floorboards, dirtying the wainscot while you continue to work and create. I should like to see you at dawn. Every dawn. Do you grope a soft dough moon in sleep with your large thick peasant hands; chisel through the marble of night with your nose; drag birdsong through the eyelets of stars; hew at dawn with your glacial ice-pick eyes?

  You have clay on your hands. I am here to remind you you have clay on your hands. Your white smock is streaked with it. Rilke brings soap and a basin for you to wash, cleanse yourself of all clay, his lunettes glancing like half-open windows for all the little rooms in his head. (Can his wife see out of them? Can his daughter see out of them? Do they get a little air to breathe or are they caught in perennial twilight like autumn moths half-suffocating in velvet curtains?) You turn to face me at last. Can you see through a glass darkly one of your unfinished sculptures – a tiny figurine you made at top speed, in between your ongoing projects, keeping your hands and eyes nimble on me. I wave repeatedly, frenziedly, but you don’t deign to see me. You step down, I step further en pointe in order to see, throwing out my arms to balance. All is assembled on the trestle table before you: dressing gown, tobacco, glass of milk. The door to your private studio opens then closes and a note is pinned that reads Monsieur Rodin is visiting cathedrals. I’m about to enter the underworld. I’m about to make my journey through hell. There are no devils at the door, only you in the clouds – the thinker – presiding over the whole affair. Why couldn’t you leave me sleeping in marble? Why did you ever take a chisel to me? I walk around, ill-fitting my own skin, unable to produce my own shadow when I need to (back to Tenby of the Fishes it fled). It roves around the fishing smacks beached on the South Sands – Periwinkle, Romany Lass, Cadwallader – before curling up in the prow of the Oyster Shell like a dirty old tramp. Rilke
shrouds your Gates of Hell with a large white sheet, keeping it warm and wet for next time. Who is she? Who can it be? Will you love her into a lunatic too? The way you loved Camille Claudel, the way you loved me? My life goes over the precipice, out of sight, out of mind. Rilke pulls the wooden shutters across, a lunette peeping like a delicate crescent moon. (Do they have a telescope in their room? Do they get a look at the Sea of Tranquillity, the Sea of Cold, the Sea of Crises, orient their movements by Syrius the dog star, the Archer?) My shadow wakes in the grit of the Oyster Shell, rises with the pearly surf and the seagulls, cold, hungry, dry as old whitebait.

  Moth

  Bounce and Rhyme

  I walk Roan to school, half dragging, half carrying Dove along too. Past the cinema seat cemetery (all munching their popcorn as our trailer trails by), past Mr Chan’s takeaway still smelling of prawn crackers and crispy duck. I’m hungry, wails Dove, and I tell her off for messing about with some badge that says “I am three” on it instead of eating her breakfast. Past the new estate going up ninety-nine to the dozen. How fragile their infrastructures are. How precarious.

  “Will Daddy put the lights on in them?”

  “Maybe. If he gets the contract.”

  We see a white van in the distance and lay bets as to whether it’s Drew or not. Dove shakes her dandelion hair and the seed thoughts disseminate, take root, spring up somewhere. “It’s a different man in a little white van.” How clever she is.

  Over the disused railway track where coal-black cats with smouldering eyes bask between the girders, as if they’ve been tossed off a wagon on its way from the opencast mine that once sparked the valley.