by Tess Evans
In rare moments, my aunt could be disarmingly honest. ‘I haven’t had much practice,’ she confessed, standing awkwardly beside the bed. Scottie cupped her face and smiled. ‘We’ll manage,’ he said. ‘I do love you.’
Sealie proved to be a passionate lover, her body eagerly responding to his, and as they lay together afterwards, she felt the exhausted pleasure she had once experienced with dance.
‘You’d have made a wonderful dancer,’ she said.
Scottie understood that he was being paid a very high compliment indeed.
Sealie was still reluctant to confess her affair to Zav (yes, she actually thought of it as a confession), so she and Scottie met in secret. Having organised the same afternoon off, they’d meet for lunch and return to his flat where they’d make love before Sealie retuned home to prepare Zav’s dinner. After a while, the regularity of the meeting, the complete predictability, began to wear, and Scottie became impatient. He couldn’t wait for Thursday afternoons, but was never sure of Sealie’s commitment. Sometimes she was fierce and needy and her lover’s ardour met his own. At other times, she seemed slightly distracted and he would smart at the swift efficiency with which she brought him to orgasm.
Before long, variations of the same conversation took place every time they met.
‘I hate this sneaking around. When are we going to tell Zav?’
‘Soon. He’s a bit down at the moment.’
‘I’m down too,’ ‘I owe Zav. I promised to take care of Grace.’
‘You owe yourself. You owe me.’
Sealie would kiss him, then. ‘I know. When we’re together I’m almost happy.’
The word ‘almost’ stuck in his throat like a fishbone.
In her blunt way, Brenda tried to intervene once more. ‘You know I have your best interests at heart,’ she said to Sealie, ‘but I don’t like the way you’re using Scottie. The poor man is desperate for you and all you give him are a niggardly few hours a week.’
‘I can’t do any more. Zav—’
‘—is not your husband. You’re creeping around like you’re having an affair.’
‘Say what you like,’ Sealie responded, hating the fact that her friend was right. ‘Zav would see it as another betrayal.’
‘He might just accept it if it’s a fait accompli. It’s inevitable that he’ll find out eventually.’
‘Nothing’s inevitable.’
As she sat in the café waiting for Scottie, Sealie brooded over her conversation with her friend. She could dissemble all she liked, but had to admit that Brenda had a point. Just because she had chosen to stick by her brother, Scottie shouldn’t be expected to live half a life too. As his kind, freckled face appeared in the doorway, she steeled herself.
‘Scottie,’ she said, when the waitress had taken their order. ‘I’ve been thinking . . .’
‘Dangerous pastime, thinking,’ Scottie said with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. ‘What’s up?’
Sealie managed to hold out against those crinkles that nearly melted her resolve. ‘This whole thing—it’s not fair to you. We need to stop seeing each other like this.’ Oh God. I’m acting out a cliché.
Scottie frowned. ‘Like what?’
‘It’s been three years. You need to get on with your life. I’m holding you back.’
‘You could marry me.’
‘You know I can’t.’
‘Why can’t you? I mean really—why can’t you? You know I love you. Zav’s my mate. I don’t want to hurt him but we never even discuss other possibilities. We could look after Zav together, if that’s what it takes.’
The waiter came with their meals and Sealie chose to ignore the proffered compromise. ‘It’s not that I don’t love you,’ she said, looking down at her suddenly unpalatable pasta. ‘You know I love you.’
Scottie shrugged. He knew nothing of the kind. He hoped—yes. But knowing. That was altogether different.
‘But love’s not enough,’ she continued. ‘Can’t you see? There’s obligation . . . duty . . .’ She grasped his hand, which was lying limply on the table.
He slid his hand from under hers, his face so pale that each separate freckle was etched with a clarity that made her wince. ‘Seal.’ He searched her face for clues. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Please. It’s hard enough.’
‘Hard? Hard! If you really loved me it would be impossible.’
‘I hope we can still be mates.’ Find something original to say. He’s worth more than this.
‘Mates.’ In his mouth the word sounded unfamiliar, like he was speaking in a foreign tongue. ‘Yes. Mates.’ He stood up. ‘I need a bit of time. Tell Zav I’ve gone away for a few weeks with work.’ Without waiting for her reply, he left, his wine and lasagne untouched.
The next time they met, Scottie brought a pretty, brown-haired, young woman whom he introduced as Nina. Will and Brenda watched Sealie as she chatted amiably with the newcomer. Her face was flushed with the effort. Zav went out of his way to be nice to Nina. It’s better all round, he thought. Scottie looked miserable and left early. Six months later, he was back with Sealie.
It wasn’t just the sex. It wasn’t just that he found her beautiful. There were times when the person he thought of as the real Sealie bubbled to the surface and he wanted to hold her face between his hands and say stay. This was the Sealie whose eyes danced with delight as she ate a simple ice-cream cone by the sea. The Sealie who loved to stride out along the beach, her long shapely legs bare and brown.
‘Race you to the pier.’ She always made sure she had a head start and when he finally caught her, they fell in a laughing heap on the sand. She’d kiss his nose. ‘All red, poor darling.’
She liked to watch the surfers.
‘I could do that, you know. I have very good balance.’
Skinny, red-haired Scottie was jealous of the surfers’ tanned, muscular bodies as they flew across the waves. He always came home red and itchy, but it was worth it. The shadow that enveloped Sealie had shrivelled to nothing in sun-glare and brine.
At times like these, Scottie wanted time to stop. Of course he loved her earnestness, her sweet, serious face, but he found real joy in her joy. As they drove home, he was always saddened to see the return of the shadow. Its demise was a wonderful but momentary illusion.
While Sealie was ambivalent about her relationship with Scottie, she threw herself wholeheartedly into what she termed her ‘honorary auntship’ to Brenda and Will’s daughters, Jeannie and Jo. Born just fifteen months apart, they were as inseparable as twins. She loved their cheeky little faces that smiled up at her with such trust and love. When Brenda was busy with parish duties, Sealie often took them out. With ‘the girly monsters,’ as she called them, she found untapped energy and a youthful sense of fun.
They often visited the zoo. ‘Meerkats! Meerkats!’ The children danced with excitement as they raced over to their favourites.
‘You look just like meerkats,’ Sealie would say, and they’d entertain her and themselves with a very fair imitation of the little creatures.
‘Race you to the monkeys!’ Sealie would take off first but the children won every time.
‘Slowcoach!’
‘I’m not a slowcoach. I’m the TICKLE SPIDER!’
A day out with Aunty Seal was a day to look forward to.
In later years, she took them to the theatre and the ballet. ‘When I turn eighty, you’ll have to do this for me,’ she said.
I have to remind you, though. I’m her real niece. Given half a chance, she would have loved me better. It stands to reason. After all, blood is thicker than water.
And what of Zav? He was a young man and had his own needs. For some months after Kate left, his mind and body were burdened and his sexual desire subdued. When his libido returned, he was afraid of commitment. And at a deeper level, afraid to taint someone else with his sadness.
So he swallowed his pride and distaste and sought relief in The Perfumed
Garden. When he first sidled through the door, the madam greeted him, then hurried out the back.
‘It’s that Rodriguez bloke. The one from the telly. I’m sure it’s him.’
‘The one that killed the baby?’
‘No. The son.’
The girls crowded around the mirror that revealed the occupants of the waiting room.
‘It is,’ hissed Joanna. ‘I went to school with his sister. No way I want him fucking me.’
There was a murmur of agreement. ‘Blokes like that are trouble.’
Soft-hearted Colleen volunteered. ‘Poor bugger. I’ll do it.’
The others shook their heads.
Careful—madness and murder could run in the family.
Better take some tissues. He’ll probably blubber all over you.
‘We only have one girl available at the moment,’ the madam told him with her over-enunciated vowels. (The Garden, as the punters called it, prided itself on its class.) ‘Take it or leave it.’ She stood with her hands on her hips, hoping he would leave it.
But he was a model client. Colleen found him strangely detached at first. After a few visits they became comfortable with one another. It was easy work. Zav’s needs were basic and he was kind and generous, treating her with a kind of solemn courtesy she found quaint and quite endearing.
‘Thank you very much, Colleen,’ he’d say. ‘I’ll see you next week, if that’s okay.’
When she left to get married, he gave her a coffee pot. She gave him Chrissie, the nicest of the new girls.
Sealie checked the kitchen calendar as though it might differ from her own. Yes. It was the fourteenth. She counted backwards and frowned. Her cycles were so regular. On the other hand, she was only a few days late. And they always took precautions. Well, more or less. She jumped guiltily as Zav came in from the garden, and saw what she was doing.
‘It’s alright. I know it’s your birthday on Saturday.’ Brenda had organised a small dinner party and helped him choose a gift. He looked at his sister. She didn’t look at all well—she was what Mrs Mac used to call peaky. He didn’t often notice things like that. The depressed can be very self-absorbed.
‘Are you okay, Little Sis?’
Tears sprang to her eyes at this rare moment of kindness. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired.’
‘Good-oh.’ Zav was glad that he was not obliged to enquire further.
Two days later, on the eve of her twenty-ninth birthday, there was still no sign of her period. What if she was pregnant? She couldn’t have a baby now. Later, when Zav was settled maybe. She picked up the photo of me with my fairy wings. Poor Aunt Sealie. She felt the familiar prick of tears as she studied my face.
I stared back at her, unable to help. She put down the photo, feeling a twinge of pain, low in her abdomen. Was that it? She checked hurriedly. Nothing.
At Will and Brenda’s the next night, she was pleased when the men offered to do the dishes.
‘No work for the birthday girl or the cook,’ said Will, kissing his wife on the top of her head. ‘We’ll even make the coffee.’
‘What is it, Sealie?’ Brenda had noticed her friend’s abstracted air at dinner. ‘Is it Zav?’
Sealie began to sniffle. ‘It’s me. I think I’m pregnant.’
Brenda hugged her. ‘That’s wonderful! Have you told Scottie yet?’
‘Not till I know for sure. I feel—I don’t know what I feel. It’s the wrong time.’
‘Would it be a total disaster if you are pregnant? Things have a way of working out.’
‘It’s too soon after Grace.’
‘Ten years!’
‘There’s a million reasons.’
Brenda signalled to her husband who had poked his head in from the kitchen. ‘Give us a few minutes, Will.’ She turned back to her friend. ‘You can’t live your life for Zav. He’ll come round. It might even be good for him. And Scottie—he adores you.’
Sealie hastily wiped her eyes as Scottie came in with a tray. ‘Secret women’s business?’
‘Top secret.’
Ten days after her period was due, Sealie felt the dragging pain and knew that this was no false alarm. Her flow was heavy, even for a first day, and she rang work to say she wasn’t well. Zav fussed clumsily and she accepted a cup of tea before sending him away.
Sealie lay on her bed, relief and regret warring for ascendancy. It was perfectly natural to be relieved. She was nowhere near ready for such a commitment. Hadn’t she spent the last ten days praying for her period to start? Of course she had. So where did that feeling of loss come from? Had she actually been pregnant and lost the child to early miscarriage? ‘I’m sorry,’ she told her phantom child. ‘I’m sorry for praying you into non-existence.’ Tears oozed from her closed eyes. I would have been a good mother. She saw herself wheeling a pram to the park, holding a toddler’s hand, waving a sturdy little boy off to school. Why did she see a boy? Had the cells she’d shed so carelessly been the beginnings of a son? For a moment she was tempted to ring Scottie. Accept the marriage he offered so regularly; but then she heard Zav pottering around in his room. It was no good. She already had a child to care for.
So instead of grabbing happiness with both hands, Sealie once again broke with Scottie. She had seen him with Will and Brenda’s children. He would be such a good father—a nice, normal, fun-loving dad of nice normal fun-loving kids. And that was a world away from what she and Zav had known.
After Nina, there were Trudy and Annette, then Susan, whom Scottie married. Sealie, while aware she was being unreasonable, felt betrayed by this marriage. Nevertheless, on the big day, she managed to outshine the bride by wearing a stunning cream lace dress. Brenda was furious. ‘That was so unkind,’ she told her friend. ‘Lace is for the bride.’
Mrs Mac shook her head. ‘I’m very disappointed in you,’ she said. ‘It’s Susan’s day.’
Sealie went home and cried. She wasn’t quite sure if the tears were to wash away grief or shame.
After an uncomfortable four years, Scottie and Susan divorced. Then there was Michelle. Then Amy. Another Susan, then Diana. He broke his engagement to Diana six weeks before the wedding. Between lovers, he and Sealie fell back into the familiar pattern.
And they both grew older. And neither of them grew any wiser.
Zav lost his job in the recession of the early nineties. Retrenched, they called it, and at fifty-four, with limited work experience, there was no real prospect of further employment. Having no motivation, he lay in bed until lunchtime when he got up and watched television.
Perhaps realising his need, Zav never missed a meeting with Scottie and Will. Apart from that, he rarely left the house. Will rang Sealie after their regular Saturday beer. ‘He’s depressed again. We need to get him to a doctor.’
Sealie hung up the phone. It wouldn’t be easy but she had to try. What if Zav broke down completely like their father? The psychiatrist had explained the difference between psychiatric illness and depression. Zav’s depression had external causes and as far as she understood, he was not psychotic. Nevertheless, she wasn’t ready to trust her own judgement. Not after last time.
An opportunity arose when her brother contracted shingles. The pain was such that he had to visit the family doctor in whom Sealie had confided. Dr Murray gave Zav an antiviral prescription and recommended codeine for the pain. He looked at his patient over his glasses.
‘And how are you otherwise?’
Zav glowered. ‘Fine. I’m fine.’
‘Sleeping well?’
‘Could be better.’
‘Energy levels?’
‘Okay till I got these bloody shingles.’
‘Appetite?’
‘The same.’ Zav’s hands were in his pockets. Slouching in his chair, he looked past his interrogator.
The doctor cleared his throat. ‘You look a bit down to me. Not unusual with shingles. The loss of your job. Not to mention . . .’ Zav looked up sharply and the doctor ventured no further along tha
t path. ‘Maybe you’d like to see someone to talk things over with.’
‘Are you saying I need a shrink?’
‘Just to get you over a bad patch.’
‘How can any patch . . .’ He emphasised the word patch to register his contempt. ‘How can any patch, as you call it, be worse than losing my family? Than going to Vietnam?’
Ignoring his patient’s petulant tone, the doctor began to write in his prescription pad. ‘Antidepressants,’ he said. ‘If you won’t see a specialist, at least take these.’ He anticipated the response and leaned forward, forcing Zav to meet his eyes. ‘Your choice, Zav, but I don’t want to see your sister broken by the strain. You can tell me it’s none of my business, but you owe Sealie, and the least you can do is try to make things easier for her sake if not your own.’
Zav snatched the prescription ungraciously. But the doctor’s words had stung. He knew that Sealie was worried about him. Understood that she feared their father’s insanity might be genetic. Momentarily facing his own, similar fears, he had the prescription filled. He wasn’t ready for a shrink— but he wasn’t going to take unnecessary risks.
‘He’s depressed, but not insane,’ Dr Murray assured Sealie. ‘I’ve consulted some colleagues. His depression is almost certainly non-melancholic—that means it’s caused by stressful events.’
‘He’s had more than his fair share of those.’
The doctor patted her arm. ‘The medication should help.’
Meanwhile, Hal was diligently building his castle in the clouds, his pie in the sky. His medication kept the worst of the voices at bay, but he remained firmly and politely delusional. He painstakingly laid each brick. Spent hours embellishing the cornices, months fitting the windows, years crafting the sweeping marble staircase. He lined a grand gallery with mirrors and laid a specially sprung floor. He stood at one end of his hall of mirrors and gazed with longing at a multiplicity of Paulinas dipping and swaying, immersed in pools of silver.