The Heaven I Swallowed

by Rachel Hennessy

  On closer inspection, Fred’s moustache was ragged and patches of grey hairs were littered all over his scalp. The quivering in his hands was not, as I had hoped, just a sign of his emotion while orating, it was a constant shake that reminded me, horribly, of Father Benjamin. He kept licking his lips though the moisture he gave them seemed to disappear again immediately and his skin had a haggard pall. He had aged, as I had, the traces of his distress/despair/pain plainly visible, lost dreams dragging him down. Only his eyes held the same come-and-go spark.

  †

  We sat not far from the cricket, Fred producing a grey blanket from an old suitcase and laying it out like a picnic rug. I tried not to look at the stains and holes in it or to imagine why he would have such an item with him. I tucked my legs up under myself, hoping to appear as a curious spectator watching the wickets fall with her aged beau beside her. Fred sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, his shoes, like everything about him, scuffed and un-polished.

  ‘Did you get my letter?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I got your letters,’ I replied shortly, wondering why he would want to dive right into the painful past.

  ‘And you didn’t want to help me?’ His voice accusing.

  ‘Help you?’

  ‘I was in despair, Gracie. As a Christian woman, I would have thought …’

  ‘In despair? You?’

  ‘I would have thought …’

  He ran his middle finger along the hairs of his moustache, his head tipped up to watch the clouds hurrying across the sun.

  I did not want to hear of his despair. None of his feelings could compare with mine. All the words I couldn’t speak to him. How could he talk to me of those letters with their joy of new-found happiness when I had no one to replace his withdrawn love?

  ‘I sold the house, Fred.’ A simple statement of fact seemed the easiest option.

  ‘The house?’ He turned his gaze back to me. ‘The house?’ He repeated, as if only just remembering there had ever been such a place.

  ‘I got a good price for it and I bought a flat. The difference has been keeping me going since your money orders stopped arriving. And I work. At a hospital.’ I felt proud of this announcement and was frustrated by Fred returning his attention to his hat, sitting there beside his feet. He picked it up and I had a sudden fear he meant to put it on and walk away.

  ‘I like the work, Fred,’ trying to soften my voice. ‘I file.’

  ‘You file?’ He was asking his hat, rather than me.

  ‘Yes, I file.’

  We had come to a dead end.

  ‘Do you do good, Gracie?’ Looking up at me, he had a smirk on his face and I supposed he was making fun of me.

  ‘I do what I must to live.’

  ‘Yes, we all do what we must to live.’

  He glanced at the suitcase closed on the grass beside us. I had seen briefly what was inside when he opened it to retrieve the blanket: a razor, pair of trousers, and crushed shirt, one thick pair of socks and a brown-paper bag twisted around a bottle. This, I suddenly realised, was Fred’s life. Any trace of her, the woman he had abandoned me for, was no longer evident. I could not decide if I was elated or sickened.

  Evening was falling, dusk making it difficult for the batsman to see the cricket ball. One of the fielders called ‘Time? Time?’

  †

  On the tram, I tried to recall asking Fred to come home with me. Perhaps it was assumed between us, that he would pack up the blanket and bring his worldly possessions along with him. As we rode I anticipated his entry into my flat with trepidation, acutely aware of letting this erstwhile stranger into the sanctity of my isolation. What items remained of our time together? I felt shy of pieces that might indicate any kind of shrine to what had been and wished I could snatch some time before he entered, to have things arranged properly. I was not a slovenly person—the dishes had been washed and put away—but I knew the cushions were scattered on the lounge and the smell of last night’s meatloaf still hung in the kitchen.

  I opened the front door hoping I had shut the curtains to the alcove where his desk stood. I felt Fred hang back, standing behind me in the short corridor with his suitcase clutched in his hand.

  ‘It is lovely,’ he said, before he had really seen it, words he had been practising on the tram ride. I continued into the kitchen, using the bustle of making tea to cover the tremble within me.

  I heard him move into the living room and, filling the kettle, knew him to be examining the pictures and ornaments. Would he sit in his old armchair, one of the many pieces I had, in my weakness, kept for his mere memory? At the very least, he would not find his photograph. Without the widows’ visits I had no need for such display and had stored it in a cupboard. Now I knew it would’ve been safer to throw it away.

  Fred stood in the doorframe watching me as I placed the teacups on the tray on the kitchen bench. A waft of his decay overcame the remnants of my awful cooking and it was only the Kelvinator hum that filled the silence. Of course, there were other sounds outside: the rosellas fighting over fruit; the murmur of my next door neighbour’s wireless permanently, it seemed, tuned to the latest vulgar serial; the steady hum of traffic getting louder and angrier every day. Inside, though, I felt only the quiet between Fred and me. Not a comfortable abstinence from words, the sweet fellowship seen between old couples such as Mr and Mrs Mavis, where a mere touch of the fingers forgave trespasses, placed every misunderstanding within the boundaries of acceptance. No, Fred and I didn’t have that kind of bond. The best the years had done for us was open holes into which neither of us wanted to fall. I carried the tea tray out to the balcony and Fred moved away from the kitchen entrance awkwardly, my arm brushing against his torso.

  We waited for the tea to brew, my husband squirming on the wrought-iron chair, not able, it seemed, to get comfortable. Once he would have teased me about purchasing such an instrument of torture, now he didn’t dare to. This lack of ease made me angry again, irritated as much with his distant politeness as with his earlier advanced familiarity. As my revenge, I pretended not to remember how he took his tea.

  ‘Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Come on, Gracie,’ he admonished, and I felt myself blushing. He had seen through me. I poured the tea black, as he had always had it.

  After we had finished our tea in silence, I showed Fred his room. I’d set up Mary’s old bed in the second room of the flat. Why I’d done this, I didn’t think about at the time. The re-appearance of Fred made the move seem strangely sensible. After turning on the light I stood in the corner, waiting for his exploration of what would now be ‘his’ room. It was dominated by a chest of drawers, but in this bedroom, bigger than the one at the old house, there was no need for squeezing past a cumbersome desk.

  Fred, once again, hung in the doorway. He did not move to open the curtains lining the opposite wall. He either had no curiosity or felt the fine balance hanging between us. Behind the velvet curtains he would have found two panels of glass, ceiling high, with a door-less entrance between them leading to a rectangular room and his desk, the floor covered in brown tiles, a small high window in the wall opposite the entrance. I could only assume it had been designed for a baby, although the tiles gave it little warmth and the inability to close off the area made me wonder at the point of creating a room to sequester a child, without a door to block it out altogether.

  ‘This is sweet,’ Fred said. He moved into the room and ran his shaking hand along the pink, patchwork quilt lying on the bed. The headstand was gold, a new addition since Mary’s departure, and a picture of a young girl with bunny rabbits spilling from her arms hung above it, framed in dark bronze.

  ‘Leftovers,’ I replied, aware of what he must be thinking. ‘I threw them in here because there was nowhere else.’

  ‘You couldn’t leave them behind?’ he asked.

  My stomach dropped and I had to stare hard at the hardwood knob of one of the drawers to prevent tears. This was not how to react, this wa
s giving him ammunition against me. Where was the steel I needed? I had been so strong over the years; I could barely fathom how one chance meeting seemed to have changed everything.

  ‘Leave them behind? No one wants a house full of ­stranger’s furniture and I didn’t have anyone to help me,’ I muttered. ‘I had to do everything myself and there wasn’t any possibility of storing things. I had to get rid of all your clothes. I should’ve thrown more things away but even the charity shops have their limits, Fred.’

  The longer I talked the more indignation I could muster. By the end of my speech, his name came out like a slap. He seemed to feel it.

  ‘Can I use the chest of drawers?’ he asked timidly.

  ‘Of course.’

  I refrained from pointing out he had few possessions to stow away. He placed his suitcase on the bed and clicked open the one lock that still held the lid on. Perhaps because he was aware I had seen it all before, he showed no shame and, as steadily as he was now able, took out his ragged shirt and moved to the dresser. I stood in his way and we did the embarrassing dance of trying to find a path around each other without touching. And this was the man I had married.

  I didn’t stay to see Fred settled in the room. I wanted to show how busy I was and took to dusting. Tomorrow I could proudly head off to work, leaving him to whatever manner of activity he occupied himself with. On a Sunday night, however, I would normally have had a gin and a plate of biscuits and cheese, my appetite content with the meagre, easy offerings at the back of the pantry. I was thrown by the need to provide dinner for another. Leftover meatloaf was all I could offer.

  Fred ate as if I had produced the food of the century, worthy of being exhibited at the show. He had changed into his other pair of trousers and the shirt, mildly cleaner than the one I had first seen him in, and although there was no mistaking the man who had raved on his soapbox in a foolish suit, the mantle of newer clothes gave him an air of freshness.

  The tears that had threatened before were replaced with a little too much pleasure as I watched him wolf down his meal. I had to struggle to preserve the appearance of indifference to his compliments.

  ‘Is it possible, do you think, Grace, for me to have a bath?’

  He spoke with the same timidity as before and I noted the change in his naming of me. I had never called him anything but his proper name, never used endearments such as ‘dearest’ or ‘sweetheart’ or a secret nickname known only to the two of us.

  ‘Yes, Fred,’ I replied and tasted its hardness.

  Fred remained in the bathroom while the water for the bath ran, monitoring its heat and depth. After washing the dishes and stealing for a moment into the spare room, I sat in the lounge and turned back to the adventures of Tom Jones, trying to ignore the roar of the pipes carrying around the walls, trying not to wait for the moment when the noise would stop and I would know Fred was undressing.

  I forced myself to return to Tom, another illegitimate foundling, condemned by birth to wander from one fist to the next, cast out of his benefactor’s house in disgrace because of his base appetites. I had already begun to skim over the chapters in which Fielding gave his interpretations of morality, preferring the action of the love story: Sophia’s determination to run away rather than marry Blifil, Tom’s letter claiming eternal fidelity to her even as he made his ­perfidious escape.

  The flat became quiet and I heard the small splash as my one-time husband stepped into the bath. I felt nervous. For fourteen years I had been without male company—if you did not count Mr Roper—and I would have assumed all such feelings were dead. I didn’t think it was jealousy that had made it almost impossible for me to watch and appreciate courtship; I had surely surrendered the possibility of such twists in my own Fate. I knew the falsity of ‘happily ever after’, preferred the steady assurance of heart-less days. Why, then, did I jump like a schoolgirl at the sound of Fred’s voice?

  ‘Gracie!’ His call came to me from another time. ‘How about some music?’

  I put my book down and moved to the Bakelite radio Fred had received on his departure from work after enlisting, a tarnished plaque attached to its front with the words ‘For Mr F. Smith from the Commonwealth Banking Corporation, with appreciation, 1941’ smoothly engraved in it. I rarely used it and when I did, had tried not to compare this item to Complete Works of Shakespeare, the mildewed gift given to me.

  Switching the radio on, a Frankie Vaughan tune jumped into the room. Immediately, Fred began to sing along, his baritone echoing from the bathroom.

  When you walk in the garden

  In the Garden of Eden

  With a beautiful woman

  And you know how you care

  And the voice in the garden

  In the Garden of Eden

  Tells you she is forbidden

  Can you leave her there?

  Fred, a weak rabbit, one moment hopping stupidly around me and in the next, bellowing like a bull with no obvious concern for what my neighbours might think.

  When you’re yearning for lovin’

  And she touches your hand

  And your heart starts a-poundin’

  And you’re feelin’ so grand.

  Can you leave her to heaven?

  And obey the command?

  Can you walk from the Garden

  Does your heart understand?

  ‘Are you swingin’, Gracie?’ he shouted out, his inability to see me giving him courage. ‘Swingin’ in the Garden of Eden!’

  This could be the night before he went away, when we stayed up for as long as he could, dancing, until he had fallen asleep on the lounge, so exhausted from all his conflicting thoughts, and I had crept out to wish on the stars.

  I wanted to call ‘yes’ to him, to pick myself up and swing, but my legs were leaden, my toes crushed inside my pumps. With no one here I would have taken them off. But with Fred here, like with Mr Roper, I couldn’t be barefoot.

  I swayed a little, moving myself to a rhythm I couldn’t forget, my shoulders rocking, letting the music fall into me. How easy it would be to go back. The trick was deciding exactly where to take yourself back to.

  Fred’s voice again joined Frankie’s crescendo.

  Can you leave her there?

  Can you leave her there?

  Can you leave her there!

  The bathroom door opened. I had not heard Fred stepping from the bath, the sound of the water drowned out by song. I looked involuntarily, saw Fred with only a towel wrapped around his waist, and quickly tripped back to the lounge chair, picking up Tom Jones and returning to the place held by my bookmark.

  His dripping shape moved to the spare bedroom and he closed the door behind him with a soft click.

  While he was in the bath I had taken a pair of pyjamas and laid them on his bed. I had lied to him when I said I’d given away all his things because I did not want him to think I was, in any way, waiting for him. An entire half-wardrobe still housed his clothes. I could pretend the pyjamas were a one-off, accidentally kept in the chaos of the move and tried to imagine myself saying this without betraying the truth. Since leaving the widows I had not had to practise deceit—unless one included the various excuses created to avoid return visits to the church and Mr Roper—and I worried Fred would see right through me, to the clinging wife who hadn’t been able to discard his possessions.

  It was ten o’clock, later than I would normally sit up, quieter than I was used to. I had formed a habit of getting to bed sooner than my neighbours so that I could hear their movements above and below me, a strange type of lullaby, reassuring in the same way strangers on the tram remind you of the continuation of other lives when your own seems stationary.

  ‘Staying up?’ Fred asked, standing by the lounge chair. His hands hung by his side, the sleeves of the brown and cream striped pyjamas hanging lower than his knuckles, longer than I remembered.

  ‘Yes, I think I will,’ I replied. In truth, I couldn’t imagine sleeping. How to put aside this day of a g
host’s return and settle into slumber? To free the tightness in my shoulders caused by the strict need to show nothing when feeling every­thing?

  ‘Is it alright if I sleep?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Goodnight, Grace.’

  He turned and disappeared into the spare room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  I lay the book aside, knowing I had no concentration for it. If I had ever imagined having Fred in my life again, it had never been like this. When I had imagined him, he was something like the statues on the outside of the War Memorial: solid stone, fixed stare, a strong sense of his place in the world. I would never have put him with the emaciated bronze soldier inside, the defeated martyr, the figure I had hidden, through modesty, from Mary. Young Mary. What would she have made of this man, now asleep in her former bed, raised from the dead and already snoring loud enough to chase away demons? Would she smile?

  †

  In bed, I shut my eyes, my arms pinned to my side, trying to block out Fred’s noise by pressing one ear into the pillow and draping my hair over the other. How had I ever gotten used to this noise? I had no memories of frustrating nights, of needing to creep to the lounge room, no resort to the separate rooms other wives hinted at.

  Spots of colour swam on the back of my eyelids. I had barely touched the meatloaf, my stomach reminding me of its emptiness. There was no point in getting up; my supply of biscuits eaten by Fred, his appetite making up for days, perhaps months, of subsistence living. He hadn’t been explicit about when he had returned from Japan and begun his street existence. I could only guess by the state of him.

  The snoring abruptly stopped. He had, more than likely, woken himself up. I waited to hear the recommencement of the steady breath that would rise and rise, the cycle of nervous waking, light sleep, deep slumber and return to dreams. I wanted him asleep; too much to think of us both awake, marooned in our beds. Was he still thinking of her? Had it been only the war that had made him bitter, or were there other angers? I had mine still; all I had to do was remind myself of his abandonment, of that letter. I could not be taken in by his trembling hands and my softly spoken name.