Push Hands

by Michael Graeme

  "We need to talk," she said.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Come through and sit down."

  This was bad, he thought, and he tried to think of what he'd done or said, or not done or not said. "Look, I know we've not been firing on all cylinders recently," he said. "but we're okay aren't we?"

  "I don't know, are we?"

  She seemed cold. She was always cold when she thought it was his fault. If it was her fault, and she knew it, that's when she got emotional, or even angry. They sat down in the lounge. The house felt weird now, unnaturally quiet without the kids, and he almost wished they were around to barge in and interrupt, as was their habit, so cutting off all normal means of adult communication.

  "Phil, I know we've not been very,… . well,… intimate for a while, and I know it's probably my fault."

  By intimate, she meant sex. Sally never used explicit language and always left him guessing as to whether or not he'd got her meaning. "It's not your fault, Sal. I'm sure it's normal for middle aged parents to go through phases like this."

  "I'm not sure that it is."

  "Deep down we're okay though. I'm sure we are. Nobody knows me like you do Sal."

  "I don't think I know you at all. Or maybe I knew you once but you've changed."

  Phil was crestfallen. She'd never spoken like this to him before, never spelled out how disappointed she was,… in him. I mean that was a look of disappointment, wasn't it?

  "If this is about the Tai Chi, I think you're all being a bit,… "

  Sally raised her voice a tone to cut him off. "This is not about the bloody Tai Chi, Phil!"

  "Okay,… but you're going to have to spell it out to me in words of one syllable."

  She reached down by the side of her armchair and produced a tray upon which was displayed an assortment of sexual paraphernalia. There was the bright purple dildo, the riding crop, gag, illustrated book on various "practises", plus a leather thong - Sally's size. She held all of this at arm's length, pulling a face as if it were a tray of foul smelling poo. Then she set it down on the coffee table and looked at him. "Is that clear enough for you?"

  Phil laughed. "Oh,… priceless! She found it! Oh, bless you, Mrs Nosy Parker!"

  Sally blushed. Emmeline had found the stuff - she come across it "accidentally" when cleaning up, and told Trevor. Trevor had then taken Sally to one side and suggested she investigate Phil's bottom drawer for herself before the children did. He liked a bit of filth as much as the next man, but not when his daughter was concerned.

  Sally was puzzled. What was Phil trying to say then? That it was a joke? A trap? "So you're not,… well,… using any of this stuff then?"

  "What? I don't think that thong's my size Sally. As for that dildo - well, I don't think I could find a use for that - it's designed for women - you see that little thing on the side, well that goes,… "

  "I don't want to know where it goes! So what are you saying? It was just some kind of a joke!"

  "It's no joke, Sal. I'm tired of having my private stuff riffled through. I wanted to scare the pants off Mrs Parker, make her think we were perhaps enjoying sex a bit more than we ought to at our age - embarrass her, get her to tell Trevor, who would tell you and possibly try to imply I've become some sort of pervert. And it seems to have worked. Hopefully she'll think twice next time."

  Sally twitched, then she laughed. "You idiot," she said.

  "I'd love to have seen her face! Odd,… to look at her you'd think butter wouldn't melt, but she obviously knew what all that stuff was about."

  Sally wasn't sure which was worse: this frank discussion about sex toys, the oblique way her father had indeed tried to imply she was married to a pervert, or the fact that Phil had caught them all out and proved to her what he'd been saying all along - that they did not respect his privacy, did not respect him.

  "How much did all this stuff cost, then?" she asked, recovering her composure.

  Phil sighed. Why was she so concerned with the cost of things all the time? "Not much, Sal."

  "So I can throw it all away then?"

  "Of course. I wasn't thinking of suggesting we actually spiced our love life up with it - I think we need to work a little more on the basics first before we get involved with that sort of stuff."

  She winced. Was he trying to make her feel bad? Wasn't she having a hard enough time as it was without him trying to make her feel guilty as well? Or perhaps he was right. "Are things that bad?"

  "It's normal, Sal."

  Sure, normal, he thought: normal for some women not to desire sex, not to want it,… normal for them to outgrow it as they got older, just as it was natural for men not to. Natural, like tinnitus, and both of them a pain in the arse for which there was no apparent cure.

  "Where did you get it all from?"

  "Internet - sex site."

  "So it's on our bank statement then: I mean: 'Miss Hotty's Naughty Sex Emporia, or something?"

  "I've no idea. I suppose so,.. though I don't remember what it was called. You'd be better asking Mrs Parker. If it's on our bank statement, she'll know."

  "All right, I think you've made your point."

  "I've made it, but it won't alter anything. She'll be back rooting through my drawers next week as normal."

  "No. I'll have a word with my dad."

  "What's it got to do with your dad? I'm paying her, it's nothing to do with Trevor. And I don't want her coming round again."

  "Actually we're paying her, Phil. And I trust her. All right, she's a bit nosy, but you're too sensitive and I don't want a stranger cleaning up for me. This is my house too."

  "She's a stranger to me, Sally. A stranger poking through my private things."

  Sally bit her tongue. Phil would hit the roof if he knew Emmeline really was making a point of counting the wine bottles in the recycling bin - that her father would often voice concern at the amount they were drinking, that he'd even calculated the amount Phil was spending on whiskey and how much they'd make if they'd invested it instead in a little scheme he'd been thinking about.

  "I'll have a word," she repeated.

  Phil was losing it now. He couldn't understand why Sally wasn't upset to have someone rooting through her secrets. It was okay, it seemed, so long as nothing was actually stolen. "Our bottom drawers are private, Sal. I married you to raise a family and be private, with you." But that was too philosophical. For Sally there had never been a life away from her father - which puzzled him because as far as he could tell Trevor was barking mad, while her mother, whom Sally hated, was the only one with any sense - sense enough to clear off anyway and live her life the way she wanted - even if she did run the risk of looking slightly ridiculous.

  Sally had not married to leave her father's influence, but rather to draw Phil into it. It was as if she'd always wanted more of a brother than a husband, or did she want him to stand up to Trevor? Phil's head was spinning. He couldn't work all this out now - he was too tired and hungry. She could see he was upset, also that his sympathy for her had outweighed the strength of his argument, that she had defeated him, that Trevor had defeated him, that Mrs Emmeline Parker had defeated him.

  She sighed. "The house is quiet isn't it?"

  The talking's over, thought Phil. It's done, and he was only too happy to go along with it, to slip back inside that private place where he no longer felt anything at all, and where the only consolation was that nothing hurt either. "We should get rid of the kids more often," he said.

  "Yes,… you don't fancy,… nipping down to the off licence, do you?"

  Sally's mouth always gave a little sideways twitch on the rare occasions when sex was on her mind. It twitched now, and Phil's heart leaped at the prospect. She'd beaten him down - but that was okay: she could pull his fingernails out as well and he wouldn't care, if she was going to be nice to him afterwards. Perhaps the paraphernalia had excited her, but not enough to just do it - she needed to get drunk first. She could no longer do it sober, but, unfortunatel
y, Phil could no longer do it drunk. His heart teetered on the crest of a euphoric wave, then sank without trace. It was his first chance of clawing his way back to Sally in months, and he already knew how it was going to end.

  "Couldn't we just,.. ?… "

  "I'd like a drink, Phil. White wine, from the chiller cabinet. Make it a couple of bottles, eh?"

  When they fell into bed some hours later, there was a kiss, soft, neutral, tentative,… then another that raised a sudden head of steam and had them tearing at each other's clothes. At times like this, Phil thought he could happily go insane with passion; the scent of Sally's arousal blinded him, and the feel of her wetness against his fingers took him back to the earliest of their days together, to a time when they were young, and there were no children, and they could forget about Trevor, because all they needed was each other and the world would bend to their will.

  Phil was not so drunk that he did not remember to slip on a condom, though come morning, he could not remember doing it - could not remember anything beyond the feel of her wetness, though the contents of the condom, or lack of contents, as he snapped it off, was sufficient evidence that nothing much had happened at all. He would have entered her, he thought, eagerly enough, but after a while he would have become conscious of how long it was taking. The wine would have numbed his sex so it was like doing it through a washing up glove, rather than a Featherlite, and the feeling would have died, and Sally never came that way anyway. Perhaps he'd been able to satisfy her some other way, but she wouldn't remember either. He groaned. It might be months before they did it again.

  Sally was getting up now and dressing without even looking at him, without leaning over to kiss him. If she'd only done that, and smiled, it would have been all right, but it was as if nothing had happened at all. Had they been teenagers, had it been their first time, and the teat of the condom had been fat and happy in the morning, such a thing would have changed their lives, but a long marriage and familiarity bred a cruel indifference - it did not even matter that the condom was empty - and they would never discuss it.

  He was painfully erect now as he pulled back the covers and rose groggily to his feet. He caught his reflection in the mirror. Beside him was a semi-naked woman, with long, beautiful breasts bobbing as she swung them into her bra. But he felt she was all the more distant for her close proximity. She did not even notice his erection. Phil rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then padded across the landing to the bathroom where he waited for things to subside, so to speak, then urinated cautiously. He'd wait until he got to work to move his bowels he thought, because Sally might be wanting to wash her hair.

  Chapter 14

  Penny was flustered. She'd forgotten to put the parsnips in and so she'd held everything else back while the parsnips caught up - the result being that everything was slightly overdone except the parsnips. And cooking for six was always a big deal anyway, especially on your own when the only assistance she got was from David's mother, Angela, who's idea of help was to say: "Well, I wouldn't have done it that way, dear."

  And being flustered, fluttering in with the gravy, and panicking in case the food went cold on the plates, she'd sat right down and begun to tuck in, forgetting to say grace, in which they thanked God for having provided it all instead of her. She caught herself with one boiled potato half way to her mouth and Angela looking at her with one eye, while David rambled on.

  He'd been away for the week, as he was away most weeks, travelling and selling his company's accounting software. She and the boys didn't say grace when he wasn't at home. It was more of a weekend thing, like church and Sunday school. She wondered if David said grace during the week, at his lunches perhaps, when he wined and dined his prospective clients. No,… perhaps not. She looked at him as he rambled on, and on, and on - none of your trite and repetitive graces here, she'd have you know. David would think up special ones each weekend, before turning his mind to ways he could fiddle his expenses.

  She wondered when he'd become so pompous? Then she turned to Angela, and thought how much he'd begun to resemble his mother - his frame padding out like an overstuffed Teddy Bear, double chin drooping over his collar, lips moving ever more tightly together as if in permanent disapproval of something.

  For which we are eternally grateful! Amen!

  He'd notice the plates were cold - it was the first thing he checked, but she'd been in such a panic she'd quite forgotten to warm them. Sure,… there,.. she saw his finger and thumb lightly grip the side of the plate - a surreptitious check - not that he'd say anything - but Angela would mention it to him and that would make him quietly cross - not with his mother for being so bloody cheeky, but with Penny for embarrassing him. It could have been worse, she thought: he could have been the violent type - except that would have brought the worst out in her too and she sensed David was afraid of that. He could shout,… but he mostly avoided it, because he knew she could shout louder. If he'd ever raised his hand, maybe she would have gone for the frying pan.

  No, she thought. She was exaggerating as usual. They had a quiet marriage, so long as she did things his way, so long as she went to church every bloody Sunday, so long as she silenced the boys' whining when they had to endure Sunday school long after an age when other children had disappeared from the scene - and all because they were David's children, and more importantly Angela's grandchildren, and were burdened with maintaining a tradition of piousness and two-facedness. How lovely to see you in Church my dear, now please turn around while I stick this knife between your shoulder-blades!

  My God, what was she thinking! Still - the Tai Chi had got her out of going church - even though she'd had to lie about what the old misery Doctor Jackson had said,… Tai Chi - just the thing for you my dear. There's a class on Sunday mornings - it's very important you attend or things will get worse. When actually, like Phil, she'd sat there bemused while filling in some sort of quiz, then come away with a prescription for antidepressants.

  Angela sighed - obviously the food was not to her liking - well, fair enough, thought Penny - the company was not to her liking either.

  "And how are your nerves at the moment dear?"

  My name is Penny, thought Penny, you miserable old cow. And she looked pointedly at David, who averted his eyes. Had Penny not made a point of telling him never to discuss her personal problems with his mother? Never, ever again, David. Do you understand me?

  That was after the last outbreak of thrush, which she was sure now she was getting from him. But oh no, David's dick was pure - no filthy germs on him - it must be coming from her unclean folds. Yes,… it was Penny's "habits" that were most likely responsible, like the sanitary things that one inserts, dear? Angela had a thing about those - she'd mentioned it a few times. Perhaps she disapproved of anything that one inserted.

  So, it was Penny's nerves now.

  "Much better thank you, Angela. I find the classes help enormously."

  Angela paused to consider this, then shot David a look. Poor David, ducking and diving. He'd promised to sort that one out. Had the Vicar not been yet? There was something very suspicious about anything that clashed with going to church!

  Arranging for the vicar to come had definitely been on David's mind and he really had been about to pick up the 'phone and broach the subject, when Penny had come home from her walk with a stone Buddha and plonked him in the border by the little flamingo tree. David wasn't sure he'd seen this correctly and had shot out of the house in disbelief. Then, at sight of the offending idol, he'd picked up a spade as if he were about to repel boarders. He would have knocked the head off, except Penny managed to shoulder him aside. She was shocked - she'd expected raised eyebrows, but not this. This was madness! "What do you think you're doing, you idiot?"

  David looked at her. He didn't know which was more appalling: that she'd been out and bought a graven image, or that she'd nearly knocked the wind out of him. "No,.. what do you think you're doing?"

  "I'm prettying up this corner of the g
arden, what does it look like?"

  "You're not leaving that,… . that,… thing there."

  "Why not? What's wrong with it?"

  "Well it's hardly,… " he looked around and lowered his voice. "It's hardly Christian, is it?"

  "Well, no,… but the image of the Buddha plays a big part in popular culture David. Had you not noticed? He's well known as a garden ornament. And I've only to look at that serene expression and I feel myself relaxing."

  David sighed. He was growing tired of Penny's "nerves". His mother had a cure for nerves and it was simply a matter of stiffening up and pulling oneself together. "What are you talking about? Look, it's not staying there. If you don't move it, I'll,.."

  "You'll what? Knock its head off? For pity's sake, David! Anyway,… he's not mine. I'm looking after him for,… for someone."

  "What? Who?"

  "Just a friend."

  "You don't have any friends."

  Ooh! Below the belt David.

  "Well, not a friend exactly. Someone I know at the class. He's gone away for a bit and wondered if I'd look after it. He was afraid it would get,… well,… stolen." Penny could feel herself blushing. She was hopeless at lying.

  "Doesn't he have a shed to put it in?"

  Penny realised David hadn't batted an eye at the mention of her knowing a man, all be it a fictional one. Yes he's my lover, David. He knows where my vagina is, and he doesn't call it a tuppence either like you do, on the rare occasion when you have need of it.

  "Well,… he's a bit odd,… and it's only for a few weeks. I'll be passing it on to someone else,… We're,… well sort of sharing it out. A rota. We have a rota, and it's my turn."

  "You'll have to move it on Sunday. I don't want my mother seeing it."

  "It's too heavy to keep moving in and out."

  "Well,… cover it with a bag or something."

  "Oh,… very chic."

  And so on and so on. But Buddha kept his head, though for today he resided under an empty compost sack, lest his serene demeanour cause Angela to have a heart attack.