WOUNDING

by Heidi James

  ‘Look at him! What an angel. He’s got my nose, hahaha! He’s got his granddad’s nose! Well, look at that. Haven’t you done well?’ He turned to Cora, smiling, his eyebrows raised up like knots beneath his hairline. ‘He’s perfect. I’m so proud of you both.’

  Her mother cooed and sang to the baby, whose blank blue eyes stared up at her.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Awful. Why doesn’t anyone tell you how bad it is?’

  Her father laughed, ‘Because then no one would have babies.’

  ‘Well, it might minimize the shock. Just to know what to expect.’

  ‘Nonsense, silly girl. Millions of women have babies every day and they do just fine and then go and do it all over again, some of them having their babies squatting in a field all on their own.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, Mary. Squatting in a field. Bloody hell.’

  ‘I just want her to realize how lucky she is. Nice room all to herself, nurses and everything and look at this darling little angel. So precious.’ Her mother nuzzles the baby’s nose with her own, breathing in his scent. ‘It’s such a wonderful time, Cora. Treasure every moment, they grow so fast, you won’t know where the time went.’ The baby slept on, wrapped in his blue blanket.

  Once, years ago, when winter was finally giving in to spring, she’d been surrounded by a ring of girls. They stood around her, shoulder to shoulder in their blue grammar school blazers. Thick make-up around their eyes; their knees exposed by their skirts.

  ‘Excuse me, please,’ she’d said, trying to elbow her way out of the circle.

  ‘Listen to her! “Scuse me please!”’ The ringleader was a pudgy girl with bright red curls hanging over her left eye, the rest of her hair shaved at the back and sides and a fringe of heavy gold earrings that traced the curl of her ear. ‘What’s your name then?’

  ‘Cora.’ She tried to stand up straight, shifting her bag onto her shoulder. Her sock sagged around her ankle and for a moment she wondered about whether to pull it up or not. She decided not.

  ‘Cora. Cora. What sort of a fucking name is that?’ The others laughed at the pudgy girl’s wit.

  ‘You go to St. John Fisher’s, right? The whorehouse on the hill. You a whore, Cora?’

  ‘No. I’m not. Why are you?’

  ‘Feisty, ain’t it?’ said a short blonde to Cora’s right.

  ‘Just fuck off.’

  ‘Listen to it! Oh my god! What a cheek. Be polite, Cora. It’s not nice to swear, is it?’ A tall girl with dyed black hair chipped in, glancing over at the pudgy girl, looking for approval. The pudgy girl laughed, followed by the others.

  ‘I don’t want any trouble, I just want to go home.’ Cora had never been in a fight before. Her heart shook in her chest, her blouse stuck to her sweaty skin. She shivered despite being too hot in her blazer. She tried to swallow but she felt sick, as if her stomach had turned itself inside out.

  ‘What – to your mummy and daddy? Are they waiting for their ickle baby?’

  ‘Maybe. So what?’

  ‘Mouthy for someone who don’t want trouble, ain’t ya? I like your shoes. Let’s have a look.’ Pudgy girl pointed down to Cora’s feet, at her navy blue Kickers.

  Cora stood square on her feet.

  ‘You a rich girl then? Mummy and Daddy got lots of money?’

  ‘Must be to have a pair of them,’ said the tall girl.

  ‘What size are you?’ asked Pudgy.

  Cora said nothing, looking through them. It had to be over soon. It had to.

  ‘I reckon she’s a size 5, same as me. Give us your shoes. Come on, I asked nice.’

  ‘No. Now let me go. Alright? Fuck off.’ She pulled a breath in through her mouth.

  ‘Come on then, if you think you’re so tough, whore. Let’s have it.’ The pudgy one stepped forward, almost touching Cora.

  ‘No, I’m not starting trouble. OK?’

  The girls laughed, nudging each other as if she’d cracked the best joke they’d ever heard.

  When the first punch connected with her cheek it was a relief: finally she knew precisely what was happening, the mystery, the dreadful anticipation of pain dissolved, leaving no trace of fear. She barely felt the push to the ground or the kick to her stomach; she was almost surprised to find herself lying on the pavement, her knee scraped raw and pink. She wasn’t shaking or crying. She felt exhilarated.

  An older woman pulling a plaid shopping trolley interrupted the fight. ‘What on earth?’

  The others sauntered off, laughing. ‘See ya later, Cora-whora!’

  ‘You OK, love?’ The woman bent over Cora, reaching into her pocket for a handkerchief and offering it to her. ‘Oh dear, you’re going to have a shiner tomorrow I think.’

  ‘I’m OK, thank you.’ Cora stood, her legs unsteady. ‘I’d best go home.’

  ‘If you’re sure? Alright then. Take care.’ The woman tucked her hankie back into her pocket, looked Cora up and down and walked away, pulling her heavy trolley behind her.

  Her father opened the front door to her. ‘Bloody hell, what’s happened to you?’

  ‘Some girls beat me up, Dad.’

  ‘Who? Which girls?’

  ‘Girls from the grammar school.’

  ‘Where the bloody hell did this happen.’

  ‘Near the precinct. Opposite the football pitch.’

  ‘Oh darling, let me have look at you.’ He cupped her face in his hands and tilted it towards the light. ‘They clumped you a good’un there, didn’t they? They hit you anywhere else?’

  ‘Not really. Just pushed me over. They wanted to take my boots.’

  ‘Thieving little devils.’ He brushed her hair back from her face. ‘You’ll live. I hope you hit them back.’

  Cora shrugged.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  She nodded and started to cry.

  ‘Oh angel, don’t cry. Daddy’s here. Daddy will always be here. I love you and I always will. I won’t let anyone hurt my little girl.’ His hands firm around her waist. She was all light and air, delicate and protected, the pain hot and comforting in the pit of her chest. Alive. Her father stroked her back, smoothed her hair, his large fingers confirming her shape, the carpet burning a nylon heat into her feet. Behind them, sealed off behind the glass of the window, her mother stood in the rectangular garden, a rake in her left hand, the bright flare of pink delphiniums eclipsing her face.

  The baby began to grizzle and cry, his tiny fists waving around his head.

  ‘Someone needs a feed!’ her mother said, bringing the baby over to her.

  ‘Again? I’ve only just fed him.’

  ‘Well, that’s babies for you.’ Her mother placed the infant in her arms, deft and expert.

  Cora fumbled with the top of her nightgown, trying to unhook the feeding panel and keep hold of the baby.

  ‘Here, let me do that. You’ll see, you’ll be able to do everything one-handed soon enough!’ Her mother undid the button, exposing Cora’s skin and the straps of the feeding bra. Her father averted his eyes, looking intently out of the window at the streets outside the hospital. Cora felt something between them slip. She was no longer daddy’s little girl, but this little boy’s mother. She turned the baby towards her breast and he latched on.

  ‘Oh look at that. She’s a natural.’ Mary sighed, smiling to herself, her hands tucked inside one another.

  Africa moves closer to Europe. The Continents slide over the soft mantle of the earth creating fissures and creases, tearing the ocean floor apart. The Mediterranean, now a holiday spot, was once a super ocean that girdled the earth and will eventually be remade as a mountain range. Imagine that. Geologists study the diaspora of sediments, scattered by the caravan of moving lands; grains of African rock are found deep in the core of South America; Britain is only separated from Europe by a t
emporary sea. Nothing is fixed, nothing.

  You know at first this theory was denied by Russia and America, not wanting to believe their nations were in flux. That the land they claimed and fought so hard to protect was changing and shifting under their feet. It must have felt like a betrayal.

  The sea rushes to fill the spaces. Tectonic plates shift, imperceptibly, beyond human notice, in deep time. As fast as a fingernail grows, the continents drift together. A new distribution of land and sea; allegiances will have to change. The history books won’t make sense, knowledge will have to adjust. Think of it. Amazing. Molten magma will erupt from openings in the ground, like wounds, spewing hot coals into the air; decrepit volcanoes will collapse, there will be earthquakes and tidal waves that claw at the land. New weather systems will be created; hot air sent back and forth, clouds of ash and snow. The Poles will exchange their places, reorienting iron deposits in the soil. First North then South and back again. All the changes recorded and noted in layers of rock, waiting to be deciphered out in the open air. I wonder if Humanity will survive, if our descendants will still be around. Everything changes, you see? Even the fabric of the world.

  Cora is sitting on a low banquette, her bare knees higher than her hips. She tries to sit elegantly, without showing her thighs, as she gulps her wine. She tugs at her skirt every few minutes to check it hasn’t slipped up under her bottom. She is surrounded by some of the women from her office; she barely knows them except for Sonja, who sits to her right, her large bosom pressing against her low cut shirt. Sonja laughs loudly and often. Most of the women are younger than Cora, single, non-mothers. They wear a lot of make-up and carry expensive handbags. She imagines she is one of them, free and solid with her edges clearly defined. Utterly singular and without links or connections elsewhere, like a stone or an orphan or a collapsing star. Being with them purifies her, if only for a short while. She could almost be one of them, incapable of destruction.

  They are in a bar, packed full of other city workers. Men and women shout to be heard over the music, the men have loosened their ties, their bags and briefcases are tucked away at their feet. Ropes of blue lights festoon the dark room. A long bar stretches along the wall behind which young bartenders in tight t-shirts theatrically mix drinks, tossing bottles in the air and catching them behind their backs and pouring the liquor with a flourish. Low tables surrounded by plush seats claim space throughout the bar; they are coveted by the drinkers who came too late and now have to stand in sweaty, awkward groups.

  Cora told her husband that she had to go to a work function this evening. It was something she couldn’t avoid, she’d said. Necessary for her career, important clients, it will be dull, but must be endured. Sacrifices must be made. It’s not that she needed to lie, her husband wasn’t the controlling type but he never went out with friends any more, his whole life revolved around her and the children, so she felt that admitting she needed any life outside of the family would be sacrilegious, an affront at the very least to his company and the world they had constructed behind the blue door of their house. She was defecting, looking elsewhere, happier outside the sanctuary he’d created for them all. A sanctuary built of red brick, pitch pine and slate tile, Farrow and Ball paints and real wool rugs.

  She imagined he would be watching TV, his feet propped up on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He would be perfectly happy, self-contained, the kids sleeping in their rooms. Everything would be in order. Just right. Without her there, toxic and suppurating like a flesh-eating lesion. She lies in order to do good. Breaking her mother’s rules just to keep afloat.

  A man in a black t-shirt with the bar’s logo across his chest steps into their huddle and puts down a tray loaded with shot glasses of Jagermeister.

  ‘Wayheyhey!’ Sonja shouts. The others laugh and reach for a glass. Sonja hands one to Cora, grinning.

  ‘On three! Ready? One, two, three.’ The women down the shots, tipping their heads back and draining the glasses before slamming them down on the table, their faces gurning and grimacing. Cora swallows hers down and feels the comforting heat trace a hot line through her body. Her pulse beats in time to the music. The other women are shouting jokes and quips at each other over the music. Nudging each other when a man they like the look of walks past.

  ‘Let’s get more,’ Cora says and the others laugh and shout yes. They call over the barman who takes their order and then returns with more shots. They knock them back. The evening is progressing well. Cora sluices the sticky Jagermeister from her teeth and tongue with a swig from her glass of wine, its metallic taste neutralizing the sugary booze. Her head swims and her eyes feel heavy. She is fleshy and hot, sticky with sweat. She laughs along with the others, not totally sure of what she is laughing at, but she joins in, she knows the drill. It feels good to know the ropes for once, to know what is expected of her and how to play along. Her face aches from pulling unfamiliar expressions, her muscles contract and release as she mimics the others, but it’s OK. It’s working. She fits in perfectly.

  Cora leans over to Sonja and shouts, ‘I’m just going to the ladies.’ Sonja nods. Cora stands, drunk but still steady on her feet. She tucks her bag under her arm and totters through the bar, navigating around the groups of drinkers. She is unseen, like the wild animals that share the city, there but not there. She is too old to be visible in here. Over the hill, past it. No longer viable. She pushes through, shouldering into bodies that block her way. They may not see her but they will feel her. She is angry. It’s as if she is covered by a layer of anger, like a layer of subcutaneous fat. Always present, ready to rage. She reaches the toilet and blinks in the bright light before almost falling into a cubicle. She locks the door and hitches her skirt up over her hips before sitting heavily on the toilet.

  She pisses, her belly emptying. She sighs with relief, her knickers around her knees. The cubicle is clean, with minimal graffiti; she supposes only adults use these toilets. Accordingly, there are stickers offering the numbers of counselling services and taxi firms. A poster reminds her that the police will protect her if her partner is abusive; the poster also conveniently lists the types of abuse one might encounter. She wipes herself, stands and pulls up her knickers, smoothing her skirt down. She washes her hands, avoiding her reflection. She doesn’t want to think about her husband or children, but they prey on her mind constantly, no matter what, she can’t shake loose. She is an animal in a trap that will have to resort to chewing off its own limb to escape.

  She can hear someone in the other cubicle, sniffing and snorting at something. Cora wonders whether, if she hangs around, maybe the occupant of the cubicle would share whatever she is snorting. She would like to try it, whatever it is. She would like to numb her brain, interrupt its faculties, stick a spanner in the works. But she is scared, a wimp, a coward. She has never got high. She doesn’t wait and leaves the room, pushing at the door so hard so that it swings out and hits the wall behind with a loud bang.

  As she walks back through the bar a man steps in her way.

  ‘Hello. I know you, don’t I?’ He is tall and thin, with reddish blond hair cut short over his ears. His thin lips pull back in a smile revealing perfect teeth.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Cora steps back a little, manoeuvring air and space between them.

  ‘Yes, I do. You work with Dave, don’t you? Dave MacAdam.’ He takes a drink from his bottle of beer and smiles. He is very smiley. Cora can smell his cologne, a lemony scent mixed with the smell of cigarettes and beer.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I don’t remember you though.’

  ‘Well, that’s probably because I’m a consultant, in and out depending on the whims of your boss. My name’s Chris, by the way.’

  ‘Oh right. Now I’m embarrassed. Of course I remember you.’

  ‘No, no that’s alright. I’m not very memorable.’ He shrugs his shoulders and tilts his head to one side, looking at her sideways as if trying to
be coquettish. Cora swallows, coughs and shifts her balance, getting ready to move on.

  ‘Drink?’ Chris nods towards the bar, ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Erm. Sure,’ she says and reaches her hand to her neck before dropping it again to her side. ‘A vodka and tonic, please.’

  ‘OK.’ He winks at her and turns to the bar to order their drinks.

  Cora looks around the room. It is crammed with people, drunk, horny people, half visible in the low blue light. Most of them are touching in some way: holding hands, groping buttocks or breasts, kissing, grinding. It’s getting late. The women she was with are talking to a group of men. They look relaxed, happy. She is a slut who shouldn’t be here. But this is the best place for her, a meat market for available flesh. She doesn’t deserve her lovely, well-ordered home or her husband but most especially she doesn’t deserve her children.

  Chris nudges her and hands her a drink. He holds out his beer and clinks it against her glass.

  ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Yes, cheers.’ She drinks, ice knocking against her teeth.

  ‘You know, you have a very sexy walk.’ Chris stands close to her, too close; anyone looking at them would think they were lovers.

  ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Well you do. A very sexy walk.’ He takes her hand and strokes the tips of her fingers with his. She lets him. He is an expert at seduction. She won’t resist. He moves closer and strokes the palm of her hand and then grasps it in his. Looking at her, watching her. She twists his wedding ring around his finger.

  ‘Is that a problem?’ he asks.

  The loud music pounds at Cora’s head. She can’t think straight. ‘Do you want to come outside?’ She says. ‘It’s so loud in here.’

  ‘Yes, sure.’

  They walk together through the bar, past her friends who don’t notice her leaving. Chris’s hand is on the small of her back, guiding her around the small crowds of people like he is steering a small vessel or an imbecile. They step outside into the quiet, cool street. Orange light fills the space, expanding from the streetlight above, its electric hum accompanying the click of her heels. They walk together past the small crowd of smokers out on the pavement, his arm around her now, possessive, claiming her. It feels good. She disgusts herself and is surprised by how comforting that is. Taxis trundle past, their lights glowing.