Born of Woman

by Wendy Perriam

  He swivelled round, still crouching on the carpet, one hand fondling the polished wood of the cabinet. ‘Right, listen to this track. It’s mind-blowing.’

  A sudden hail of drums shattered the quiet suburban cul-de-sac of Jesmond, followed by bumptious bragging brass. She might have called it jazz, had it sounded less distorted. The rhythm was there, but continually warped and broken. Shrill complaining noises cut across the beat, as if the disc had been recorded on a busy city street with drills and sirens contributing their sound, horns and hooters blaring, brakes wincing on the tarmac. She felt extinguished by the sound, unable to think or speak or block it out. And yet it wasn’t simply noise like Susie’s groups were noise. This was clever frightening music, the sort of sound intellectuals wrote about in the superior Sunday arts columns. She only hoped he wouldn’t discuss it with her afterwards, expect her to have sharp informed opinions on things she didn’t understand.

  The tiny pause between the tracks was like soothing ointment on a burn, but then the smart and stab surged back again, with a rising rhythmic bellow. Bruce’s growls were completely swallowed up now. The dog seemed cowered and frightened by the noise—in that way, they were allies. His gaze never faltered from her face. She longed to stroke his ears, make some overture, but his eyes had a snarl in them—dark pleading eyes, sad and dangerous both at once. She realised suddenly why he made her feel uneasy—he reminded her of Lyn—both lean, suspicious strays who had been hurt and kicked around. The music wept for both of them. It was softer now, but sadder. A plaintive sobbing from the saxophones was echoed by an anguished oboe wail.

  ‘God, this sound’s fantastic! Listen to that flugelhorn.’

  She tried to concentrate. The trumpets had taken over now, whoopee-ing out a crazy wedding march. Mustn’t think of weddings. Wilt thou have this man to …? Lyn had been sick the night before their wedding—sick with nerves, not from any stag party. Wilt thou love, honour and keep him, forsaking all other? Lyn had made the same vow. Had he broken it, forsaken her for …?

  ‘Ba-ba ba-ba ba-baaaa …’ Oz trumpeted. The room echoed and repeated him. He sank on to the couch, sprawled his length beside her. She edged away. Didn’t want him there, now. Something strange was happening to her face and she mustn’t let him see it.

  ‘Used to play the skins myself. Bloody marvellous group that was. Do you play any instrument?’

  ‘N … no.’ She sniffed, swallowed, tried desperately to gain control.‘Well, as a child, I …’ A sob broke up the sentence.

  ‘What’s up, sweet?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s … it’s Br … Bruce. He’s so, so …’

  ‘Bruce? No one could cry over that flea-bitten hunk of hell-hound. God Almighty! He’s just tried to make you mincemeat. Here. Take my hankie. It looks as if you need it. And how about another …?’

  She could hardly hear him. The music was howling louder now than she was. She had ruined the record for him, ruined the whole evening. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry …’

  ‘It’s OK. Go ahead. Often best to cry and get it over.’

  He was so kind, he made it worse. She had slumped against his chest and he had an arm around her shoulders. It felt solid, comforting. Why not confide in him? He might be sympathetic, understand what she hardly grasped herself. ‘Look, I know it sounds … stupid, but there’s this g … girl called Susie, and I think I … love her. Oh, not like that, but … It’s all rather complicated. You see, my husband refuses to … Well, I suppose I shouldn’t say ‘‘refuses’’—it’s not that simple, but I’m frightened now that he and Susie may …’

  ‘Look, sweet, I think you need a drink—a stiff one. You’ve hardly touched your whisky. Get that down inside you and you’ll feel more human. Here, grab your glass.’

  She struggled up, stared at him in shock. He had taken his glasses off and the eyes behind them were weak, uncertain, blinking in the light. The huge tinted spectacles had added mystery and glamour to his face. Without them, he was ordinary—a myopic, not a sun-worshipper, his whole face vulnerable. Tears threatened her again. ‘Oh, g … gosh, I’m sorry. I just don’t know what’s …’ A trumpet screamed in mockery. She was weeping now for his pale and peering eyes, his stained and grubby carpet, his chipped tumblers and lack of furniture, his lack of a wife to clean and care for him, his bleeding napalm victims. The handkerchief was sodden.

  Oz had moved away. He was obviously getting impatient as well as damp. She hardly blamed him. He had been expecting a quiet drink with a celebrity, not hysterics with a nut-case. She gulped her whisky down. Right—they’d had their drink—now she’d better leave. ‘Look, I’m … OK now. Honestly. I’m s … sorry I’ve been such … such rotten company. I ought to go now—really. I’ll be better for some sleep and I know I’m keeping you up. Thanks for the drink and being so nice and everything. Perhaps you’d get me at … taxi?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Dry your eyes, though, or they’ll think I’ve been beating you up.’

  She tried to smile, but she knew what he was getting at. She must look quite appalling—eyes puffy, nose red, skin all marked and blotchy. ‘You couldn’t lend me a c … comb, could you? I seem to have come without my …’

  ‘Without your bra,’ he murmured. He had returned to sit beside her on the couch.

  ‘What?’ Perhaps she hadn’t heard right.

  ‘It’s nice. I noticed it as soon as you walked in.’ Oz’s hand was creeping down her neck. The top button of her shirtwaister was already half undone. He was undoing the second one, very matter-of-factly, as if he were undressing a hurt and fractious child. He slipped his hand between the buttonholes, stroked across her nipples. She lay rigid and astonished.

  ‘You’ve got fantastic tits, you know.’

  She could feel her blush seep right across her chest. Ought to remove the hand, but how could she do it without offending him? She could hardly slap him down in return for all his kindness. The record was still shrilling on. She shut her eyes, tried to concentrate on drums and saxophones. At least they might distract her from the tremor in her nipples. Her breasts were tautening, reaching out to him. Surely she couldn’t want him? She was upset, distracted, married, for God’s sake. ‘With my body, I thee worship …’ She didn’t trust her body. It alarmed her more than his did. The strange tingly feelings were creeping lower, lower down. Must be something to do with the drink. She wasn’t used to whisky. It had joined the cocktails and stirred them up again, done strange things to her head.

  ‘Look, Oz, I think I ought to …’ Her words were crushed against his lips. He was kissing her, not a kiss-it-better peck, but a wild wet hurting lunge, passionate and hungry. He used his tongue to prise her lips apart, found her own tongue, hooked it into his. He tasted of Polos, overlaid with whisky. They were joined now, mouth to mouth. She could feel his teeth grazing against her lips, sending sharp glorious shivers down her spine. One dangerous hand was creeping slowly across her belly, slowly towards her …

  Must stop the hand, stop the kiss. Susie wouldn’t stop it. It was only fun, for heaven’s sake. She deserved a bit of fun, after all the tears and upset. At least she was relaxing now. Sounds and colours were clashing on the ceiling, bits of her body floating off and drifting round the room. Another drink would probably detach her mind, blot the vicar’s voice out. ‘To have and to hold, to love and to …’ She eased her mouth from his, struggled up, fumbled for her glass.

  ‘Look, could I have a … fill-up?’ That was Oz’s word.

  ‘Try a sip of mine.’

  Oz dipped his fingers in his tumbler, slipped them between her lips. ‘Suck,’ he whispered.

  She sucked. His fingers tasted sweet and bitter at once, disgustingly exciting.

  ‘Bite them,’ he said.

  She bit—gently at first, then harder. She was so distracted by the sensations in her mouth, she hardly noticed what he was doing to her dress. It had slipped off her shoulders and was creeping past her belly. He kissed the belly, tongue busy in
the navel. She could feel her breasts jealous of his mouth, begging for it, betraying her with blatant stiff-tipped nipples. She heard her voice, still tremulous, making lewd animal sounds it shouldn’t know, as Oz’s hands went wilder, deeper, lower.

  He paused a moment, face damp and squashed from her stomach. ‘You’re much more beautiful undressed, you know. It’s the other way round with model girls. They’re just skin and bone—no curves at all.’ His hands were outlining the curves, easing the dress gently over her hips, caressing down her thighs …

  She stared at the bulge between his jeans. She had never seen any man but Lyn. Oz looked bigger than Lyn, more swollen. Shouldn’t look. She groped towards his shoulders, hid her face against his neck, blocked his body out. The music mocked her, egged her on, brass climaxing already.

  Slowly, her hands fumbled down his back, found the studs, pressed against them, traced the outline of his buttocks. Oz took her hands and guided them to the front, cupped them round the bulge. It was hot, throbbing, straining through the denim, sending shivers through her body like the loudest and most imploring of the instruments.

  ‘Undo me.’

  It made it easier when he gave commands. He was the photographer, again, the cool, assured professional, and this was simply an extension of the session. She owed him something, didn’t she? Had to pay him back. The zip was so distended, it was difficult to budge, especially with her clumsy virgin fingers. Her heart was pounding with the music in a wild distorted rhythm.

  ‘That’s it. You’ve got it now.’ His voice was jagged with excitement. He had no pants on. The bragging trombone pushed almost in her face.

  ‘Kiss it.’ Another order.

  Whisky and fanfares were whooping in her head. She bent down, inched her lips towards the mouthpiece, gagged, choked, pulled away, rolled over, tipped onto the floor. Oz followed, pinioned her on her back, dragged her pants off. He straddled her body, crushed against it, ground her into the carpet.

  Wilt thou have this man to …? He was stabbing into her, splitting her apart. He was huge, he was hurting, he was …

  Yes, I will, I will, I will. It’s bloody wonderful. With my body I thee worship … You’re worshipping me with yours. No—screwing me, fucking me. Mustn’t say those words. Susie words. Wicked traitor words. Fucking, fucking, fucking. Go on fucking—go on. I’m howling, I’m barking. No, someone else is barking, but it’s all mixed up with my own noise. I never make a noise. I’m a quiet, chaste, old-fashioned country woman. Old-fashioned country slut. Don’t stop—oh please don’t stop! Five blokes in a night. Trombones tearing into me, shrieking in and out. Thought I couldn’t do it any more. Haven’t done it for a year. Scared I’d be all rusty, but I’m not. I’m wet and oiled instead. Wet and hot, hot, hot … We should have used the couch. The floor’s hard. You’re hard. Love you hard. Love the floor. Some enchanted evening. Some enchanted music. Don’t STOP. I’m coming, I’m really coming. God! It’s … yes … harder, harder. Yes, use your nails. That’s it. Oh yes, oh, yes, oh …

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jane Susan Grant. Susannah Jane Grant. Jane Susannah Grant. Susannah Susie Grant. Susie Jane Grant. Susannah Susie Susie …

  STOP!

  The lights screamed red, but Lyn hadn’t even seen them. The Ford behind him blared its horn in warning. Two oncoming cars swerved to a screeching halt.

  ‘Bloody fool!’

  Lyn accelerated past them, swung into a side road and jammed on the brake. His hands were trembling on the steering wheel, his heart had stopped pumping blood. All it could do was thump out Susie’s name—Susie, Susie, Susie. The rain panting on the windscreen contradicted it—Sus-ann-ah, Sus-ann-ah, Sus-ann-ah. He stuffed his fingers in his ears. Now he could see her mouth—open, laughing, scarlet like a stoplight he had disobeyed, grinning from the road. He switched his headlights off and the smile dissolved in darkness, but he could still feel her hands creeping round his waist, pushing up his sweater, hot and sticky on his naked chest. No, she was the one who was naked. He had seen her nude when she didn’t know it. Peered at her through binoculars when she was sunbathing at the furthest end of the high-walled Putney garden. A white flower opening on a dark lawn. Open. He closed his eyes, but she was still there, a plucked staring flowerhead, with no leaves to muzzle it. He had glimpsed her in the bathroom when she left the door ajar. She did things like that on purpose, taunting him continually, following him, unravelling him, flaunting her mouth, her breasts, her name.

  He never used her name. It was too informal and provocative. Only in his head did he whisper it and whisper it.

  ‘My first name’s Jane,’ she had told him, when he was sitting in Matthew’s study trying to do some work. She was enticing him even then—wearing some flimsy nightdress thing in the middle of the day. All right—it was hot, but that didn’t mean she could walk around half naked.

  ‘Is it?’ He’d learnt to speak in monosyllables, pretend he was hardly listening. Her breasts were larger than Jennifer’s, nearer to him, somehow, always pushing themselves towards him, through rooms, through high brick walls.

  ‘Yeah. Crummy name, isn’t it? Plain Jane. Priggish Jane. Quiet little sit-in-a-corner Jane. My mother knew she’d made a mistake as soon as she heard me open my fat red mouth and bawl. So then she switched to Susie.’

  Fat red mouth. He laid his brushes down. He’d been working on some lettering, but she would keep interrupting, barging into the study—something Jennifer never did. He had been using quiet Madonna colours—gold and azure—but now scarlet had intruded, bleeding from her mouth on to the page. ‘Why Susie?’

  ‘That was my second name. Jane Susan Grant. Boring, isn’t it? I’d like to have been called something exotic like Camilla or Ariadne.’

  ‘Grant?’ he had repeated. He must have known her surname. Someone must have told him, introduced her in the first place, asked for her on the phone. But somehow he never remembered hearing it. She had never been more than Susie—the sort of girl who didn’t own a surname, didn’t need a background. She was like a dog, a pet, a child—Flossy, Topsy, Susie.

  ‘Grant?’ he checked again. Impossible. Susannah’s name had been Grant before she married—Susannah Jane Grant. Jane. Another Jane. Doubly impossible. Jane Susannah Grant. Susie Susannah Grant. How could they be so different, yet the same? Both fair, young, flaunting, wanting it, yet Susannah so refined—never chewing gum or swearing or doing handstands on the carpet. Christ! That had turned him on, though, seeing Susie’s skirt fall around her face and her skimpy see-through briefs outlining her crotch with its shock of pubic hair.

  ‘Go away!’ he’d shouted. ‘I’m working. Can’t you see I’m working?’ She had slammed the door and he picked up his brush and dipped it in the scarlet. He was trembling so much, fat red droplets spattered on the page. He smeared them with his finger, drew an ‘S’, then sat and stared at it. Of all the letters in the alphabet, S was the most provocative—a taunting serpent letter, curving out above and below, facing both ways at once, half a labyrinth, a plump, young, unsagging, swaggering letter. H was different. H was older, upright, towering, like his mother, standing with two firm legs upon the ground instead of wobbling and giggling back and forth. H was all straight lines, not entrapping coils and curves. J was somewhere in between them. Started off straight and honourable, then curved away at the base where it should have been most steady. That was Jennifer.

  He opened his eyes. There was half a J in front of him—the top part—lying on its side. A road-sign. He was meant to be driving as fast as he could make it, and he and his car were slumped shivering in a cul-de-sac. He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t there. Susie had removed it on the picnic, giggling as she snatched it off and hid it in her handbag.

  ‘Now we’ve got forever,’ she had whispered. ‘There isn’t any time. And if we stay out here till dark, we can …’

  He had left her and the house before dark and had been driving through the night. It must be the early hours now, but the blacknes
s seemed to be deepening rather than fraying into dawn. He wound down the window, listened to the night—drippings, rustlings, the sudden start of a screech-owl ripping through the muffled rumble of the road. The traffic was thinning, anyway. The only cars still out were isolates and fugitives, plunging into darkness. He, too, was escaping—running away from Susie, from Susannah Jane Grant who had just screamed at him and bolted all the doors. Before that, she had kissed him—just his hand at first, a joke at first—tickling between the fingers, teasing her lips against the pale bracelet of flesh where she had taken off his watch-strap. Her mouth moved up to his arm, lingered across his shoulders, then up, up, until it met his own lips …

  He switched the engine on, swung out into the road. The Morris rattled and protested, spat against the rain, headlights dazzling puddles, tinselling black trees. All the weeks and months he hadn’t screwed were screaming between his legs, but sex was dangerous, far too close to violence. A kiss could explode to rape, a caress create a kid. Sex always led on to kids—that terrible bloody mess Jennifer had aborted and then christened as their child. He had sold the diaries for the sake of that non-existent child, sold Hester’s life like a pound of butter or a can of beans, seen his mother advertised on television, mixed up with dogfood and detergents, her cold glittering principles reduced to cash and sales. He had only done it because he feared that speck of a cell in Jennifer, growing every minute until it split her open and burst out like an angry, greedy fledgling—beak gaping and insatiable—sending him back and forth, back and forth, to hunt for worms, grubs, insects, cash, cash. He didn’t have the cash. Alone with Jennifer, he could manage with a battered car and a room or two in someone else’s house. But a child would jeer at him, expect a rich, successful father who could toss him the whole world like a beach-ball.