by Emma Chapman
I watch as the front door opens and a woman walks out onto the stone doorstep. She carries a child on her hip, a boy with blond hair, and she is wearing my red apron, splattered with what looks like cake batter. She smiles as she puts the little boy on the ground and begins to sweep the leaves. I hear her humming to herself. The little boy watches her with wide eyes. He reaches his arms out to her, and when she is finished, she scoops him up and runs back into the house with him. I can hear their laughter intertwining. Then the door closes and the house is as it was.
Walking up the steps to the front door, I can see my breath. The rolled-up parcel is no longer on the window ledge. I try to see where Hector is in the house; none of the downstairs lights are on. I slide the key into the lock.
In the kitchen, I open the fridge door: the mix of colours and the tight squeeze of everything inside make me feel warm. I couldn’t fit anything else in if I tried, but I still like to go to the market at one o’clock every day. It is a habit I can’t seem to break.
I check the clock.
Normally, I would be expecting Hector back soon: I would be preparing the dinner. Since our honeymoon, I don’t remember him taking a single day off, or coming home before the usual time.
I wipe down the kitchen surfaces. That’s ten more minutes gone. Then I check the teapot. The cigarettes are not there.
The kitchen table is strewn with empty envelopes: Hector must have opened the post. Scooping them into a pile, I open the bin lid to throw them away.
The cigarette packet is in the bin. Gingerly, I pick it out. It’s damp, the cigarettes inside soaked through: they’ve been run under the tap. A couple have avoided the water. I slide them out and put the packet back where I found it.
Slowly, I walk through the kitchen and up the stairs, looking down the long dark corridor towards Hector’s study, listening for him. There’s a bar of light under the door: a shadow moves across it. I walk to our bedroom, leaning down on my side of the bed and sliding the two dry cigarettes under the mattress, feeling the springs stretch.
When I pull my hand back out from under the mattress, it won’t come. It’s as if something is holding it there and I can’t get away. My arm is drawn further in; I feel a pain at the tip of my finger and cry out. Then, without warning, I am released and thrown backwards.
Reaching over, I turn on my bedside light. My index fingernail is torn right down: a line of blood begins to appear.
I lift the mattress up with both hands and peer underneath it, but there is nothing there. Looking again at my finger, I wonder if I did that to myself and have only just noticed it. All the fingers are bitten, but this is the worst one. I pull myself up, wipe my hands on my trousers, and return to the brightness of the kitchen.
I run my hands under the warm tap for a long time, dousing them with soap and scrubbing. The water gets hotter and hotter, until my index finger stings at the raw edges, but I hold them there, until they are clean again.
4
We have lamb casserole for dinner. After a hard day at work, your husband will want a hearty meal to replenish his spirits. I fill my biggest saucepan with chunks of steaming brown lamb, carrots, onions and mushrooms, submerged in thick gravy.
When the casserole is bubbling gently, I pour myself a glass of wine and stand by the patio windows. The sky is dark blue. I can still make out the traces of the washing line, and the thick outline of the hedgerows at the edge of the garden. Beyond that, the mountains loom. My watch reads five thirty-six, and it is already night.
In the old days, Kylan would eat at five thirty, ravenous from school. I would pile food high on his plate and call him in. Standing here, by the windows, I would ask him about school, and he would chatter away about football and maths and biology and how much homework he had. When he was finished, he would return to the television, leaving his plate for me to clear away.
Before that, when he was a baby, I would feed him myself. We had an old green high chair with a blue plastic tray that Kylan loved to slap his fat little hands on. I would tie a bib around his neck, making him laugh when it tickled, and pull up the chair nearest to him, pulling faces as I fed him. Even when it wasn’t easy, when he was in a bad mood and didn’t want to play, I loved every second I was with him.
* * *
At exactly seven thirty, I stand at the bottom of the stairs and call for Hector. His name is a harsh word, sharp in my throat, like machinery breaking down. When I first heard it, I imagined it was a strong name: the name of a protector, a warrior, a fortress. I was right, I suppose.
I mound huge hills of mashed potato onto our plates, drown them in casserole, and garnish them with trees of broccoli. There is still enough food left in the pan to feed us twice over.
I sit at the table, not eating, watching curls of steam rise from my plate. I can picture him in his study, his navy slippers resting on the edge of his faux mahogany desk. His reading glasses on, half-moons, glinting as his eyes shift across the page. He always finishes his chapter.
Never hurry or nag him along. His time is precious, and must be treated as such.
I am being punished, of course, for the cigarette. I pour myself a second glass of wine.
I’m hungry. The cigarette was all I had for my lunch, and the tender lumps of lamb are almost irresistible.
Always wait for him before you begin eating: he should always come first.
I hear him moving in his study. Getting up from his desk. Putting his book down. Walking across the floor. Opening and shutting the door.
Now he is going into the bathroom.
The walls in this house are thin. I almost laugh to myself, looking at the table that I have carefully laid. There is even a candle.
I pick up my fork.
As I look at the steaming plate of food before me, the smell spreads through my body, filling up my head. There doesn’t seem to be room to breathe.
Looking to my left at the wide patio doors, I see the body of a sturdy middle-aged woman, a wine glass at her side. One of her hands clasps a fork, the other rests on the wooden table, her wedding ring glinting.
I remember watching myself before, years ago, my static reflection caught in the car window as we rushed through countryside, following a river. We were off on our first holiday together. It wasn’t long before the wedding and it was summer. We have always told people we met on that trip, but we had met before, when I was ill and Hector had taken care of me. We thought it would be best not to tell people about that: it only made them ask questions about the past. Hector didn’t want me to be embarrassed, or to have to talk about my parents: he knew it upset me.
We ducked through various valleys on the long journey east. Hector and I often talk of this holiday we took, and we remember it fondly. I have a few details I return to, like the car skimming through the green land. When I think hard, I can feel the wind whipping my hair back on the ferry across to the island, where cars are forbidden. Trying to catch my breath on the short, steep walk from the port. Peeking behind us at the water stretching towards the horizon, the sun turning the sea to molten orange. Of the house, I remember a smooth pine table at which we ate some bread and cheese, and the green blind that was pulled down over the bathroom window. Hector tells me we went for dinner one night in a restaurant along the harbour: we both ate lobster, which was a special treat. There are photos of us, sitting in the fading sunlight. In one of them we are holding hands.
As I sit here now at the kitchen table, other things start to show themselves. I remember the smell of a musty bedroom, and the strange silence all around us. It must have been the morning as there was light at the window and I could hear birdsong. The mound of Hector’s body asleep next to me, his breathing. I listened for a long time, afraid he was still awake. Once he began to snore, I climbed out of the bed and crept out into the hallway.
From the window, the water shimmered in the new light. The sun made the wooden staircase glow, breaking across the floor and furniture of the living room in heavy b
locks. There was the heady smell of pine. A step creaked and I stopped. After a minute of stillness, I kept going. I found the key to the cottage. Slowly, as silently as I could, I stepped across the old brown kitchen tiles, unlocked the back door and followed the path through the expanse of rocky land.
I can see the building: near the water, perched on the edge of the sloping brown and red rocks. Behind it, the dark green forest began. The rocks were splattered with white lichen, alien red shrubbery growing from dark places in between. Stumbling a little, each step measured, I made my way. At every moment, I saw myself fall, my skull smashing like a watermelon onto the rocks.
Ahead, the sea stretched flatly in the deserted cove. There were rocky islands not far out, breaking the surface, making it seem shallow: a flooded plain. I imagined the grey slate roofs of houses below the surface, covered by a sudden flood: tables, chairs, plates, cups and saucers, floating above their place.
Hearing the waves breaking and smelling the sea, I began to feel awake. I pulled off my clothes and walked along a wooden jetty, settling myself on the edge. The air was fresh against my bare skin, and without thinking I dropped into the water.
I swam down, tasting salt, the water rushing about my ears. Pushing back with my arms, I went as deep as I could. A strange blue blur filled my eyes, twisted by the light from above. My head felt lighter, my limbs loosened in their sockets. It was calm and quiet at last. The surface moved further and further away as my breath tightened across my chest. I watched it go, the shafts of sunlight blurring and dimming. I shut my eyes.
Just when everything was perfectly still, a shadow fell. There were hands, sharp under my armpits, and my body was pulled upwards, rushing towards the surface. I kicked to get away but the world came into glimmering focus, the line of the horizon rocking. My body was too weak to break free: all I wanted was to return to the coolness beneath the water. I struggled but was still dragged backwards. My scream rang out through the morning air. Immediately, the hands disappeared.
‘Ssshh,’ a voice said.
I breathed in sharply, my breaths falling over each other, unable to catch up. I could see the jetty now, only a few metres away.
Hector was floating next to me: his hair slicked back, his wide blue eyes as dark as the water below the surface.
He pulled himself onto the platform, reaching his arm out for me. With the sun behind him, he was little more than a shadow. I felt the strength in his brown arms as he lifted me. His body was taut and muscular, the shadow of dark hairs on his chest sparkling with trapped water.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he said.
I sank onto the wooden floor, unable to catch my breath. The sun was too bright. When I could finally open my eyes, he was gone, walking away from me along the jetty. I was shivering. I heard something behind me: he was coming back, holding a big blue towel open. Pressing it around my body, he sat down beside me.
He looked into the dark water. ‘What were you doing?’ he said again.
‘I came for a swim,’ I said eventually.
I could feel him looking down at my naked body, my frail limbs, and I pulled them up to my chest under the towel.
He took hold of my narrow wrist, his hand tight. ‘Marta, you need to be honest with me. I know you weren’t swimming.’
I looked down at his hand, tightening around my skin.
‘I thought you were starting to feel better,’ he said. ‘That staying with me was helping.’
He looked so hurt, and I wanted to make it better. ‘It was,’ I said. ‘I just wanted a swim.’
‘I thought I could make you happy.’
I tried to smile. ‘I am happy.’
‘I don’t know what else I can do,’ he said. ‘You’ve started taking your pills again. You’re putting on weight. You’re much calmer than you were.’
‘I’m fine, Hector, honestly.’
He looked out across the sea. ‘Am I doing something wrong?’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I’ve done everything I can.’
I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’ve been so good to me.’
‘It’s because I love you, Marta,’ he said. ‘I just want to take care of you.’
‘Sometimes I just feel alone,’ I said.
‘But you’re not,’ he said. ‘I’ll always be here.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Do you still miss them?’
Slowly, I nodded my head.
He looked so sad. I tried to think what to say to make it all right again, when he turned to me.
‘If we get married, you won’t ever have to be on your own again. We can start a new family together. Perhaps it will help you forget.’
I looked down at his hand around my wrist. Red blotches had started to rise around his fingers.
‘Would you like that?’ he said.
I couldn’t answer. He saw me looking at my wrist and removed his hand. When he saw the red marks, he traced them with his finger.
‘You’re so delicate,’ he said.
I rested my head on his shoulder, breaking eye contact. ‘I’m so tired all the time,’ I said.
‘We don’t have to have a big thing: I know you’re not up to that. Just a small ceremony. I’ll get Mother to organize it when we get back.’
I was still shivering.
‘Let’s go in,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a bath. And next time you feel like swimming, I can come with you. You shouldn’t have gone out alone.’ I let him rub my arms with the towel. ‘Marta,’ he said, the name sounding strange to me. ‘Look at me.’ I lifted my eyes slowly over the dark stubble on his chin; across his cheeks, tanned from the summer sun, to his waiting eyes. ‘I’ve only just found you. Don’t leave me again. Promise me.’
His eyes were wide with something.
‘I promise,’ I said. I tried to stand up then, but the light was bright all around me, and I fell back, shutting my eyes. He stood up and held out his hand. I paused, then took it.
He pulled me up, putting his arm around my shoulder for a moment. It was wet and heavy; it felt wrong there.
I watched the water fall from my hair, forming circles on the wood near his hairy toes. Then we walked back towards the house.
In the kitchen, my fork clatters onto the table. I breathe in and out. I know that Hector saved me from drowning on that trip: we’ve told people the story for years. It is light, romantic, and people love to hear it. But this version is different. It’s as if I am listening to a familiar song played slightly out of tune. That heaviness I felt then, a sickness turning, is here with me now.
I have waited long enough, I think, digging my fork into the casserole and shovelling down mouthful after mouthful, barely chewing. I want to stop and wait for Hector, the guilt hot in my cheeks, but I am too hungry.
He is coming down the stairs, across the new carpet we had put in after Kylan went to the city three months ago. I make myself put down my fork and swallow.
I see the navy blue velvet of his slippers, then the bottom half of his corduroyed legs. He is slow, holding on to the handrail to protect his knee. My stomach dips. He comes in, half smiles, and sits in his place. He looks at the food, at my half-eaten plateful. I keep my eyes on the table. He picks up his knife and fork. I pick up mine. He begins to eat. I do too. We eat in silence. I concentrate on my lamb. It’s perfectly cooked.
Let him talk first. Remember that his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
He always breaks the silence if I leave it long enough.
‘How was the market?’ he asks.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘The butcher was busy.’
‘He’s a good butcher. You can trust his meat.’
Hector says this as if he is an expert on butchering practices. Or as if he goes to the butcher himself.
‘Yes,’ I say.
We continue eating.
Remember always to be bright and cheerful: a breath of fresh air.
‘Would you like some wine?’ I ask, gesturin
g at the half-empty bottle on the table.
‘No, thank you,’ he says. He looks at me. ‘Make that your last one. You know you’re not supposed to drink with your pills.’
I keep my eyes on the table. Remembering the candle, I take the lighter out. The table glows.
‘Where did you get that lighter?’ Hector asks.
‘It’s the one from the kitchen drawer,’ I say.
The accusing look in his eyes falters.
‘It’s been in there for years, for lighting birthday candles and things,’ I continue.
He takes a mouthful of lamb and chews it slowly, still examining his plate.
‘Why was it in your pocket?’ he says.
‘I was going to light the candle,’ I say, looking at him calmly.
‘Oh,’ he says.
I scrape my plate clean.
I watch Hector eat, cutting his food up into small pieces before eating them, chewing slowly and methodically. This is rare for a man. Better good manners than good looks.
As I watch his mouth, I see another row of teeth moving faster and faster, shovel, swallow, shovel, swallow. No chewing. As he smiles, I see the food between them, on his tongue, imagine it travelling down his throat. I shut my eyes, thinking for a moment I am going to be sick.
‘Marta?’ Hector says. ‘Are you OK?’
I open my eyes. A piece of lamb glistens on his fork. I swallow. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I just ate too quickly.’
Take small mouthfuls of food, like a baby bird, and make sure to chew daintily with your mouth closed.
I wait for him to look away.
5
After dinner, Hector goes to the living room, leaving me to clear up.
As I wipe the green sponge over the plates at the sink, the taste of bare china fills my mouth, cold and hard. My teeth ache deep into the gums and I clench them together, waiting for the feeling to pass. I take a swig from the wine bottle, swallowing to clear the taste in my mouth. When I pull the bottle away, it is empty.