by P. K . Lynch
A slick of sweat coated his brow and chin. He was pale. No smile. His lips were dry and his eyes wider than a toddler’s unexpectedly plucked from the arms of his mother.
He reached out and grabbed Anne’s hands so suddenly she jumped in fright and dropped her bouquet of hand-stitched daisies. Father Murphy cracked a joke and the congregation laughed, but Patrick kept hold of Anne so tightly she thought her fingers might break.
‘Anne,’ he whispered. It was more of a croak, really. His brow was furrowed, his gaze so terribly serious that Anne felt a jolt of alarm. She dismissed it as excitement, a thrill caused by Patrick’s unfamiliar passion. His tongue swept his lips, which she noticed now were white and cracked. Painful-looking. He tugged on her hands then, trying to shake some important message into her. She was ready to listen, she really was, but when he spoke, all he said was, ‘I feel sick.’
And then they were married.
He was never cruel to her. Not intentionally. She was convinced of that and clung to it as a life buoy in rough seas. He rarely, if ever, raised his voice. And if her circumstances had been different, perhaps she would have asked more questions before jumping in.
She longed for and dreaded her wedding night in equal measure, and so when their wedding guests formed the bridal arch for the new couple’s exit to married life, she ran through it with trepidation and glee, having changed from her long dress into her honeymoon suit of skirt and blazer, even though shop business removed any possibility of an actual honeymoon.
They walked hand-in-hand through Govan’s damp streets until they reached Patrick’s parents’ house, where they would all live together. Mr and Mrs Donnelly had given up the big bed for their son and his new wife. It was only right, Mrs Donnelly said, and besides, Mr Donnelly’s health was such that he needed to be downstairs for reasons of practicality.
Patrick turned the key and stepped back to allow Anne through. She held back, doubtfully.
‘Ah, okay,’ he said, and hoisting her in his arms he carried her over the doorstep into the narrow hallway. The only light was a dim glow from the moon. When he placed her on her feet again, Anne kept her hands placed around Patrick’s neck, which was not easy given their respective heights. She had to tiptoe and almost stretch further than her new suit would permit her.
The distance between them, and the hallway’s darkness, colluded to hide his face, which is why she was so startled when he stepped back from her and, ignoring the stairs which led tantalisingly to their bedroom, walked through the living room to the kitchen at the back.
‘I’m parched,’ he called. ‘Cup of tea?’
Her brief confusion was banished as her sharp mind leapt to make sense of her new role. A smile slowly spread across her face as she realised he was being considerate. This was her cue to ready herself for him and clearly he didn’t want to embarrass her while she changed.
She took the stairs as elegantly as befitted a married woman, though really she wanted to tear up them, two steps at a time. By the time she reached the top, she thought she would burst.
She couldn’t recall ever feeling so awash with emotion: fear, excitement, joy. Perhaps they would be blessed and make a baby that very night.
She pushed open the door to Mr and Mrs Donnelly’s bedroom. Our bedroom, she reminded herself, and almost fell into giggles as she realised it still was Mr and Mrs Donnelly’s bedroom.
‘Mrs Donnelly,’ she tried. It suited her.
The bed was a normal double, but to Anne, who had only ever slept in a small single, it was gigantic, its significance beyond measure. She stared at it for a few seconds, then hurriedly stepped out of her clothes into a white chiffon nightdress which had been gifted to her by her old landlady. She checked her reflection and licked and sniffed her hand to make sure her breath was fresh, tugged back the covers of the bed and climbed in.
Her eyes wandered the room. She felt rude, even though there was no one to witness, and it was her room now anyway. She wondered what would be an acceptable waiting period before clearing the old furniture out and bringing the new in. The moss green curtains weren’t to her taste at all. She chastised herself for being ungracious and settled herself down to wait for her husband, casting her arms above her head in what she hoped was an alluring manner.
As the minutes ticked by, her initial excitement gave way to irritation. She reminded herself to be patient. After all, they had the rest of their lives together. She strained to hear his footfall on the stairs but the only sound was resounding silence, which somehow seemed louder than anything else she’d heard all day. Soon, irritation turned to anger, but she contained it, not wishing to ruin their first night as husband and wife.
When at last she did hear him begin to make his way up, she was so annoyed she decided to punish him by pretending to be asleep, though she remembered to leave her arms arranged above her head. He entered the room quietly, pausing for a moment by the door before making his way round to the empty side of the bed. She heard him unknot his tie and the soft swish of arms departing sleeves. It was an effort not to open her eyes, especially when she heard the tinny clink of his belt buckle. Without realising, her breathing had become shallow and erratic.
Her body rolled slightly as his weight shifted the mattress. She sighed and stretched and feigned surprise to see him.
‘Hush now, stay asleep,’ he whispered. He kissed her forehead before lying down to face the window, curled up tightly, away from his bride.
Anne stared into the darkness, nursing her humiliation until first light began its creep through the patchy curtains, casting a soft green glow. At last she fell asleep, having made sense of her rejection by acknowledging how tired they’d both been after such a long day.
They had the rest of their lives, after all, she reminded herself again.
Having eschewed the trappings of femininity for so long, Anne now found herself buying lipsticks and sheer stockings, and having her hair set weekly. For the first time, she examined her figure and found she was pleased with her trim shape. In short, she fell upon all the wily tricks she’d gleaned in her years with Nettie, at which she’d always turned her nose up. Now they served as a lifeline, her only means of hope.
Patrick came to bed later each night, leaving Anne to fall asleep alone, which she did, always careful to leave one bare leg exposed enticingly above the bed clothes, ever in hope of awakening his repressed carnal instincts.
Only the fact that he wasn’t altogether cold with her made life bearable. There were soft words, chaste kisses, to which Anne responded with enthusiasm, but he always excused himself and walked away, leaving her frustrated and tearful.
At church, while the congregation prayed for redemption, she prayed for her marriage to ascend from ratified to consummated. Until sex occurred, Patrick could move for annulment at any time. However unlikely that may be, it was a notion that grew alongside her desire to be loved and possessed by him, pinned down and anchored, made finally secure.
The summer after they married brought a two-week heatwave that saw households sleeping with open windows and scant coverings over the beds. Upon waking early one morning with her nightdress sticky with sweat, Anne was bewildered by an unfamiliar stirring beneath the sheets above Patrick. At first glance it might have been a mouse, but as the last vestiges of sleep departed, comprehension dawned. A fearful union of disgust and fascination compelled her out of the bed and round to Patrick’s side. He was on his back, frowning even in sleep. Beads of sweat dotted his brow and his head was tipped back slightly so that his mouth hung open, tongue glistening within. Gently, she knelt by his side and took a peek beneath the covers. With a gasp, she immediately dropped them again. Then she pulled them straight back so she was looking at all of him.
Without stopping to think, she untied the pyjama cord and the fabric of his trousers fell away. Then she eased her fingers beneath him and began to tug the trousers down, lifting one hip, then the other. A little moan came from Patrick but he remained asleep. With
no idea of what she was doing, she took his penis between her hands and began to gently stroke it. He jerked and stiffened even more, which she took as encouragement. Another groan escaped from him but his eyes remained closed.
Keeping one hand on him, she lifted her nightdress and climbed onto the bed, manoeuvring herself on top, one knee on either side of his narrow hips. She shifted until he was right at her, but he wouldn’t go in. Balancing herself with one hand on the mattress, she reached for him and tried to fumble him in. It seemed their bodies couldn’t reach agreement.
She moved again, squatting this time, at which point Patrick opened his eyes. Panicked, she lifted herself and gulped a deep breath, just as a child about to dive under water might do.
‘Anne,’ he said, voice croaky from sleep, alarm spreading across his features. ‘What are you…?’
Before he could say any more, she plunged herself down on him. They both cried out. It was over in seconds.
Afterwards he pushed her off him and dressed hurriedly. Then he turned to her and said, ‘Don’t do that again,’ and disappeared downstairs before they could talk about it. His words meant nothing to Anne, who reclined in the bed, breathless and triumphant. There’d be no stopping her now.
Jude was woken by a crash. She leapt out of bed and ran the short distance to Sissy’s bedroom where Anne slept.
‘Anne?’
She knocked on the door and pushed it open. The bedside lamp lay on the floor, casting a light across the beige carpet. Above it, sitting in shadow on the bed, was Anne. Jude was relieved to see her.
‘I heard a noise,’ she said, coming towards her. ‘Are you all right? What’s wrong?’
Anne made a low moan and rocked back and forth, cradling herself, trying to soothe herself back to sleep. It wasn’t until Jude kneeled down and felt something dig into her knee that she noticed the brown plastic beads of Anne’s rosary strewn across the bed and carpet.
‘Are you ill?’ Jude asked, hesitant to touch her in case she was in pain.
‘He won’t leave me alone.’
Jude immediately remembered Danny’s earlier worry about Alzheimer’s and dementia and felt a jolt of alarm.
‘Who won’t?’ she asked, softly, taking Anne’s hand.
Anne snatched her hand back. ‘Get away from me,’ she cried. She threw her arms out, causing Jude to startle and fall backwards. Only then did the fog seem to clear from Anne’s vision. She rested her head on her shoulder and squeezed her eyes tight shut, flexing her fingers, as though chasing away the remnants of a bad dream. Jude could only watch and wait until at last Anne took a deep breath and shook her head.
‘Are you all right, dear? I don’t know what came over me.’
Jude scrabbled forward and pulled herself up to sit beside Anne.
‘I’m fine. But you? Did you have a bad dream?’
Whether it was the lateness of the hour, or the strange light given off by the toppled lamp, or simply the desperation of having kept it bottled up inside her for years, Anne sensed an opening, an opportunity for lightness akin to offloading to a priest in the confessional box.
‘He should never have married me,’ she said, and then wondered if she’d really said it at all. She looked at Jude for confirmation, surprised by her own plain-speaking. Jude’s face had a guarded, cynical expression. It was infuriating.
‘He shouldn’t have married me,’ she said again, louder this time. She wanted the message to get through. How she enjoyed the truth of those naughty words, free in the world at last.
‘He shouldn’t,’ she said again, marvelling at this new voice coming from her body. What was she doing? ‘He should never have married me,’ she said again, forceful this time. A wave of suppressed anger spilled over with the words.
She repeated it again and again, for her own benefit as well as Jude’s, confirming something she had known for years but which had lain buried, just beyond reach of her understanding.
‘He never loved me. He never did.’
She was rocking again, that self-soothing motion that Jude had interrupted.
‘I don’t think I’ve been loved in my whole life.’
‘Oh, come on now,’ Jude said, a little more forcefully than she intended. It was a ludicrous statement, but there was no denying Anne’s distress. Adopting a softer tone, she added, ‘You’ve had three children. Of course you’ve been loved.’
The rocking continued, but Anne looked straight ahead of her and spoke with determination.
‘Ah, yes,’ she sneered. ‘The children. They loved me all right. They loved me because if they didn’t, who would take care of them? That’s not love. That’s self-preservation. I’m talking about real, unconditional love. Being loved just for me.’ Her eyes narrowed and gleamed in the half-light. ‘Loved enough not to be abandoned. Loved enough not to need a priest to find me a home, loved not because I can save a business, or because someone needs a… a disguise. Loved. Just loved.’
She curled into herself, her mouth opening wide in a painful, silent cry.
With no idea of what to say, Jude wrapped her arm gently around Anne’s shoulders, and rocked with her to calmness.
Soon afterwards, they went downstairs and Jude made tea. They sat at the kitchen table, and for a while the only sound between them was the clinking of a teaspoon as it stirred sugar into a china cup, Jude having decided that Anne deserved her tea served properly.
She sipped, and began.
‘Aunt Margaret wasn’t my auntie at all. She was just a woman from the church who had a daughter and no husband. When Father Murphy dropped me off that night, she couldn’t say no. Her card was too badly marked already. Not two ha’pennies to rub together either. My father gave a bit now and then, but not enough, you know? Everyone was poor back then. I always felt like an intruder, like I had to prove my worth. Could never get too settled. I expect you know what that’s like.’
Jude nodded, not because she agreed, but because she didn’t want to stem the flow of conversation.
‘I didn’t complain though,’ Anne said. ‘I stuck in. Did everything I was supposed to. I was a good girl, I was. Top of my class in everything, but it was never good enough. The teachers said I should have stayed on, but Margaret only had eyes for her daughter. As it should be, of course. Nettie. Pretty wee thing, thick as a plank, Lord forgive me, it’s true. Still, Nettie and I were close enough as long as I minded my place.’
‘And then they emigrated,’ Jude murmured. ‘That must have been hard for you.’
‘You didn’t think like that back then. You just got on with it. At least I had a job.’
‘The shop in Govan.’
‘Aye, the shop in Govan.’
‘Where you met Patrick.’
‘Aye.’
Silence.
‘Susan found the photographs,’ Jude ventured. ‘In the bungalow. All ripped up. You must have been very angry with him.’
‘God forgive me, it wasn’t even his fault.’
Jude was bursting with questions. She’d never seen this version of her mother-in-law before. At long last she’d been admitted to the inner sanctum. To speak out of place would be a sacrilegious act. But Anne had an air of surrender about her now, and all Jude had to do was listen.
‘Did you ever hear about the time the shop flooded?’
Jude shook her head. Anne ran the curved edge of her spoon over the surface of her tea, making a figure eight, while she thought of the best place to start her story.
‘It rained for months. No one could remember anything like it. Father said we should be lining the animals up in pairs in case Noah turned up. Eventually the river burst its banks, spilled into the streets. Well, the gutters couldn’t cope, could they? People were being evacuated from their homes, right, left and centre. I said to Patrick we should move the stock from the cellar up into the shop, but he wouldn’t listen. We had sandbags, you see. And somehow our sandbags would succeed where everybody else’s failed. Stupid man.’ She gave a small shak
e of her head, her husband’s ineptitude still a source of exasperation even after all these years. ‘The only reason I listened to him was I had the three children by that point. I had enough to do without arguing with him as well. And then, of course, we got a knock on the door one night. A drunk fella on his way home from the pub had seen the water pouring in over the cellar hatch. Off you go, I told him. Sort it out yourself. I told you this would happen, I said.’
‘That sounds reasonable enough,’ Jude smiled, when Anne paused to sip her tea.
‘Once he was gone, I thought, I can’t trust him to sort that on his own. So I chapped on my neighbour’s door and asked her to mind the children. I put on my boots and my coat over my nightdress, and took an umbrella and walked through the dark to the shop.’
She paused again. Despite Anne’s grave manner, Jude had the sensation of being fed titbits. For the first time in their relationship, she was desperate to hear what her mother-in-law had to say next.
‘When I got there, the hatch to the cellar was shut. I’d have expected it to be open so the water could be bailed, but there was no sign of activity. I thought maybe the drunk had exaggerated, maybe even imagined it. I went in through the shop door, which was open. The sandbags had been moved so I knew Patrick was in there. I was angry he hadn’t put them back, so I did, even though they were sodden. The shop floor was dry. Everything was normal and I was relieved by that, but then I heard movement down in the cellar and I thought that must be where the damage was. The drunk had said the water was pouring in through the hatch, after all, even though it had seemed clear when I arrived, so I went over, picking up the mop as I went, cursing Patrick for not having it down there already, and I opened the door to the cellar.’
Anne had barely lifted her gaze from her tea cup while she’d been speaking. Now she pressed her lips tightly together, glanced up at Jude, took a drink and winced.