SCOTLAND ZEN and the art of SOCIAL WORK

by J.A. Skinner

  Chapter 23

  Thursday 29th may

  Men and women are equally likely to inherit the gene and develop the illness. HD can affect people of all ethnic groups, but is more common among those of European descent.

  Michael was here today, to help me in my second attempt to get the cradle out of the loft. We sat and had tea first and a chat. He wasn’t looking very well, cheeks sunk in and his wrists very thin and fragile looking. I said he was too slim and he just laughed and said it was his lean and hungry look, and maybe he had been burning the candle a bit. He’s probably tired, that’s all, doing his crazy shifts in the hospital. I try not to worry about his health, try not to see things that aren’t there.

  He’d just finished a sleep-over, which didn’t mean he actually slept, and a day shift and I’m sure he doesn’t eat well in the hospital canteen. We talked about Kathleen and Phillip and the excitement of being approved as adopters, and about John’s place in the football team. Michael spoke about some of his patients. Who was recovering well and who had to be constantly pushed. He threatens them all with the psycho-geriatric ward, what he calls the do-lally gang, if they don’t work hard at their rehab.

  I asked him if he was still seeing that nice girl Sheila, then I could have bit my tongue off, as we never usually stray on to that sort of subject. He looked a little vague and said he hadn’t had much time for romance lately. One day I’ll ask him a similar question and he’ll tell me the truth, which I may not want hear , not yet, so we continue to keep up this dance of pretence between us and ignore the fact that his preference is for men. I know my Michael more that he realises.

  I think life is hard enough for young people nowadays without having added complications. When I was young the worst we could contemplate was a mixed marriage between Catholic and Protestant, but homosexual partners! I can’t bear to contemplate the problems that would throw up. The Church is dead against it of course, according to them it is mortally sinful, but my Michael is a decent young man it would be hard to condemn him if he wanted a loving relationship with another man, but what do I know.

  We both went up into the loft and wiggled round each other in the small space. We manoeuvred the cradle to the very edge of the hatch, then Michael climbed half way down the ladder and I pushed it over the edge to him. He was able to lower it to the floor without a bump or a scratch. He held the ladder steady for me to come down, but I said I had decided to tidy up a bit, I would manage down myself and he could get on home to bed.

  I heard him shout cheerio and bang the door shut. In the silence that he left behind I felt the sadness of the gap between us and made up my silly stupid mind that I needed to talk to somebody about my feelings, someone outside the family, or I might leave it too late to bridge the gap. He needs acceptance from me and I can’t seem to find it in my heart to give it. I have too many secrets, too many things have been left unsaid.

  I crawl over to my chest of drawers for the second time in less than a fortnight and open the bottom drawer. This is my secret memory place. There is an old shoe box, and in it are two letters a few pages long and stiff with age in envelopes postmarked Corby, a few photographs and a tiny white gift box wrapped in tissue paper to keep it clean. At the bottom of the box there is a bulging envelope with ‘Bedtime Story’ written on the front. I can’t believe I’ve found this, it’s one of Peter’s stories he made up for the children and the only one I was able to persuade him to write down for his grandchildren. He must have put this story here years ago and forgotten all about it. I thought it had been lost forever. The kids will be delighted with this.

  One of the photographs is of me and Peter, a happy looking couple, at his friend Jimmy’s wedding. There is one of Kathleen at three and Margaret at about four months, a tiny wee bald angel. There is also one of Peter and his two best mates Jimmy Black and Martin Lafferty. They were at school together and all went on to work in Colville’s Steel. With their girlfriends Fiona and Patricia we used to go on nights out and day trips together. Peter and I were the first to get married, and even when we had Kathleen we still all saw a lot of each other. Patricia and Fiona were my bridesmaids as I had no sister to share the day with.

  This photograph of the three men was taken in the pub the night before Martin and Jimmy left to go to work in Corby. Work was slow in Motherwell and they were going to try their luck with the promise of steady shifts in a thriving town with modern steel works and cheap accommodation. The girlfriends were left behind temporarily till the men got settled in. There were a lot of tears and promises that night. I remember feeling quite flat, I had no big adventure to look forward to, but it felt sinful to be so discontent. I had everything, a nice husband, if a bit dull and settled, he had a good job, and I had a perfectly beautiful daughter. What did I have to I complain about?

  Peter had no notion to make such a big move, he was happy with his life and now we had Kathleen, his world seemed complete.

  Fiona and Patricia missed their men a lot and Peter missed his mates. Letters went back and forth every week. The jobs turned out good and the men were able to save a bit of money. Jimmy and Fiona set a wedding day after Jimmy had been away for four months and we then had three months to plan and organise the day. We women had a great time. We shopped and wrote invitations and tied favours together. Patricia was the bridesmaid, and everyone kept saying she would be the next bride before long. She wouldn’t talk about her plans, said she didn’t want to steal Fiona’s thunder.

  It was a great wedding, lots of happy relatives and friends all dressed up and determined to have a good day. Kathleen looked like a wee angel in a pink party dress. There was a bit of sadness too as the Bride and Groom were leaving the next day for Corby to honeymoon in their brand new flat. Fiona was one of my best mates but I knew we would eventually find it too hard to keep up our friendship from such a distance. She would be caught up in wifely things, keeping a new house and maybe a baby.

  Patricia caught the bouquet, well it was practically put into her hand and everyone clapped and shouted for Martin to name the day. The men had had plenty of drink by that time so they were laughing and shouting but not making much sense.

  Near the end of the reception, I met Patricia in the toilets. She was bent over a sink with her hands over her face. My first thought was that she was being sick, but then I realised she was crying so hard that she could hardly breathe. I put my hands round her and tried to calm her down. My second thought was that she was heartbroken because Martin was leaving with Fiona and Jimmy the next day to go back to work and she would be left alone again. I didn’t know how wrong I was. I tried to comfort her and said,

  ‘It won’t be long till Martin’s back for a holiday, and surely you’ll make wedding plans then.’

  When she managed to stop crying a bit, she took a big gasp of air, shook her head, and said,

  ‘I’m not marrying Martin, I’ve met somebody else.’

  My mouth hung wide open with shock. We all presumed they would be the next couple to tie the knot. She had the saddest expression on her tear stained face and confessed that she hadn’t found the courage yet to tell him that it was all over between them. She didn’t want to cause an atmosphere at Fiona’s wedding.

  Atmosphere! This was likely to cause a shock more like an earthquake. I bet she hadn’t even told her mother yet.

  ‘My good God Patricia, you need to tell him before he leaves tomorrow, it’s not fair to let him go thinking you’re still waiting for him.’

  ‘I know, I know…’ She started to cry again and said she didn’t want everybody to hate her, but she had met an American, a marine, based at Faslane. He had been rushed into the hospital where she worked with appendicitis and was operated on the same day. It was the usual clichéd story of a nurse falling in love with her patient before he had even left the recovery room.

  I felt terrible for Martin, this would break his heart. All these months he had been away from home, working and saving and writing letters, and she
had been having a high old time with her American. I said if she was really sure it was the marine she loved she should tell Martin straight after the wedding.

  ‘I know you’re right. God, give me strength to look him in the face and tell him. I feel terrible, but what difference does that make. Better to hurt him now than let it drag on.’

  She tried a watery smile and said,

  ‘I’m almost more scared to tell my Mum, she will have a mental breakdown, she is planting lilies and roses in her greenhouse for the wedding next year.’

  We went back into the reception in time for the last waltz, what the men called the erection section. I grabbed Peter and danced to the band playing ‘We’ll meet again’, a bit of a sad one, working up to the even sadder Auld Lang Syne and when that plays you know the day is over. Scottish events all seem to end on a low note, as if we don’t deserve too much happiness, that it has to be tempered by sad music or bad weather.

  I told Peter quickly what Patricia had said, I was so worried, I couldn’t keep it to myself. I had forgotten how much alcohol he had drunk and he became instantly furious. His face turned red and his eyes were blazing hard enough to bore a hole through steel. He walked off the dance floor pulling me behind him, bumping other dancers out of the way. He led me to the bar which was practically empty. The bar staff were starting the clean up routine.

  ‘How could she keep up a pretence like this,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know, her nerves must be shattered.’

  ‘Don’t you dare be sympathetic with that bitch, Martin’s my best mate.’

  I decide to say no more, he would not listen to any plea that Patricia was my best mate. Whatever I said now would be wrong. Peter had drunk a lot of beer and was getting a bit unpredictable.

  ‘If she doesn’t tell him tonight I’ll tell him myself tomorrow before he goes for his train.

  Baby Jesus, how I wish I had kept my mouth shut. This is what murders are made of and I’m in no position to criticise Patricia for putting on a face. I’m getting wary of contradicting my own husband, humouring him, how false is that?

  ‘Come on Peter we’ll go home now, you can deal with this in the morning if you have to.’

  Peter is at most times happy. I’m the malcontent, the dreamer of dangerous dreams. The thought of Patricia’s American marine, probably tanned and tall and blond, gives me a sharp stab of jealousy, a longing for excitement.

  Kathleen had fallen asleep in her pram, she had been fed and spoiled and shuggled to sleep by Fiona’s Mum, practising hopefully for her future Granny status. The wedding was in the Little Flower church hall so it was an easy walk home. Peter pushed the pram a bit unsteadily and was singing quietly to himself, he seemed to have forgotten his earlier anger. Kathleen slept soundly under two blankets, against the night chill. When we got home I put the kettle on and lifted Kathleen from her pram, took off her hat and shoes, carried her carefully upstairs and put her straight into her cot, hoping she would sleep right through. Peter couldn’t wait for the tea and bumped his way up the stairs muttering about poor betrayed Martin, and fickle frail, women.

  Five minutes later the house was completely silent. I made my tea and decided to have a whisky in it, a wee nightcap. I had stayed sober at the wedding, as a new respectable mother should.

  As I relaxed back on the couch I heard the front door handle rattle loudly. What a fright! In vain I desperately tried to remember if I had locked it. I jumped up just as Martin walked into the hall shouting,

  ‘Peter, Peter, are you still up?’

  I ran into the hall, grabbed him by the lapels and hissed at him to be quiet or he would wake the baby.

  He was in a terrible state, he had drunk too much, his face was chalk white, he had lost his tie somewhere, and he looked watery eyed as if he had been crying. I pulled him into the living room and guided him down on to the couch. He was muttering that he had to speak to Peter but I told him Peter was already asleep and a brass band would have a problem waking him now. Martin put his head in his hands and said,

  ‘Patricia’s dumped me, she’s been two-timing me Mary.’

  ‘That’s awful Martin, I don’t know what to say, you don’t deserve this.’

  I get up and pour him a cup of tea and he asks for something stronger. I tell him there’s been enough alcohol drunk for one night and I left him sipping his tea while I went to the linen cupboard in the hall to get some bedcovers and a pillow so that he could sleep on the couch. I sat down beside him. He looked slightly calmer, had stopped muttering and had some colour back in his face.

  I tried to comfort him by saying that although he must feel terrible now, it might not be the worst thing to have happened. Some people had their lives mapped out too much, too predictable, and drifted into relationships because everyone expected them to. Sometimes it was best to do something exciting, reckless.

  What on earth was wrong with me? What was I talking about? My own feelings? How could I sound so flippant if his heart was breaking.

  I needn’t have worried as he was drifting off to sleep. I gently took off his shoes and jacket and laid him as best I could on the couch. I pulled a sheet and blanket over him and put out the light. I bent over to kiss him on the cheek and say goodnight, then I must have had some kind of brainstorm, because I kissed him on the lips, very deliberately and very firmly. Both his arms came up round my shoulders and he kissed me back, not a bit sleepy now. I felt completely reckless and let myself be held. He smelled of aftershave and tasted of beer. He just wouldn’t stop kissing me. After a few moments I levered myself up so that I was sitting on the edge of the couch.

  ‘Right, Martin, you better get some sleep now, this isn’t wise, we’ll regret it in the morning.’

  ‘Please don’t leave me, please, this feels so good.’

  ‘You’re drunk Martin, you don’t know what you’re saying,’ but I let him pull me down again on top of him. I had no excuse for this behaviour, I’d only had one hot toddy but I felt so wicked and excited. Peter and my baby asleep upstairs and me, throwing caution to the wind in the living room.

  I don’t know how we got undressed, it was a process of stopping and starting and whispering and unbuttoning. I was in such a state I don’t think I thought about what was really happening. In the near darkness Martin held my breasts in his hands in the gentlest way and stared into my eyes. I blushed from the roots of my hair to my nipples and he smiled. He said he wasn’t heartbroken, just cut to the bone that Patricia had betrayed him. Then he held me very close with one hand at the back of my neck and his other hand between my legs. The heat of it was killing me. What on earth was I doing? What kind of slut was I? I suppose at that moment I didn’t care. I wanted him to push hard inside me but he didn’t. He rubbed me softly and kept telling me to keep my eyes opened as he wanted to see inside me. How different this was to my sex with Peter, silent and quick. I felt faint and very alive at the same time, I heard myself whispering,

  ‘Don’t stop, don’t stop.’ I think I was off my head, imagine, almost begging him.

  I started to clutch at his shoulders and writhe about. I felt an enormous orgasm very near, I couldn’t believe it. I thought for an instant of Peter staggering down the stairs and finding us naked then firmly pushed the image away. At the last moment, before I thought I would die, Martin was suddenly inside me and kissing me with his mouth wide open and his tongue all the way in my mouth. I would have yelled otherwise and wakened the whole street. He kept moving inside me and kissing me till I was completely exhausted, then we turned over carefully on the couch and he held me down hard and came inside me.

  My God, what had we done? I had never felt that good, but now I was frantic and wanted to cover myself up, and push Martin out into the night. I threw off the blanket and grabbed the sheet round me.

  ‘That was the most fantastic thing Mary, please don’t panic, please don’t say you’ll regret it.’

  I couldn’t say anything, I was shocked at what we had done, but dee
p down, I knew I had always fancied Martin, and we’d known each other for ever.

  ‘I didn’t do this because I’m heartbroken, It was the loveliest thing,’ said Martin very sleepily.

  ‘This is a one off, I don’t how to explain it, but Peter must never know,’ I was getting my senses back now, like cold water splashed on my face.

  ‘Of course, if that’s what you want, but it was something special, don’t forget that, Peter is so lucky.’

  I was so wound up I thought I would never sleep. I went to the bathroom, washed very carefully, looked in on Kathleen, who was still sleeping like an angel, and got into my marital bed beside Peter. He was snoring gently and in two minutes I was sound.

  Next morning, when I wakened, for a few seconds everything felt normal, then it all came surging back to me. I was alone in bed, I could hear Peter moving about in the kitchen and talking to Kathleen. I tried to push the guilt away like last nights blanket. I had a hard little nut of reality sitting on my chest, telling me that I had the rest of my life to live, probably with Peter,and last night was a moment of madness, so just get up and put on your nice wife and mother face, and get on with it. This was my secret, and I could relive it any time I wanted, and take it to my grave if I had to.

  I shiver awake and open my eyes. I am cramped and cold. I can’t believe I’m still up in this loft. It’s dark now and I’ve been clutching the two letters so long my hand is stiff. Peter, my dear Peter, wherever you are now, I’m sure you forgive me my one night of madness, and it was only one night.

  Something nags at me to take the letters downstairs with me, I really should read them one last time then burn them, but after all my dreaming today, I may not be quite ready yet. The little white box I put in my pocket, and the envelope with Peter’s bedtime story, these can come downstairs with me too.