by Kirsty Logan
Such soup, they cried! Such flavours! Bravo!
All the ladies were shifting and groaning, rocking in their seats like they had pigs rutting away at them. You’d have thought it was the greatest soup ever to have been swallowed.
By the bottom of their bowls, the lady was smiling wider than a dagger’s blade. The maid was back in her place, her lips plump and wet as a rose after the rain.
And so you see! That grinning tart put on quite a show for me. I know it was for me, because all that ladies do is for the eyes of gentlemen. And I do look forward to seeing more of that lady.
GIRL #6
I stayed for a year. I was not the only one – it was three to a bed in My Lady’s chamber – but still I stayed. I don’t know what I was searching for. I don’t know if I found it.
Living in that house was like living inside a painting – one of those lush, dark oil paintings: a still life of overripe fruit, a severed boar’s head, and a cat toying with a pitted wheel of cheese. Everywhere I went, I was sure people could smell the sweetsalt fleshness on my fingers. Men in the street stopped to stare, stopped to lick their lips, though I was shoulder-to-ankle in my cloak. Her scent went that deep: right under my flesh, all the way to the marrow. For months after I left, I would still catch the breeze of her when I angled my body just the right way. There were creases and edges of me that I just could not get to, and that is where she hid: too far down to scrub out.
My parents knew, somehow. They could smell the shreds My Lady left in me. I went back to the muck of the kitchen and the heat of the stables, but there was no good to be found. Everything was overlaid and underpinned with her. My dresses would not fit: they were too tight, too low, however much fabric I added on. My scarf would not cover my hair, and tendrils slipped out to frame my rosy cheeks. My mouth felt always swollen, always reddened.
I married – a cutout man, all hands and knees – and I stood wide-eyed as a nun in my white dress, calm as can be, like ice would stay cool in my palms. I imagined My Lady when I vowed, thought of how she would glitter and cackle to see her bedfellow in snow-coloured chiffon. I thought my vows would topple her, but she clambered up on them. She strung each word and wore them as a necklace, warming them like pearls.
I never knew what hate and love meant before My Lady.
THE LORD
What makes a woman is a performance of duty, and my wife has long been womanised. I saw well enough to that. From the day I flung her across my pommel to the band of gold, to the hanging of the bloodied sheet to the clockwork of the household, she is a daughter of Eve through and through. Each duty is performed admirably: she whips servants with a firm wrist, she wears her dresses better than a mannequin, and she moans louder than the priciest whore. Her mask will never slip. I do not need to see her to know that.
I dress for her dinners, do I not?
I pay gold for her trousseau, do I not?
I let her take on whichever little maidens she likes, do I not?
That is what makes me a man. I do what needs to be done. I do it fast and I do it well, and no rabbit was ever safe from my arrows.
That is her desire: a man as straight and solid as a wall for her to lean on. A woman’s world is the size of the distance from the bedroom to the kitchen. What is she without me? She is unmanned, an empty case. A woman is an actress, and the only thing keeping her on stage is the width of her smile.
I am born a man. I do not need to perform.
THE DAUGHTER
Yes, I told. My father deserved to know. He’s a devil with a clefted chin, but he still needed to know about my mother’s wickedness because it just was not right. It was not holy. The path to glory is not paved with swooning girls, and no one ever found grace between two legs. So I told and I told and afterwards I glowed for days.
God knew about my mother’s sins and my father is the God of this house, so he should have known too. It was my duty, that is all, and it did not matter about my own scuttering feelings or how many times I caught the flash of bare shoulders through the keyhole because it was not about that. It was about staying good. It was about grace, and keeping my own white heels straight on the shining path to heaven. My mother’s own feet were no good for that path, after her grubbing in the dirt like that, ingraining those maids onto her flesh. Such things cannot be cleansed and there are no dirty feet in heaven. There is no jealousy in heaven and there was no jealousy in my heart over those girls. They were welcome to my mother. She was a pitcher full of filth with her mouth full of blood and I did not want her attention. I did not want it.
My glow was not from the deed of my telling, understand. It was from the knowledge of God, deep inside me the knowing of all His glory, His radiance warming me through the dark of night. It was grace shining out of me.
THE FRIEND
I attended their house for dinner, the same as a dozen other lords and ladies. I expected an elegant meal – rabbit tongues, perhaps, or eels’ eyes – and wine in five different colours. The lady served all my expectations, and her conversation was characteristically delightful – all scandals and intrigues with veiled names. She laughed and touched my hand at all the right moments and, like a fool, I was charmed. Me, in a gown with patched underskirts, and my jewellery only paste – I was the one the lady wanted! No man ever seduced with such confidence. Her smile was as warm as fresh-baked bread, but her eyes were sharp at the corners.
I did not expect to become entangled in her activities. But I tell you; no one could have resisted the lady. After dinner the gentlemen slumped off for cigars and brandy, and the ladies fluttered to the sitting room for champagne. It was not usual for ladies to have so many drinks – it does go to one’s head, and as every lady is told, there is not much in her head to absorb all that alcohol. It sloshes about in the space. That must be why I was fooled as I was – it must be!
One by one, the gentlemen visited our sitting room and held out their hands for their ladies. One by one, the ladies flitted out. The room was sotted with champagne and the walls were undulating – I swear they were, the lady is a magician! – and then it was just me and the lady, and then the sitting room became the lady’s chambers. The girls’ hands were soft as the insides of furs. Their laughter was church bells and their kisses; oh, their kisses. I had never known it could be such a way.
Our discarded skirts were piled high as a church steeple and our throats hummed with lust and we felt honey flow from our bodies, and finally the lady sat at the peak of a tangle of girl-limbs and surveyed her kingdom, when in walked the Lord.
THE GIRLS’ MOTHERS
We knew. From the start, we knew. But we knew too what our girls were. This world is a cold and rutted place for those with brows raised above the horizon.
A handful of shiny circles and these girls are tied to any neat-shoed lady, like or not – but we liked it fine, shame to confess. We liked the words of this Lady and the promise of ever after. The love of a mother for her child is stronger than tides, but we know that the best way for a child is to put one foot in front of the other. Half of a woman is given away each time we split ourselves with child, until all we cradle at night is a scrap of soul. The Lady was a shining road, flat and straight enough for our girls, and she would lead them into the dawn. Our girls had always had itching feet, after all. So we took the coins and we took the promises, but they did not fill the space our girls left.
At nights we pushed with all our breath to hear the thoughts of our girls, but even the harness of daughter to mother can be severed if the walls are thick enough. The Lady’s walls were thicker than muscle, and we could not break through. We made believe that our girls smiled like they always had strawberries in their cheeks, and that their shoes were silky as a pigeon’s neck feathers. We were not the stepmothers from fairy tales. We did what we thought was best.
We knew what the Lady was, but we liked her shipwreck-quick smile and the shine
on her shoes. We liked her white horse with its one red spot. That horse was just like our girls, we knew, and no amount of whitewash can cover that red dot.
THE ABBOT
It is easy to understand why a lady would wish to escape. We all tire of this earthly plain before long. The way out is grace, and glory exists inside all of us.
The entry into heaven cannot be rushed, and for the lady it will be as slow as she needs it to be. The duty of an anchoress is no easy one, we know that well enough. The contemplation of the grave is perhaps the most difficult, but the lady has as much time as God has granted her. She is young yet, and there will be many years for her to appreciate the gifts of her enclosure. She will find peace in solitude, I am sure.
Her husband has assured me that the lady has craved bare walls and silenced voices for many a year. The lady is fortunate indeed that her husband is willing to sacrifice his wife for her own good. It cannot be easy for him to run a household of women alone, but he is a good man to think only of his dear wife, and I am sure that God will reward him.
The lady’s enclosure begins this evening, and I must prepare. The road to heaven is a pebbled one, and she will need a firm hand to steer her through. The contemplation of darkness will help her better than the touch of a hand ever could. Of this, I am sure.
THE LADY
My skin hums with it. My flaxenbelly and my moonsmoke, and there are holes, there are holes in me through which the love escapes. The men are men and they are hard, there are no summits to them, nothing to climb up or slip down. My fingers fit into the gaps between the bricks. The moon is the size of my eye. The buttermilk and the daisies, the redness inside cheeks and within the holiest of holies, within the edges of a girl, and this is grace, and this is glory.
A Skulk of Saints
Lauren and Hope live out by the water in a caravan adrift in a field of yellowed grass. The field fills the gap between an abandoned petrol station and an old house converted into a discount tile shop. No one comes near the caravan. Even the tile shop employees skirt the grass, keeping to the path.
In the mornings, Lauren makes a mug of Nescafé, pulls on a fleece, and sits on the flimsy corrugated step of the caravan. It’s summer, but the air has a pre-dawn chill, and her fingers ache against the ceramic. Across the water the sun is staining the clouds. She watches the bridge, the steady lines of commuters, her eyes flicking as she sips. If the wind is blowing the right way, she lights up a Marlboro and smokes it as fast as she breathes. Afterwards she tucks the butt under the caravan’s sagging belly.
She makes tea – soy milk, two sugars – then sits cross-legged on the bed and strokes Hope’s hair until she wakes.
Morning, says Hope, turning the word into a smile.
When Hope has propped herself on the pillows, Lauren presses a kiss to her mouth and hands her the tea. Hope tugs open the curtains. The window doesn’t face the water; instead it frames the crows scattered across the field and the ruined church up on the hill and the pylons against the clouds.
You’ll be late, says Hope, but Lauren’s ear is pressed to the swell of Hope’s middle. She’s so far gone that they’re almost eye-to-eye, and Lauren is sure that she can feel the press of miniature toes even through the duvet.
She turns her head, finds a strip of skin between the duvet and Hope’s nightdress. Worth it, she whispers into Hope’s bellybutton. She kisses down the mound until she reaches the pink-white scar. She hesitates, begins to kiss along the bumped line. Stops when she realises that Hope has tensed into stillness. Sits up and covers the scar, careful not to knock the arm holding the tea. Kisses instead the safety of Hope’s mouth, cheeks, closed eyelids.
Lauren potters around the caravan, opening and closing cupboards until Hope lies back down and closes her eyes. On her way out, she tips the leftover tea onto the yellowed grass then stows the teacup in the glove compartment, cushioned by a bundle of Hope’s T-shirts.
There is dew on the leather circle of the steering wheel; Lauren pats it with her sleeve as she turns the ignition key. The Fiat’s radio coughs. She taps it off before it starts shouting music, then bumps across the field and onto the bridge. She’s driving away from the sun, and the road in front of her is still blue with dawn.
At the hospital, Lauren scrubs the remnants of cigarette and steering wheel and Hope from her hands. Above the sink she sees Saint Agatha carrying her severed breasts on a platter. Lauren dries her hands and hefts an armful of files to her chest. There are so many that her elbows lock; she presses her chin on the top one to stop it slipping to the floor.
Lauren spends the day peering at the insides of people, the evidence of life.
Are you wearing any other jewellery? she asks.
And Do you have any tattoos?
And A hearing aid?
And Any surgical staples, pins, screws, plates?
The patients say things and she ticks the box on the form. Sometimes they nod or shake their heads without a sound, like shy children, and Lauren has to look up after each question to check the answer. Beside the machine she sees Saint Julitta tied to a stake with her flesh charring.
The machine can pull out the tattoo ink, says Lauren.
And Your piercings might heat up a little.
And Metal workers have tiny flecks of metal in their eyes; the machine can pull them out too and then their eyes bleed.
Lauren does not think this has ever happened, and she only tells it to younger patients who want scary stories. Even then, she only tells it to the ones who aren’t really ill. Broken bones are fine. The ones with shaking hands and threadveined skin don’t need horror stories.
With every image of bone and brain, sinus and intestine, Lauren wishes she could see the insides of Hope. Laid out like this, clean and simple. No mystery and no questions. People are more than DNA, she knows, but if she could feel their child from her insides, know him with her own flesh the way that Hope does, it would be better. It would make sense. He would feel more like her own; he would be more than just an idea.
She can’t shake the nag that Hope knows something that she does not, some mothering secret that makes other women nod at one another knowingly in the baby-food aisle. Lauren is tired of being on the outside.
At the end of her shift, she taps her foot on the pedal of the bin, ready to drop in the waste. The white metal lid flips up, making the lips of the yellow bag inside puff towards her. It’s almost full: discarded sharps and blood-bloomed cotton. Insides, outside. She drops in the waste.
On the way home, Lauren practices saying The thing is, Hope. Listen, Hope, it’s this thing. Hope, this is the thing. But she cannot finish, because she does not know what the thing is. It’s an ache of being stuck on the outside; at a distance from their child, hidden and unreal. These are the things, but she cannot fit them into words, and so it is hard to finish the sentence.
She’s driving away from the sun again; in the rear-view she sees the buttery light and the bone-white turbines lined up along the horizon.
She turns off the road before she gets to the field. The car hums along fresh-laid tarmac and she checks off the street names: Glenview, Rowanwood, Oaklands. There is no forest for miles, just pylons and turbines. Lauren counts up to 23 Cedarpark Road then idles outside, imagining the windows lit and the bare rooms warm as a cocoon. No one has ever lived in the house; its insides will still smell of paint and air-freshener.
She scoops up the contents of the glove compartment and walks to the door. Posts Hope’s T-shirts one by one through the letterbox. Imagines them crowning the pile on the inside of the door: nail clippers and wooden spoons and lipsticks and earrings and socks. The mug will not fit through the slot, so she stands it at the side of the door, upside down so it won’t fill with rain.
She gets back in the car and turns towards the field. The SOLD sticker on the board outside the house is beginning to curl up at the edges.
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br /> For dinner, Hope makes boiled haddock and minted couscous. She cuts the mint with a blade in the shape of a half moon with a handle at each end; she waits until Lauren gets home to do this because they both like the smell. Lauren sits on the corrugated step, beer bottle dangling from one hand, and watches the sway of Hope’s shoulders as she rocks the blade. The moon is as thin as a smile.
Lauren says:
I went by the house.
And Everything was signed months ago.
And No arguments. I’ll pack.
Hope says:
This is our house.
And I will not leave.
And finally, hand on her belly, If there’s space for him in there, there’s space for us in here.
Later in bed, sleep velvet-heavy behind Lauren’s eyes, she folds herself into Hope’s side. She slips her hand under Hope’s nightdress. Presses her palm to the scar. Keeps it there, even after the tense of muscles.
You don’t have to be scared, Hope. This one is coming home with us.
Hope does not reply for a long time – so long that Lauren begins to sink into sleep.
But how can I keep him safe out there?
The first contraction hits when Lauren is sitting on the corrugated step, watching the sun seep into the clouds. She doesn’t need to wait for Hope to call out; the tensing of her muscles sends a tiny ripple through the caravan’s flesh.