‘Jennifer, I’m so sorry,’ Benjamin took my hand. I stared at his fingers interlocked with mine. The skin contrast was beautiful. Unfortunately others didn’t share that thought. Just earlier that afternoon, on the bus, a man had rubbed his hands against Benjamin’s neck.
‘I wanted to see if the dirt came off.’
‘No Sir,’ Benjamin had replied politely, ‘I am black.’
Miss Bellamy kept her word. My father went potty.
‘I forbid you to see that man!’
But it was too late. Benjamin and I had fallen madly in love.
Nobody came to our registry office wedding. People would stare. Point in the street. At night we would sob in each other’s arms. Gradually things became easier. I found secretarial work. Benjamin secured employment in a factory. But new friendships were fraught with awkwardness.
‘I’d love you to meet my husband,’ I’d smile nervously, ‘but have to tell you something. Benjamin’s black.’
Some were horrified. Others positively delighted.
‘Good for you old girl,’ beamed June, a fellow colleague. And later, ‘Handsome bugger isn’t he!’
Benjamin and I have now been married for sixty-three years. It’s been joyful. And challenging. At least things are easier for mixed race couples today. Last night my granddaughter asked how Gramps and I met. I’d smiled. And told her. How it started with a kiss...
DECEPTION
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Not bad. Not great. But not bad. I slicked on a layer of red lipstick. Added a dash of perfume. Time to go. Tonight I was meeting Jack.
Jack and I met on-line. A dating site. And I don’t mean one of those respectable ones set up by the wholesome Sarah Beeny. Oh no. This was for people who wanted affairs. Who chased after thrills and spills but without any sort of commitment. So there would be no small talk. Nor any candlelit dinner at a bachelor pad raising a question mark over later sexual possibility. The website had been clear. Cut the romance and get laid.
I gathered up my car keys. Stepping out into the night, I pointed the key fob at the car. Lights blinked and locks released. The hotel was only ten minutes away. Something cheap and cheerful. After all, neither of us would use the room for the entire night.
I started the engine up and reversed off the drive. Throughout the short journey, I reflected. Trawling through the website, his profile picture had leapt out at me. His name was false of course. As was the bio. I’m a junk artist. It’s such a beautiful thing, if you only have the eyes to see it. I’m looking for trash. The filthier the better. Somehow I didn’t think he was quite anticipating the woman he was getting tonight. It certainly gave a whole new meaning to the word recycled.
For I was his wife.
OBSESSION
I can remember the exact moment Obsessive Compulsive Disorder entered my life. I was thirty one years old, and had just become a mother.
I’d always kept a neat and tidy home. But all that changed when I took my newborn home from hospital. There was a shifting. A re-arrangement with the cleaning products under the kitchen sink. A squeezing up to fit in the bottles of Milton and anti-bac wipes. But after my neighbour Barbara had popped over to cuddle Josh, a third word was added to the description of my home. Not just neat and tidy, but sterile. Why? What had Barbara done to so upset my equilibrium?
The last few years peel away. Memory flies backwards. Mid-February. Cold weather. And a knock at the door. Barbara standing eagerly on the doorstep.
‘Hello Dawn. I heard you were home from hospital. Can I see the baby?’
‘Of course Barbara, come on in!’ And my lovely neighbour crossed the threshold.
Now it has to be said at this point that my home was a shoes off place. Rather than trip around the house in high heels (me) or shiny executive shoes (husband), we preferred to kick off such footwear. In summer we went barefoot and in winter we wore cosy slippers. It was our preference. Usually visitors stepped out of their shoes as a courtesy to our hallway’s gleaming white floor tiles. But Barbara wasn’t that sort of person. Barbara had a cleaning lady to mop her own floors and wrongly assumed I had a minion too.
‘Cup of tea?’ I asked leading Barbara into the lounge.
‘Lovely. Two sugars. I’ll give Josh a cuddle while you put the kettle on.’
Once she’d finished cooing over my son, Barbara sank into the squashy depths of a sofa and crossed her legs. She took the tea from me and I sat down opposite. Barbara talked to me animatedly. She’d recently been widowed and, lonely, had joined a psychic circle believing she could talk to her dead husband.
‘I spoke to Ron last night,’ she said, eyes shining. Her crossed leg rocked up and down as she talked.
‘Your Ron?’
‘Yes! He came through loud and clear! Well, obviously I couldn’t hear him. But the medium could! And she said that Ron absolutely loves it.’
‘Loves what?’ my brow furrowed.’
‘Heaven of course!’ Her rocking foot picked up speed. ‘The whole place is smothered in golden light. The grass is the greenest he’s ever seen. There are magnificent birds with feathers coloured like jewels and – you’ll never guess – angels really do exist!’
‘I see,’ I took a sip of tea. ‘So, does he have his own place then? You know, a house or something?’
‘Well not as such no. Apparently he’s not gone over properly yet. He’s still sort of here. With me. He’s missing me you see. And our boys. Says he doesn’t want to leave us.’ Barbara had now ceased her foot rocking. Instead she had switched to a different sort of movement. Rotating her ankle. ‘And I’m getting all sorts of signs from Ron. Little indications to show me he’s definitely about.’ Barbara’s foot had now changed direction and was gyrating anti-clockwise. ‘I was driving along this morning and what do you think I should see?’
‘I have no idea,’ I replied staring at Barbara’s shoe. I was seeing something myself. Something I really didn’t like.
‘I’ll tell you what I saw!’ she exclaimed, her foot now twitching quite aggressively. ‘The car in front of me had one of those personalised number plates. And you’ll never guess what it spelled out! Well I’ll tell you – it was RON! I reckon it was Ron’s way of telling me he was around. What do you make of–’
But I was deaf to her words. I was staring at the dog shit on the bottom of Barbara’s shoe. Half of it was squashed flat on the sole. The remainder was dangling, like a disgusting sausage, in the space between sole and high heel. I didn’t know what to say. How could I interrupt her chatter about angels and heaven with the turd word? I had to stomach the crap covered shoe for another thirty minutes before Barbara finally took her leave, oblivious to what she was taking with her.
The moment my neighbour had gone, I set about cleaning. First the lounge carpet was shampooed. Then the hallway’s white floor tiles were washed. Correction. Scoured. Thank God Josh was a newborn and not yet crawling. I didn’t possess a pair of rubber gloves so, by the time I’d finished scrubbing, my fingertips were like prunes. The carpet and floor tiles were immaculate. However, I felt like my hands were dirty. I washed them. Thoroughly. Scrubbed the nails for good measure. But what if a germ still lurked? An itsy-bitsy microbe that I hadn’t quite reached? What if it somehow transferred to my baby’s bottle? I found the Milton. And ‘sterilised’ my hands.
From that point on, no person was allowed over the threshold with their shoes on. Even worse, they were requested to wash their hands. This posed a problem if a workman needed to come into the house. Like the time the boiler packed up.
‘Sorry love,’ said the man from British Gas. ‘I can’t take these boots off. Health and Safety see? What’s that? You want me to wash my hands?’
Some of them humoured me. And some of them thought I was absolutely barking. The temptation to anti-bac their tool box before they put it down on the floor was overwhelming – but there is only so far you can push with polite requests.
A proper carpet cleaning machine was
duly purchased. And I spent a small fortune on J-clothes to bleach surfaces and door handles. It was exhausting. And time consuming. When laminate flooring burst onto the scene, I was overjoyed. It was so much easier to simply mop a floor with disinfectant.
My son became a toddler. And then my daughter came along. Our growing family made the house seem smaller. So we opted to build an extension. And then the builders arrived.
The cement mixer had barely been set up when the doorbell rang. A little Irishman stood on the doorstep.
‘Top of the morning to you,’ he beamed. ‘Now can I be using your toilet?’
I looked at his hobnailed boots. Dirty. I looked at his hands. Filthy. But I wanted a good job to be done on the extension. It wouldn’t do to upset him. I did some mental calculations: loo next to front door... minimum footsteps required...tiles not carpet so washable floor... just the one door handle to touch...plus a man usually had a strong bladder on account of never giving birth and wrecking their pelvic floor. I concluded this would probably be the only time my facilities would be prevailed upon.
The moment the Irishman had exited (no he didn't wash his hands, sink bone dry), I washed the toilet from top to bottom including the flushing handle, surrounding walls (in case his aim had misfired), and finally the floor, working my way out on my hands and knees to the front door. I'd barely finished when the doorbell rang again. The Irishman was back.
'Ah ha ha ha,’ he tinkled. ‘Can I be using your toilet again please?’
I didn’t tinkle back. Bearing in mind he’d had a wee just twenty minutes earlier, it was quite obvious that this time he needed to do The Big One. The Number Two.
And sorry but there was no way I was going to have him (a) undoing all my cleaning in seconds and (b) ponging out the downstairs loo. So I said no.
The scene that followed wasn’t good. The Irishman went to pieces. From blatant pleading (him not me) to full-blown anger (him AND me). In the end he stormed off to his van doing a sort of duck-waddle and drove to the local supermarket to use their toilet. I felt mean, but couldn’t help it. The Irishman had barely driven off when his mate (there were five in total) rang on the door also asking to use my toilet. I then had to tell all of them that my toilet facilities weren't for them and they'd all have to go to the local supermarket. The clamouring and complaining was awful. I had no choice but to ring the building company. I explained their workmen had very weak bladders and could they please provide a chemical toilet for both their relief and mine. Well I don't know what their boss said, but the doorbell ceased being rung. I was, however, subjected to some very dark looks throughout the remainder of the contract.
Needless to say they all peed down the side of the house. I know because when I went out there the place stunk like a men's urinal. Still, I wasn't so bothered about that because it was outside. I just hosed off the area and then let the weather do its stuff.
I like to think I’ve made progress over the years. Moved away from the bottles of Milton and hot soapy water. In fact I’m so much better, we even have a pet dog! Ah. Excuse me a moment. My husband has returned from walking Tara. And I need to wipe her paws. Oh no, please don’t tell me I’ve run out of anti-bacs...
TREACHERY
‘That’s it then,’ said Larry. The ramp of the removal van swung shut.
I stared at Larry vacantly. This man who was moving all my worldly goods from A to B. A new start. Mine. Larry and his crew had wrapped, packed and stacked every possession I owned. I’d been powerless to help, instead getting under feet, chewing my fingernails, dissolving into tears as they’d worked their way through the house. The house that Scott and I had shared. The house that had been our home for ten married years. Where we’d laughed. Cried. Rowed. Made up. Made babies. Had parties. Pets too. Decorated. Welcomed family. Entertained friends. And brought back a lover.
‘That’s it then,’ Scott had shrugged as he’d said those same words – shaken but apparently not too stirred – as I’d gazed in horror at the bedroom scene before me. Such casual words. Whether referring to the last box in a removal van, or calling time on a marriage.
‘THAT’S IT THEN!’ I’d screamed, before breaking down.
The pain had been horrific. Like being stabbed. Burning, rip-your-heart-out stuff. The children had reacted differently.
‘That’s it then?’ Abigail had asked. Six years old and bewildered.
‘That’s it then,’ Daniel had repeated. Aged three and clueless.
Then the grovelling had started. The offer of explanations. It had been a flirtation that went too far. A moment of madness. It wouldn’t happen again.
And it wouldn’t happen again. The lover, also married, had fled. It was just me who’d been caught out.
REVENGE
‘So that’s chicken vindaloo for you, meat madras for me, two boiled rice and a couple of chapattis,’ said Jake. ‘Anything else you fancy?’
Laura wanted to say, ‘You.’ Instead she smiled and said, ‘That’s perfect.’
‘Right. I’ll nip out to The Moghul and collect our takeaway. Won’t be long. Are you all right in front of the telly?’
‘Absolutely,’ Laura assured. She curled up on the sofa, remote control poised. Jake grabbed his wallet. Seconds later the front door clicked shut.
Laura knew she was falling in love with Jake. And she was pretty sure the feeling was mutual. They’d only been dating four weeks. Due to their respective work commitments it meant this was only the seventh time they had been able to snatch a few hours together.
They’d met in a packed wine bar after work when Jake had accidentally tipped a glass of Chablis down her. Despite a wet start, they’d instantly hit it off. So far their precious time together had been filled with chat, laughter and joy. They’d also discovered they had many mutual interests, which was pleasing. Although, as Laura had listened to Jake’s history, she’d been surprised to discover just how much they had in common. Unfaithful ex-partners for starters.
So far their dates had included another trip to a wine bar (a different one with less people), a lasagne in Pizza Express (which was so noisy they’d had to shout across the flickering candle and wilting carnation), the cinema, a wind-blown walk around Greenwich Park, a trip to Chinatown and now...the seventh date...a takeaway. In Jake’s house. It was the first time she’d stepped over the threshold of his bachelor pad. The first time off neutral territory. And it was fair to say she was nervous.
Laura wasn’t a nosy person. So she didn’t set about investigating every corner of the place like her friend Juliette would have done the moment she was left on her own. Nonetheless Laura couldn’t help but let her eyes rove around the small living room. The wall unit from IKEA held a neat row of CDs, books, a telephone with answering machine, and a clutch of photographs. The latter were of a smiley three year old with cute dimples and an explosion of blonde curls. Laura knew this was Katya. Jake’s daughter. She also knew that Jake’s access to Katya was sporadic. That many a time Jake would turn up to collect Katya to be told that access was denied for some apparent misdemeanour. He was five minutes late which had upset Ruth’s schedule. Or he had spoken to his ex in a ‘disrespectful’ manner. Or he’d given Katya too many sugary sweets last time around and made her hyperactive so needed to be punished for not paying attention to Ruth’s instructions. Or he’d spoilt Katya with too many toys so that she didn’t want to go home to Mummy and how dare Jake try and turn Katya against her mother. The misdemeanours were endless.
‘Why did you split up?’ Laura had asked Jake on the first date.
‘She met somebody else,’ Jake shrugged. ‘Said it was my own fault for not giving her enough attention.’
Ruth had had a passionate whirlwind affair with a colleague. Two months later they’d moved into a rented house together. Except the colleague didn’t have children. And he wasn’t bowled over by Katya. And when he had disciplined Katya, Ruth had gone berserk. She’d packed her bags and returned to the marital home expecting forgiveness
. But Jake hadn’t forgiven Ruth. Nor did he want reconciliation. He wanted Katya, but not Ruth. Smarting with humiliation at being spurned, Ruth had proclaimed she’d use Katya as an emotional weapon by way of punishment. And so far Ruth was doing a very good job. Apparently she’d seen off all Jake’s girlfriends. Not that there had been many. One or two he’d said. Laura wondered if she’d ever be on the receiving end of Ruth’s reprisals. She didn’t have long to find out.
The telephone rang. Laura watched the handset on the IKEA unit light up. She didn’t answer the call. It wasn’t her place to. However, she was curious who the caller was. She turned the television down in order to listen to the caller’s message which was now recording on the answering machine.
‘Hello Daddy,’ said a breathy voice. Katya. There was some background mumbling. Whispering. As if the child was being instructed on what to say. ‘I want to know,’ a pause. More whispering. ‘If you are with a TROLLOP!’ Pause. Whisper. ‘Bye-bye Daddy.’ There followed a clattering sound as the phone clumsily disconnected. Laura stared at the flashing light on the answering machine, unable to quite believe what she’d just heard.
Laura wasn’t a spiteful person. Nor given to retaliation. To behave in an unhinged, obsessed way was unattractive. However, she wasn’t going to let Ruth spoil her evening with Jake. Uncurling her legs, she got up from the sofa and walked over to the answering machine. Seconds later the message had been deleted.
She resumed her position on the sofa and turned the volume on the television back up. It wasn’t long before there was the sound of a key in the door. The delicious aroma of curry wafted down the hallway.
Mixed Emotions Page 5