by Peggy Frew
And so she did — dragged off her dirty clothes and sank into sleep.
When she woke up she could hear them in the kitchen. There was the smell of sausages. Bonnie lay staring at the wall, heavy and restless with guilt. She threw back the covers and sat up, but then lay down again. How could she face Pete? Look at him, talk to him? Nothing actually happened, she tried to tell herself. Nothing serious. But she could feel it still, as if her mouth was swollen, and her flesh tender where he’d touched. She bit her lips. Act normal. She cupped her hand between her legs and pressed. Nothing happened.
She showered, washed her hair. Put a bandaid on the cut on her finger.
Pete was sitting with his back to her when she entered the room.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, softly, as she passed him.
‘So you had a big night?’ His voice sounded friendly, jovial — intentionally so — and she was unprepared for the flood of fresh guilt it brought, awful, coarse, as unbearable as physical pain.
She bent to put her arm around Edie, hid her face in the girl’s hair. ‘Yeah,’ she mumbled.
‘How was the show?’
‘Good.’ She fetched herself a plate and cutlery. Her face was hot, her damp hair and scalp itchy. She glanced at Pete this time, as she sat down, but he was busy cutting up Louie’s sausage.
She put a sausage on her own plate, and a mound of mashed potato, carrots, peas. ‘Thanks for cooking,’ she said, eyes on the food.
Louie’s voice rang out, like an actor speaking a part. ‘What happened to your finger, Mum?’
Edie sat forward. ‘What finger?’
Bonnie looked up. Their clear faces, waiting. She held up the finger, the fresh bandaid glaring under the light. The twins leaned in. ‘I cut it,’ she said, her voice thick and stupid in her ears.
‘How?’ said Edie.
‘On a guitar string.’ She kept her eyes on the finger, Pete a shape at the edge of her vision.
‘But how?’
Silence from Pete, but she felt frozen under his gaze. ‘Well’ — and even this little lie seemed to advertise itself in the way the words came out, misshapen, ugly — ‘you know how the strings of a guitar are wound onto the tuning pegs at the top?’
No answer from anyone.
Bonnie sat with her stupid finger upheld, her voice clanking on and on. ‘Well, the strings are wound onto the pegs, and then you cut them off, and the ends are really spiky and sharp.’ Was anyone even listening? She couldn’t raise her eyes to check. ‘And sometimes they can sort of stab into your finger. If …’ She lowered her hand at last. ‘If you forget to be careful.’ She stared down at her plate. This is impossible. You can’t keep this up.
There was a pause, and then Louie said, ‘More tomato sauce, please.’
They ate. Bonnie couldn’t stop. She bolted the food, gobbled it, everything on her plate and then a whole second helping of everything, and then the twins’ leftovers. She ate until her stomach hurt, cramming in the mouthfuls, watching only her own hands slicing with the knife and loading the fork.
And somehow, with the busy screen of her eating, and the demands and noise of the children, the meal passed with no further talk between her and Pete.
Then there were the dishes, and the bath, and pyjamas and reading books and bedtime, and Bonnie lumbered through it all with her head down, riding the sawing waves of guilt, feeling like her every movement, her every interaction with Pete — ‘Did you brush Edie’s teeth?’ ‘Do you know where Louie’s pyjamas are?’ — groaned and strained with the same falseness as the bandaid conversation, and the heavy certainty that Pete must know something had happened, he must be able to tell, there was no way he couldn’t. She could feel it hanging anyway, waiting — the moment when they would be alone together, and he would look at her properly, when she could no longer hide from him.
‘Did you see my new lucky charm?’ said Louie, as she sat on the edge of his bed to kiss him goodnight.
‘Lucky charm?’
‘Yeah.’ Louie sat up and reached into the shelf beside the bed. ‘See?’ He held out a small dark object. Bonnie took it. A wooden carving, some kind of warrior with popping eyes and bared teeth, jagged hair, arms akimbo. Between the sturdy legs a little penis and testicles.
‘Wow,’ she said, handing it back. ‘Where’d you get that?’
‘Doug.’
A coldness stirred in her chest. ‘Doug?’
‘Yeah.’ Louie reached into the shelf again and set the carving carefully down, as far from the bed as possible. ‘Edie’s got one too. It’s meant to be good luck, but I’m a bit scared of it.’
‘Look at mine, Mum,’ said Edie, sliding down from her bed and coming over. ‘It’s a woman one.’
Bonnie held the carving in her palm. It had the same staring eyes. Round breasts this time, wide hips and a triangle between the solid thighs. An etched grin that seemed lascivious, knowing.
‘I’m a bit scared of mine too,’ whispered Edie, leaning over Bonnie’s legs.
‘They are a bit scary,’ said Bonnie slowly. She closed her fingers over the carved woman’s face. ‘So … did Doug … come over?’
‘Yeah.’ Edie climbed up onto her lap. ‘While you were in Sydney.’
‘Yesterday? During the day?’
‘It was night-time. We were in bed, but Dad let us get up.’
‘Oh.’ She pulled Edie close, kissed her hair. ‘So he’s back from his holiday.’
‘He gave Dad a bottle of wine or something,’ said Edie. ‘Booze. But he didn’t have a present for Grandma.’
‘Guess what he did?’ Louie bounced on his knees on the mattress. ‘On his holiday?’
‘What?’
Louie put his face close to hers, eyes wide. ‘Rode on an elephant!’
‘Did he? Wow.’ She stood up, sliding Edie from her lap. ‘Okay, into bed and lie down now, you two. It’s late.’
She still had the carved woman in her hand when she left the room and went out to the kitchen. She stood on tiptoe and tossed it onto the top of the fridge, right at the back behind all the other junk.
She waited while Pete said goodnight to the children. She stood in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do with her hands, and then at the last moment when she heard him coming she scuttled to the bench and started wiping the dishes and putting them away.
He came up behind her, and when he reached around her in a hug she jumped.
‘Oh.’ Her voice was high and breathless. ‘You gave me a fright.’
‘Sorry.’ Pete loosened his grip and rubbed her arm. ‘You okay?’
She gripped a plate inside the tea towel. Her fingers felt weak. ‘Yeah. I just — I’m really tired.’
Pete kept touching her, his hand moving slowly up and down her arm. He leaned into her. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ he said. ‘I was just so pissed off that your mum was going to be late.’
Bonnie lowered the plate carefully to the bench. ‘Did she … was everything okay?’
‘Yeah, it was fine.’ Pete kissed her on the neck. ‘She was quite good actually. She cooked a nice dinner. And she did Jess’s bottle at six this morning, and made breakfast and everything.’
‘That’s great.’
There was a pause. Pete’s breath tickled her neck. ‘Doug came round.’ His voice sounded easy, normal.
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah — he’s back. He’s looking for a flat I think, so he can finally get out of that shed or whatever it is. He’s going to try and get a business going, fixing up vintage furniture.’
She felt a stirring of the old irritation. ‘So he’s not coming back here? To help finish off the Grant job?’
‘No.’ He kissed her again. ‘But we’ll be all right. We’ll get through it. I had another look at the books l
ast night and it’s not as bad as I thought. The debts … it’s not impossible, it’ll just mean a few lean months. I just … you know I don’t like owing money.’
She tried to pick up the frying pan to dry it, but Pete’s weight over her shoulders made it awkward. She stopped and just stood, holding the tea towel, her head down. ‘I’m …’ She put her hands up and over his. ‘I’m sorry about today,’ she said. ‘Sorry you had to give up your afternoon to look after the kids.’
‘It’s all right.’ He pulled her closer. ‘So what happened? You were a mess. Did Mickey take you out on the town?’
Bonnie felt her throat go thick. ‘Yeah.’
‘Where’d you go?’
She closed her eyes. ‘Just to a bar.’
‘Oh yeah. Was it fun?’
‘Not really.’ Her heart thrummed. How could he be so unsuspecting? Couldn’t he feel her strangeness, her nerves? She bent her knees, tried to ease herself out from his hold. ‘I mean, it was okay … I don’t know how I got so drunk. I guess I’m just out of practice.’ She moved forward, away from him. ‘I’m so tired.’ She picked up the frying pan. ‘I’m just going to finish these and then I have to go to bed.’
‘Really?’ He moved in again, arms around her waist this time.
She wiped the tea towel over the pan. The thought of sex with Pete, of being close, their two bodies, their faces, kissing, set her jangling with fear. He would know then, for sure — see it in her. She could picture him, drawing back, his gentle, questioning frown. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m just exhausted.’
‘Fair enough.’ He yawned. ‘Wish I could go to bed.’ He kissed her quickly one last time, reaching round to her cheek. ‘I’ll be in later. Sweet dreams.’
His footsteps over to the door, the chime of the bells, the rush of cold air, the door closing, and he was gone.
She stood twisting the tea towel, wringing it in her hands. This is crazy.
She finished the dishes. She checked the children and brushed her teeth. She moved slowly — her body numb and clumsy, like a car with bad steering and worn brakes. All she wanted was to sleep, to get to bed and to sleep, to shut herself down.
In the bedroom her clothes still lay on the floor — her best jeans and the tunic top. The zipper of the jeans caught the light from the hallway, open in a grin. She stepped over them and then turned and kicked, her foot hooking under the denim. They flew out of sight, behind the door.
She woke in the night, woke herself up talking aloud, speaking out from some black dream.
Quiet. Pete’s even breathing beside her. The hallway light through the gap in the almost-closed door. Their house, its smell, everything the same, but inside her this insistent balloon of guilt straining, bringing her out of sleep. She put the heels of her hands to her eyes and pressed. Circles of silver and blue burst and faded, and from them an image swam up: Pete, all those years ago, sitting at a share-house kitchen table on their first morning together. The happy jolt she’d felt when he spoke those words like a child. I wish you could stay. As if he was presenting her with an offering — the gift of his honesty — and the coming-home feeling, the recognition she’d felt in accepting it.
She turned to him sleeping beside her. She could see the rise of his cheek, the line of his brow. She could smell him, sweet wood, sawdust, and his own warm smell, his skin.
Under the covers her thumb sought out the sore finger, picked at the bandaid, pushed it down. With her thumbnail she dug at the cut, brought pain flaring bright in the darkness. There was no hiding. Even if he never noticed, if her guilt never showed enough to alert him — and he wouldn’t be looking for it anyway — she couldn’t keep carrying it around like this. She curled on her side with her knees up, tucked her hands in together against her chest. You’ll have to tell him something. She trawled for words. I was so drunk … there was this guy, and … She mashed her lips between her teeth. I just, I was so drunk. But, Pete, Pete — nothing actually happened.
Jess didn’t cry for her early feed the next morning. Bonnie woke to Louie crawling in under the covers on her side of the bed. She wriggled over, and Pete’s arm went round her automatically. She lay sandwiched between them, and there was a delicious long moment before she remembered — before it came lunging at her again, snapped her completely awake.
Then Jess did start to cry.
‘What time is it?’ said Pete.
She lifted her head to see the clock. ‘Quarter to seven.’ When she lay back again she could feel him behind her, their bodies touching all the way down, the easy way his arm resettled around her, and her flesh shrank in shame.
Pete yawned. He gave her a squeeze and sat up. ‘I’ll get her.’
She stayed where she was, Louie tucked in at her front. The guilt gave a fresh surge. Oh god, Pete, she thought. Don’t be extra nice — don’t make this even harder. She put her nose to the soft nape of Louie’s neck. ‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. I’m up now.’ Pete, in his t-shirt and boxer shorts, was groping around on the floor. ‘Are these my jeans or yours?’
There was a crash from the other end of the house, a pause, and then Edie’s cry. ‘Mum!’
Bonnie sat up. ‘What was that?’
Pete didn’t answer.
‘Watch out, Lou.’ She pulled back the covers and climbed over him. ‘Did you hear that?’ she said to Pete.
Pete was standing near the doorway, his back to her.
‘Mum!’ came Edie’s call. ‘I accidentally dropped the milk!’
Jess wailed.
‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Bonnie. She grabbed her dressing-gown. ‘I’ll get Jess then, if you can deal with Edie?’
‘She’s dropped the milk,’ said Louie helpfully, from the bed.
‘Pete?’ Bonnie looked up from tying the belt.
No answer.
‘In the kitchen,’ said Louie.
Jess was screaming now.
‘I’ll get Jess,’ she said again, and went out to the hallway. As she passed Pete he shuffled around, keeping his back to her, his shoulders forward, as if protecting something. She was hit by a displaced, uncomfortable feeling of having intruded on some private act, like masturbating, or an intimate hygiene ritual. Strange, she thought, rushing towards Jess. What’s he doing?
She heard him while she was in Jess’s room, his heavy tread in the hallway. Then, back in bed, as she lay feeding the baby she could hear from the kitchen the reedy voices of the twins, crisscrossing, and the occasional deep bass note of Pete’s. She closed her eyes, felt Jess’s dense body against hers, listened. There was the sound of the shower starting up, Edie yelling from the living room, ‘Louie! Come and play train tracks!’
Bonnie kept her eyes closed, anchored in the warm dark by the pull of Jess’s sucking. She let herself drift into hope. If she could just find the right way to tell Pete, the right thing to say, then maybe it was possible, after all, for everything to continue. The five of them, their family, spinning on, moving in the paths of their beautiful, sensible constellation. What happened in Sydney absolved, erased, dropped into the black.
She put Jess in her baby chair on the bathroom floor and showered. The smell of Pete’s shaving cream was in the face washer when she used it, and the grain of guilt rose again, insistent, caught and snagged.
Jess kicked in her chair.
Bonnie pushed aside the curtain and reached for a towel.
Jess frowned and made a wet, protesting sound.
‘It’s okay, Jess.’ She dried herself, wrapped herself in the towel, lifted the baby. She kissed her hungrily, held her close, but it didn’t work. In the cold air of the bathroom the hope was evaporating.
When she went into the kitchen Pete got up from the table, brushing past her without speaking or making eye contact.
Bonnie stood frozen. He kno
ws. The certainty came dropping down inside her, quick and final, like a coin falling into a slot.
After a moment she followed. He’d gone into the bedroom and shut the door.
‘Mum,’ said Edie from the living-room doorway. ‘Will Douggie work in the workshop again now?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, faintly.
‘Can I have more toast?’ said Edie.
‘Please?’ said Bonnie, automatically.
‘Please?’
Bonnie went back into the kitchen, strapped Jess in her high chair. Her heart thumped. She moved into the hallway again, towards the bedroom door. How could he know? She crept closer.
The door opened. Pete stepped forward, doing up the zip of his jacket. He saw her and stopped. His face was closed, stony.
She spoke before she could think. ‘I need to talk to you.’
He didn’t answer. He dropped his eyes and moved past.
Bonnie turned and went after him. ‘I need to talk to you,’ she said again, hearing her voice, its desperate upwards slide.
Pete walked down the hallway, through the kitchen and out the door.
She faltered by the table. ‘Maybe later?’
But the door was shut. He was gone.
She took the children to the park.
She sat with Jess on her lap while the twins ran and climbed and swung and slid.
How could he know?
‘Look at me! Mum!’
All of a sudden, like that?
‘Mum! Mum!’
Could someone have told him? A phone call, this morning? An email?
‘Mum!’
Someone who was at the party?
‘Mum!’
Who saw the kiss?
‘Mu-UM!’
She let her mind dip into the awful shame-filled black of her recent memory — the night, the party, the man. Who was there? Who saw you leave with him? Who would know Pete, be able to contact him? Mickey? Would she do that?
‘Mu-UM!’
Who cares? He knows something happened, that’s what matters. And he probably thinks it was worse than it actually was.
‘Look at me! Watch this!’