Yellow Room

by Shelan Rodger

  They took a taxi back to his hotel and he led her to his bed. He kept her eyes his prisoner as he removed her clothes and then his, and she blocked out everything except her heartbeat. She pulled his head to her breast and he, too, heard the desire in her. Not a word passed between them. Their bodies didn’t need words. Her consciousness couldn’t form them. And afterwards, they fell asleep immediately.

  Chala woke a few hours later with semen spilling out of her and a stranger’s arm around her. In the first few seconds, before the inevitable tide of self-condemnation that would come, what she felt was: bliss. She would hate herself for it, but there was no other word to describe it – an extreme she had never achieved with Paul or the only other man she had ever slept with. She felt as if she had just done a bungee jump and overdosed on Valium at the same time.

  ‘Hey, gorgeous.’ Bruce stirred and pulled her to him.

  And because she knew that the damage was done and that this had to be the last time she would ever see him, she squashed the tide down into a deeper part of herself and they made love again. And again they talked only with their bodies, but slowly, so much more slowly this time. He looked at her, and into her, and she felt intensely female. And everywhere he looked he followed with his hands. And when they came, she was just a split second ahead of him and he was holding her face and looking into her ey… and it felt like a part of her was either dying or being born.

  CHAPTER 5

  The birthday picnic happens, but newly eight-year-old Chala doesn’t smile. Amanda’s two-years-previously widowed mother, Julie, Amanda and her two younger brothers, Danny and Justin, are all there. They have brought rucksacks stuffed with sandwiches, pasties, orange juice and lemonade. There is even a chocolate cake, neatly packaged in the box that Philip bought it in. Their dog, Rusty, has found the perfect spot to lay down the blankets and the food, a small clearing in the wood next to the stream. The ground is soft and springy beneath them, and there is still a pleasant tang of wild garlic in the air.

  The boys disappear as soon as they have unloaded their rucksacks and the girls organise their picnic feast in the middle of one of the blankets, while Philip uncorks wine for the adults. Chala is quiet and Amanda is fidgety, but Philip, perhaps shy in Julie’s company, doesn’t appear to notice anything. When Julie asks Chala to go with her to round up the boys, who have disappeared into the woods, Amanda corners Philip with precocious determination. She gives a rapid summary of what happened at school that day, wary of the others coming back too quickly.

  ‘What does it mean?’ She follows up her brief explanation with the question that has been plaguing her all day. ‘Why are they saying all those things?’

  Philip wishes Denise were at his side. ‘Listen, Amanda, you’re going to hear lots and lots of nasty things and most of them will not be true. The truth is there was a terrible accident and Chala’s baby sister died. Chala was only four at the time and she was there when it happened, but she didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t her fault.’ He pauses to weigh the impact of his words on the eager little face in front of him. ‘And now she is going to need a really good friend at school.’

  ‘I am her best friend,’ Amanda says proudly, and Philip hopes desperately that this is enough. She ponders something for a moment and then asks, ‘What was the baby’s name?’

  Philip marvels at the human thirst for detail, already manifest at the age of eight. ‘Emma,’ he says slowly, and the name seems full of sadness on his lips.

  ‘But she wasn’t Chala’s sister really, was she?’

  ‘Well, they were just like sisters, but no, you’re right, by birth she was really Emma’s cousin. Chala’s mother was my sister.’

  ‘OK, I understand.’ And this is enough for Amanda.

  Chala has another nightmare that night. She and Rosie are playing babies and she is bathing baby Rosie when suddenly she finds herself pushing Rosie underwater. Rosie screams and screams until there is no energy left inside her and her body is limp and wet in Chala’s hands.

  Over the days and weeks that follow the revelation in the school playground, she begins to make private sense of these dreams about Rosie. She begins to understand that it was never Rosie she killed, it was Emma. This knowledge will settle inside her like worms inside a dog; slowly, slowly invading her organs, pervading her emerging sense of self over the years to come.

  Philip tries to tell her that it was an accident, that she did nothing wrong, that she shouldn’t listen to the things people say, but grown-up little Chala knows he is just trying to protect her. It’s the same with Father Christmas. People don’t like to tell you that he doesn’t exist because they don’t want you to get upset, but Chala knows there is no Father Christmas and now she knows that she killed her baby sister when she was only four.

  Over the coming months, Philip spends even more time with Chala. They take Rusty on a camping and walking holiday, just the three of them. They go on another holiday with Amanda and her mother and brothers, and Amanda and Chala hatch a plan in private and make a public proposal to the adults that they get married, so that they can all become brothers and sisters. Julie blushes harder than Philip.

  Philip quietly watches Chala, carefully assessing her mood at the beginning and end of each school day. He never asks her a direct question, but he gives her harmless detail about his own day to see what she will offer him back. At first she is sullen and offers him nothing, and then gradually snippets filter through and begin to grow.

  ‘We’ve started learning netball,’ she tells him one day, clearly bursting to say more.

  ‘And?’

  ‘The teacher said I’m such a good runner I should be centre!’

  ‘That’s fabulous!’ He realises there is still more. ‘And?’

  ‘And Louise wanted to be on my team.’

  Philip wishes it were easier for men to cry. He knows what a huge milestone this is. Something that has been tense inside him for months slowly relaxes. He lets himself believe that he made the right decision not to pull Chala out of the school and away from her one staunch ally, Amanda.

  When Chala is eleven and has just started secondary school, and begun to have tentative daydreams about what it might be like to kiss under the mistletoe, there is a day when she and Philip are on their way back from Sunday lunch at a local country pub. They both spot a furry shape in the middle of the road at the same time and, as Philip veers sideways to avoid it, they catch sight of it twitching. Philip immediately stops the car and reverses back to check if the fox has any chance of making it. He pulls up close to the hedge, so that there is plenty of room for other vehicles to get by, and both of them step out. As they do this, the poor fox pulls itself up and limps in pain and terror into the undergrowth of the hedge. Afraid of losing the chance to save it, Philip beckons Chala and they follow the blood, but just as they draw near, it forces itself further into the thick mesh of leaves and sticks. Philip is distraught and Chala doesn’t know if she is more frightened for the fox or for him. She is not used to seeing him like this.

  ‘We’ve got to do something or it’ll die.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you go and get help, and I’ll stay here and watch it.’

  Philip hesitates a moment and then almost shouts. ‘No, no – are you mad? Of course I can’t leave you here on your own. Anything could happen.’ Chala is silent. It’s almost as if he is angry with her and that isn’t fair, not something within her experience.

  Another car draws up and Chala keeps watch on the fox, while Philip talks and gestures through the driver’s window. Then this man disappears and returns, after twenty long minutes, with someone in gloves from the RSPCA, who catches the fox with a blanket and takes it away in a cage. Chala feels vaguely embarrassed to see tears in Philip’s eyes and know that hers are still dry.

  When they get home, Philip pours himself a larger than usual whisky and is exceptionally quiet. Chala looks around for a distraction and asks him if she can have a glass of whisky too. He seems abou
t to say no and then changes his mind.

  ‘OK, just a tiny tot. Why not?’ He fills her glass so full of ice it’s like licking whisky rather than drinking it. Chala won’t realise until much later the extent to which Philip fails to subscribe to convention on how to bring up a child. Philip’s basic premise in life is that everyone’s view is valid. This makes him either wet or tolerant, weak or perceptive, brave or a coward, according to the outlook of those who come into contact with him. Whether as a teacher or a parent, he simply refuses to be judgmental, and young minds are forced to make their own choices.

  It is not until she’s fifteen that Chala feels a vague surge of rebellion. Without warning, and outside the comfort zone of their walking-talking time, she catches him off guard one day after a Wimbledon semi-final in their living room.

  ‘Philip, tell me what really happened.’ Just like that. She expects Philip to know immediately what she means. He shifts in his armchair and looks desperate.

  ‘I have a right to know,’ Chala continues, but she already feels bad about putting him on the spot, already less sure of herself. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Why, Chala? What good will it do? Why torture yourself? It was an accident, my sweet. If anyone was guilty it was me for not being there.’

  ‘You weren’t the one who did it, Philip. You’re not the one who has to live with this for the rest of your life.’ Her voice is pleading, not angry.

  After what seems an absurdly long pause, Philip speaks, but Chala feels cheated; it’s as if he is speaking past her, beyond her, through her, not to her.

  ‘We’d run out of loo ro… I thought I would just pop out to the corner shop, so that Denise wouldn’t have to go out again when she got home. I thought about taking you both with me, but it was getting late and I needed to do your supper and it would all take too long, so I decided to just nip out.… thought no harm could come to anyone in just five minutes. When I got back, I had no idea there was anything wrong at fir…’ His voice is faltering.

  ‘Enough. That’s enough. It’s OK.’ She can see him trembling and she feels cruel for stirring all this up for him. At least she was young enough not to remember it clearly. Maybe it was worse for him. For a moment Philip looks set to continue, but suddenly Chala is jumping up and hugging him and saying sorry, and he holds her close to him and nothing more is said.

  But there must have been more. What he saw when he walked into the yellow room must live on inside him for ever. Perhaps Philip was not always so inert and inscrutable. Perhaps it was what he saw in the yellow room that did this to him.

  * * *

  The noise in Chala’s head was deafening. It was a fabulously crisp early morning and she could have spent it, fresh and rested, wandering along Sydney harbour and contemplating the world around her with easy detachment. Instead, her head was pounding, she was wearing the same dress as the night before and the smell of him was still on her. She veered into a moment of reverie and felt him warm inside h… and then veered back into the reality of what she had done.

  ‘Why? Why did I do it? How could I? What is wrong with me?’ Beneath the words in her head lurked an unvoiced association between what she did as a child and what she had just done to Paul: a hollow recognition of something dysfunctional.

  But then a less dramatic piece of her mind retaliated. ‘Oh for God’s sake, people do it all the time. It’s called passion, and it’s what you lose after you’ve been sleeping with the same man for a few years. Some people just give in.’

  ‘But not me. I’ve never been unfaithful to Paul. I love him. I love our marriage.’

  ‘Oh no, you’re so pure, aren’t you? You, of all people! What’s amazing is that it’s never happened before.’

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand. I’d never do that to Paul.’

  ‘But you just did!’

  ‘But I didn’t mean to. It doesn’t mean anything, does it? What does it mean? Paul would say it could only happen if there’s something wrong in the relationship, otherwise why go outside it?’ And suddenly there were pieces of anger flying at Paul – as if he too were in her head. ‘You and your fucking black and white, Paul! Maybe I needed some colour, some bright, shocking, life-affirming red in my life.’

  ‘So, what are you saying? That our marriage is dull?’

  ‘No, no, no, that’s not what I meant.’

  ‘So, you let a stranger put his dick inside you and that made you feel good, did it?’

  ‘… shit. Shit, shit, shit.’ The anger shattered and she faced herself again. ‘What if I’m pregnant? No, no, I don’t think it’s the right time of the month for that and it’s not as if Paul and I haven’t had unprotected sex ourselves, is it? I panicked the first time but Paul said my period had just finished so I should stop worrying. And anyway, even if you’re doing it on the right days, it usually takes ages for a couple to get pregnant, everybody knows that, and I’m in my thirties now. But – shit – I could have picked up HIV for all I know. I can’t believe I didn’t even use a condom. Oh my God, why would I do that, I’ve never done it before, I’ve never understood how anyone can get ‘so carried away’. But at least he didn’t seem like the kind of bloke who would have unprotected sex if he was HIV positive.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re suddenly quite the expert are you?’

  ‘And statistically,’ she groped for reassurance beyond the taunts, ‘statistically, the odds are all in my favour. I only did it on… twi…’

  She wanted to scream out to drown the turmoil in her head, and yet no one watching would have known. All they would have seen was a young woman in her early thirties walking serenely through the early morning in a pale turquoise cotton dress, a colour that almost clashed with the red in her hair.

  By the time she had finished the brisk walk back to her own hotel, the noise had dropped to a slow whine and she decided to have a coffee to steady herself before going up to her room. She walked past the occasional turned head and briefly relished the anonymity that allowed her to have breakfast in the clothes she was wearing the night before with impunity. She tortured herself momentarily with the consciousness of his smell still clinging to her and the notion that she was delaying washing him away. And, as she stared through the glass at Sydney’s workforce waking up, she fought to turn scarlet and crimson into black and white.

  But there was no colour in the line she had drawn under the possibility of meeting Bruce again. That, at least, had been very clear. ‘You know we can’t do this again, don’t you?’ she had said to his neck as he lay spooned away from her and she stroked his back. He had turned to look at her – he was always looking at her – and said, ‘Yes, I know. I felt it too.’ It was said with tenderness, not arrogance, and neither of them had said anything more.

  Actually, there was colour there, she mused, over her coffee. Green – it was a green goodbye. Not green in the sense of traffic- light green, God no, but green in the sense of gentle.

  And then the violent reds were upon her again. Should she tell Paul? Was this about spaces in their togetherness? No, don’t go there, she reprimanded herself. Space, you need space for perspective. Paul always said that about painting, and Chala already knew it was true for real life too. So she clung to a strategy from a crisis management workshop she’d once been to, resolving to break the day into manageable chunks, like a smoker trying to give up cigarettes.

  But the chunk that came next was not manageable. It was the wrong size.

  CHAPTER 6

  Chala is so used to Philip’s relativism that he shocks her one Sunday afternoon. They are crossing a peat bog on the moor and Rusty is racing ahead. Chala has just told Philip that Amanda’s mother got pregnant accidentally thirteen years after the last of her three children was born, and had an abortion. Because they are walking and the boggy tufts underfoot require more concentration than most terrains, she doesn’t notice the long pause. But then he suddenly blurts out, ‘Chala, whatever you do in life, don’t have an abortion.’

  ‘
Why not?’ she asks, taken aback. Philip doesn’t deal in thou shalts and thou shalt nots. And besides, she knows he thinks there is a place for suicide and euthanasia, so why should abortion be any different? She can sense him beside her, struggling for words.

  ‘I just think it would be very hard to live with the knowledge—’

  ‘Of what?’ she cuts in, also uncharacteristically. ‘The knowledge of having killed a foetus? I don’t think that would be so hard.’

  The rest remains unsaid, but Philip picks it up anyway. ‘Chala, my sweet, do you really still blame yourself?’ She looks down at her sixteen-year-old feet walking in front of her. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  She raises her eyes and snatches a sidelong glance at Philip. What she catches is a look of concentration that she cannot make sense of. She can see him searching for words, words that she assumes are meant to comfort her, but she knows that no words can undo what is done, and as the words fail to come, she feels as if he is her prisoner, marching beside her. She feels sorry for him then and releases him.

  ‘Hey, look at Rusty. What on earth has he found?’ Sheep shit. There is nothing Rusty loves more than a good old roll in some, ideally still warm, animal manure.

  Years later, she will have another conversation about abortion, this time with Paul. It is their first holiday together and they are sitting at a café in a Greek village square full of the noise and the play of children. Something about the way that Paul is looking at them makes Chala say, as gently as she can, ‘Paul, you know that I don’t ever want children.’ She hopes desperately that he will understand without the need for her to attempt to articulate why.