What Have I Done?

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Your hair smells of fish.’

  She winced, remembering running her fingers through her hair after touching the salmon and knowing what that might mean. She was embarrassed. No matter how routine, it was still humiliating to receive negative and nasty comments.

  ‘That was an interesting revelation about Miss Mortensen earlier and I am surprised that you found it appropriate to raise it not only at the supper table, but also in front of the children.’

  Kathryn knew that it was better to say nothing, although the temptation to point out that he frequently raised far more inappropriate topics at the dinner table and in front of the ‘children’, one of which she knew for a fact was sexually active and smoked like a chimney.

  ‘Tonight you will read to me. I know how much you like reading.’

  He smiled briefly at his wife, who was kneeling and waiting in her regular pose.

  While Mark showered, her heart lifted slightly at the prospect of reading, albeit aloud. She was unsure how she should react. If she showed any joy at the task, he would surely be angry, yet indifference could provoke the same reaction. She needn’t have worried. There was to be no joy in the task, none at all.

  She rose shakily from her kneeling position as Mark handed her the book. He unfastened his dressing gown and indicated the ladder-backed chair that he had placed by his side of the bed. Kathryn handled the weighty tome and read the title: The Iliad. Her fatigue and desolation felt overwhelming. She was tired and the idea of having to plough through that particular text at that time of night felt like she had a mountain to climb.

  Mark positioned himself centrally on the bed, lying face down with this head on his raised forearms, his face averted. She opened the first page and tried not to look at the plump pillow next to her husband’s head, to which her eyes were powerfully drawn.

  She started to read, struggling to find a rhythm as the unfamiliar words formed on her tongue.

  Sing, Goddess, sing of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus –

  that murderous anger which condemned Achaeans

  to countless agonies and threw many warrior souls

  deep into Hades, leaving their dead bodies

  carrion food for dogs and birds

  — all in fulfilment of the will of Zeus.

  Kathryn was not sure how long had passed. It felt like hours, but was in reality just one hour, singular. She shivered as the chilly breeze swept along the floor, rushed under the door and gathered in a swirling current around her feet and calves, causing her whole body to jerk and twitch with cold.

  The raffia chair seat had started to bite into her thighs through the thin white cotton of her nightgown and was stinging her cuts. The desire to stand, to change position and ease her suffering was strong. The words started to blur. Each letter became a blackened mote on the pale page: no longer distinguishable as words, they were merely smudges and shapes that swam before her eyes, making the deciphering of each syllable and stanza almost impossible. Her head sat heavy on her neck, like a meatball supported by spaghetti; it wobbled and sought refuge by sinking to her chest. Her throat was parched, each word a dry husk. She wanted to drink, but mostly she wanted to sleep.

  Her eyes were itchy and sore, and cramp crept along her forearms as they protested at holding the heavy book unsupported for that length of time. She had endured a long day, a busy day, like every day. She wanted to close her eyes, just for a second…

  Bang! The two noises woke her simultaneously, followed by a sharp pain. The first sound had been the smack of her skull against the back rung of the chair and the second was the scream of surprise and fear that had jumped from her throat as she was unexpectedly wrenched from her dream. The pain was her head, protesting from being smacked with force against the wooden bar. Her breath came in shallow pants; she must have fallen asleep, just for a second.

  ‘Everything all right, Dad?’ Dominic shouted through the closed door, alerted by the scream.

  ‘Yes, son, go back to sleep. I think Mummy had a bad dream.’

  The creak of the floorboards signalled Dominic’s return to bed.

  I’m living a bad dream… Kathryn pursed her lips, resisting the temptation to either utter this or, worse still, scream again, scream for help, for escape.

  The book had fallen shut on her lap. Mark stood over her and was holding her by the hair, keeping her head upright. He spoke softly, his face invisible, above her, slightly behind her.

  ‘It would not be advisable to wake the children again, Kathryn. When I said tonight you will read to me, I meant tonight you will read to me, not some of the night but all of the night, is that clear, darling?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded croaky.

  ‘Good.’ He bent low and kissed her mouth.

  ‘That’s my good girl. I think maybe we should go over the last few pages, who knows how much you have missed.’

  He let go of her hair and walked over to his chest of drawers. After rummaging among his underwear, he produced a silk scarf with a tasselled fringe. She stared at it, dreading what might come next.

  ‘Sit back, sweetie.’

  She sat bolt upright.

  Mark took the scarf and wound it around her forehead and under her chin. Taking the ends, he tied them to the frame of the chair. She was anchored and fast, unable to turn her head.

  ‘You may start reading again now, Kathryn.’

  For the second time that night he lay face down on the mattress and made himself comfortable, again with his face averted. The instant rise and fall of his back hinted that he might be sleeping; this was probably the case, but she couldn’t take the risk. The only way to see the text was to lift the book up to eye level, with her arms at right angles. The cramp came quickly, but she had no option other than to try and ignore it.

  Achilles, interrupting Agamemnon, shouted:

  ‘I’d be called a coward, a nobody,

  if I held back from any action

  because of something you might say.

  Order other men about. Don’t tell me

  what I should do. I’ll not obey you any more.

  But I will tell you this – remember it well –

  I’ll not raise my hand to fight about that girl,

  no, not against you or any other man.

  You Achaeans gave her to me, and now,

  you seize her back again. But you’ll not take

  another thing from my swift black ship –

  you’ll get nothing else with my consent.

  If you’d like to see what happens, just try.

  My spear will quickly drip with your dark blood.’

  Kathryn fought to maintain the unnatural position, struggling against the desire to wrench herself free from the silk binds. She was grateful for one thing: with his face averted, she could cry silent tears as she sounded aloud the words into the dawn.

  The alarm as usual heralded the start of another day. Her eyes, red and aching, were running; she was no longer consciously crying, but it was as if her very soul was shedding tears. Her speech was slurred with the confusion of a drunkard. Her cramped muscles and painful limbs had simply numbed themselves, and to move even slightly was agony.

  Her husband almost sprang from the bed and performed an elaborate stretch whilst yawning to indicate a sleep well had. He walked slowly over to the chair and untied the silk scarf. Her head fell forward involuntarily and felt surprisingly light and unstable, as if her neck had forgotten how to support its weight unaided.

  Mark reached for her hand and helped her stand. As her legs became separated from the raffia, the pain was intense, as though her skin and the chair base had become fused and to remove one from the other meant undergoing the agony of dissection.

  ‘Come.’

  He gave the usual command, the one word with which he could summon or direct. She followed his lead, too weak in every sense to protest or resist. He laid her face down on the bed and took his pleasure in his usual violent way. With her body prostrate agains
t the mattress, her face felt the softness of the pillow and she fell into a deep sleep that rendered her immobile and removed from what was occurring.

  He tapped her cheek with his palm, rousing her into consciousness.

  ‘Shower time for me and you must get breakfast for the children. We are running a couple of minutes behind schedule and so no shower for you today, Mrs Sleepyhead.’

  Kathryn stripped the bed and stepped into her clothes, exhaustion rendering her weak and unsteady. She teetered on the stairs and had to clasp the banister rail to ensure she didn’t fall. She put the bedclothes into the washing machine and started to lay the table, fishing around in the cupboard like a blind woman groping for cereal boxes, bread, honey and anything else that she considered necessary for a good start to the day.

  Dominic was the first to appear. She looked at him and waited for his comment. She searched for her happy voice, for that false brightness that dispatched her children each morning with a sense that all was right with the world. But try as she might, she couldn’t find it.

  ‘Oh my God! You look like total shit.’

  She nodded and fought to swallow the tears that had gathered behind her swollen eyes. Still no words came. She implored him with her eyes: Please, Dominic, please be kind to me today.

  ‘What’s going on, are you ill, Mum? Is that what this is?’

  ‘Yes, probable.’

  She had meant to say more, she had meant to say ‘probably’, but the exhausted state in which she was trying to function made even the smallest of tasks impossible.

  Her son took a seat at the table. Kathryn reached for the teapot and poured clear hot water into his mug.

  ‘You forgot to put the tea bags in.’

  Dominic stared at her with a lack of understanding and something bordering concern.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum, I’ll do it.’

  He stood and emptied the water into the sink and filled the kettle, ready to start the process again.

  ‘Is this anything to do with last night?’

  She stared at him, mouthing silently, not knowing how to respond or where to start.

  He continued. ‘You know, the bad dream you had?’

  There was something about the flicker of his pupils, the irregular rhythm to his breath that told her he hadn’t bought the bad dream story.

  ‘Yes, Dom, just a bad dream.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘It will all be okay, Mum. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Will it, Dominic?’

  ‘I hope so, Mum, I really do. I hate to see you like this. Sometimes I wish I could make things better for you. I just don’t know how.’

  Her sweet boy. She nodded her thanks and wandered over to the washing machine.

  With her wicker basket under her arm, Kathryn stood in the garden in front of the washing line and allowed the start of the working day to wash over her. It went some way to restoring her mind, the feel of the early morning sun against her skin and the slight breeze that lifted her hair and let it settle again. She breathed in deeply and tried to heal herself from the inside out.

  Kathryn reached into the basket and caressed the wooden pegs that had spilled from their bag and now sat on top of the linen. A picture of her mother swam in front of her eyes; she looked concerned. Kathryn shook her head and blinked her mother away.

  The pegs sat in her palm, they knew what came next. She placed three of them in her mouth and with Peggy in her hand, pulled the large white sheet taut, anchoring it with the precious wooden splints, removing them from their floral holding pen, one by one.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Brooker!’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Bedmaker!’

  For some reason, call it hysteria or despair, today this made her laugh. Not just the subtle chuckle or smirk of an adult in the know, oh no, it was a full chortle that was almost a combination of crying and laughing. She didn’t really know where it came from.

  ‘Morning, George! Morning, Piers!’

  She dissolved once again into laughter, shaking her head to try and regain composure as her tears continued to fall.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Brooker?’

  ‘Yes, thank you for asking, quite all right.’

  She mopped at her eyes with her sleeve.

  ‘Have you had a good night, Mrs Brooker?’

  She looked at the daring George Nicholls, whose bravado would be common-room gossip by break time. She could hear the whisper now: ‘And then she said, “Quite all right,” and then he said, “Did you have a good night?” I swear to God he did, because Piers was there and he heard him and my best friend’s sister is going out with his brother and he told her and she told me! Can you believe that he said that? And what did she say?’

  Kathryn thought long and hard. What should she say? Come on, Kathryn, think! You’re becoming folklore. Think smart, say something, for goodness’ sake. Speak, Mrs Bedmaker!

  ‘Oh, you know, George, the usual – up all night.’

  She gathered her basket and winked at him briefly before turning on her heel and treading the path back towards the kitchen and her breakfasting family.

  George and Piers stared at each other. This was bloody gold dust!

  She opened the door and the three members of her family paused from their cereal munching and conversing to stare at her.

  ‘Morning, everyone!’

  She had found her happy voice, just in time.

  Lydia abandoned her spoon in its murky bowl.

  ‘Blimey, Mum, you look like total—’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ She cut her daughter short. ‘I really don’t need an unfavourable analysis from you on how awful I look this morning, thank you, Lydia. I would like to propose that if we can’t say kind and nice things in the mornings then we say nothing at all, how about that?’

  Kathryn restored the wicker basket to its usual position. The family were unnaturally quiet behind her. She glanced at them all as she returned to the table and reached for the teapot.

  ‘Well,’ she commented as she filled her cup, ‘that was easy.’

  Both children seemed to lose their appetite in the strange, edgy atmosphere. In silence they scraped their chairs on the wooden floor, pushed bowls of half-eaten cereal to the middle of the table for collection by their waitress mother later, and sloped out of the door. Heavy bags were carelessly slung onto backs, weighing down fragile shoulders and banging against bony spines.

  ‘Did someone get out of bed the wrong side this morning?’ Mark’s tone was almost sing-song.

  Her smile was thin as she acknowledged her husband’s comment.

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded.

  She looked at his eyes, which were bright and animated. She had so many questions for him, so much that she wished she had the courage to say. Her very first question, the one that hovered at the front of her mind, would be: ‘Are you mad, Mark? Is this where this comes from? Are you insane? Do you know that you are mad, or do you think that you are not? It surely has to be madness that drives you. It has to be an unsound mind, a cruel and mad disposition that drives you to do those unspeakable things to me. Where does it come from, Mark? Did someone do bad things to you? Where do these ideas germinate? Does your behaviour bring you joy or sadness? It brings me sadness, Mark; it brings me great sadness. You have taken the person that I was and you have slowly dismantled me over the years until this is all that is left, this shell, this casing, that used to house a person. It used to house me, but me is gone and the husk is all that is left. I am gone and you have done that to me. Why me, Mark? Why did you pick me? I had so much to offer, I had so much to give. I had a life…’

  Her husband continued. ‘Well, an early night for you tonight, my darling.’

  She nodded at the comment, which was heavy with connotation. She felt an overwhelming urge to cry; it was tiredness, she knew. She found it so much harder to cope when she was exhausted.

  Kathryn downed two cups of very strong coffee, knowing that she would need it as fuel to get through the day’s chores
. Failing to complete the requisite chores meant a dire end to the week. On Sunday nights Mark would sit with a checklist that he would print off from the computer. If a tick could not be applied to each chore that was listed, alphabetically, then each chore without a tick would earn her one point. That could mean as many as six or seven extra points.

  Chores for Wednesday began with the polishing of all ‘best shoes’, or ‘chapel shoes’ as they were also known. This meant a good coat of wax polish and then a stiff brush followed by a shine with a soft cloth, for four pairs of shoes, one per family member. She then had to change the water in all the vases of fresh flowers, to avoid that nasty rotting smell; plump all cushions; remove all the objects and detritus from the kitchen dresser, wash and dust each item as appropriate, and return them to their correct positions after dusting the shelves and wiping out the cupboards; polish all the mirrors until they were smear-free and shiny; and rake the shingle on the front driveway to ensure that it was as evenly dispersed as possible, removing any litter or other objects that might be lurking under those tiny stones.

  Kathryn had in the past tried lying about the chores. She recalled one particular Sunday night when Mark had been reading from his checklist. His modus operandi was to read out the chore and the day and wait for her to reply ‘Done’ or ‘Fail’. That night he was standing behind her as she knelt, and read, ‘Cleaning on top and inside of medicine cabinets, Friday’. She knew that she hadn’t done it; she had been distracted and had simply forgotten. So she lied. To avoid being cut, she lied and said, ‘Done’.

  He had swiftly and accurately swiped her around the side of the head with the clipboard, the plastic corner of which cut her just below her left eye. A single drop of blood ran down her cheek and dripped onto the shoulder of her nightgown. Mark had broken one of his own cardinal rules: never to hurt her where it would show or require explanation.

  ‘Look what you made me do!’ He was furious. ‘Do not ever lie to me.’

  He pulled her face towards him by gripping her chin in his fist.

  ‘What is this?’

  In his hand was a small ball of rolled-up newspaper, no bigger than a large grape.