River Life
By frances
- 470 reads
Now the question of having children. I know it's expected of me,
indeed I expect it of myself. Wasn't that the reason I got married? To
start a family. And what better time, at least what more obvious time
than now, in this idyllic honeymoon place, Celandine Cottage, with the
river floating past and everything so civilised: the bowls of
pot-pourri, stifling central heating on a timer, boiling hot water on
tap, the tiled kitchen and bathroom, flowery wallpaper and double
glazing framed by elaborate curtain arrangements.
The grassy border along the riverside is neatly mown too, with benches
set at intervals. However, unfortunately people do walk their dogs
along here and glance in at our windows. Frank watches TV; I watch the
heron and the other wildlife.
"Look at those ducklings, Frank! How many of them are there? At least
eight." Our evening walk, along the riverbank below the castle.
Frank was silent for a while, then he said "fifteen".
"Fifteen! There can't be."
"Yeah. There are."
The ducklings looked like tarantula babies - a mass of fur,
creepy-crawling over the water behind Mum.
"How can she have fifteen? How could she have sat on fifteen eggs, to
begin with?" I heard the note of rising panic in my voice.
"Lucky they all survived" Frank said.
"Lucky!"
In my mother's time you could count on having at least one
miscarriage, before the first baby arrived safely. Women almost
expected it then. My mother got burned on the beach after misjudging
the strength of the sun behind the mist, so I lost my elder brother or
sister. And my aunt - the child died in her womb and the doctor advised
her to go on holiday, still carrying the corpse.
Next morning, I saw one duckling coming down the river. It looked
somehow not right - still alive, but only just, with its little head
bowed. Two swans stretched out their necks until their beaks almost
touched it, but then withdrew, dubiously or with distaste. Neither
would deal it the killing blow, an end to suffering.
The fish leap in the river, to catch the midges. Hurling themselves
between the elements. And the terns likewise plunge down into the river
from a great height, to catch fish - the first time, I thought someone
had thrown a brick into the water.
I read the newspaper. Another doctor had up in court, for a mercy
killing. Where do you draw the line?
It's difficult to know. I think, actually, there is no line. I suppose
that makes me amoral.
I mean, if a mother kills her child, that would save the child a lot
of future suffering. And the same in reverse. If a child were to kill
her mother. Her aged, sick and dying mother. Or her perfectly well
mother.
I think of serial killers as mercy killers. That makes me sound weird.
I know it does.
I fantasise about sending my own mother a parcel bomb. Not that I hate
her, on the contrary I'm very fond of her and anxious for her
welfare.
Anxious. It's the anxiety, quite unbearable at times. For this reason
I think it would be better not to have relatives or close friends. For
them all to be dead. Of course
I don't count my husband. Nor my sister-in-law - ma belle soeur, as
they say in France.
I suppose you might think, this woman is not in a fit state to be
thinking about having a baby. I would agree with you.
But be honest - examine your own secret and most fleeting
thoughts.
The wedding photos arrived this morning. The bride carried a bouquet
of white roses and pink astilbes. And frothy gypsophila, baby's breath.
The bride was having the first day of her period - unfortunate timing.
She was "given away" by her brother. Very little left to give, really.
And nothing real, no real feelings. A mass of surface detail. But isn't
that how everyone feels on their wedding day? Like, I'm not really here
at all. Who are these people smiling at?
"I look fat." Like a heifer squeezed into a pretty dress. Red face,
shiny nose. Red devil eyes too, in most of the photos.
"You look all right. It went off all right. There's your brother, he
made a good speech."
"Did he?"
"You remember. What he said about your dad."
No, I try not to. I try not to remember the hospital and one doctor in
the lift saying cheerfully to another doctor "I've been on duty for 72
hours, I'm operating in my sleep". And them pushing the feeding tube up
his nose, down his throat.
My wedding, it occurs to me, was one huge lost opportunity. Food
poisoning -
I could have bribed the caterers. Or what about a bomb, timed to go off
just as me and Frank left the church, while everyone else was still
sitting in their seats?
I'm not really a violent person, at heart. These fantasies are just my
way of cheering myself up.
This morning we went to look round the castle, which was mainly in
ruins. The gatehouse, chapel, keep. People used to live here, I
thought, but no trace is left of them now. You could still see bits of
the spiral staircases, left hanging in mid air.
"The splendour falls on castle walls..." that poem from a school
anthology came into my mind. It was like that; sunlight falling on
golden-white stone. Except for the dank wine cellars and the crypt. Nor
did I like standing inside the big fireplaces, as Frank insisted I
should - "Go on, take a look up here". It reminded me of people being
walled up alive.
The plastic daffodils in the Topsy Turvy tea-room were about a quarter
larger than life-size, which I found rather disturbing. No, they must
have been fabric, they were frayed round the edges. I stared at them
while eating my prawn sandwich with too much mayonnaise and
peach-flavoured mineral water. Frank said "Did you like the
castle?"
Thinking this rather an odd question, I replied politely "Yes. Did
you?"
"It's just that - I don't know - often you seem to get tired looking
round places."
I was not tired, but starting to feel sick from the mayonnaise.
Meanwhile people were popping into the tea-room to buy takeaway
sandwiches. "So that's two salmon and one prawn?"
"No, the other way round."
I thought what safety lies in such banal exchanges. Boring is best, so
far as I'm concerned. I deliberately avoid jokes, except the most
mundane. If someone makes a witty or original remark in my presence, I
just pretend not to have heard.
They were bitching about me at work the other week. How I got on their
nerves, etc, the usual things. My tidy habits, my insistence on certain
routines being followed correctly. I hold a senior position and
basically they think I'm bossy. Mary-Claire said "What that woman needs
is a big shock". I thought, no, I've had the big shock. It's you that
needs one, far more than I do.
Things seen on my honeymoon: yesterday, a mallard drake riding another
drake, in a horrible violent way, pushing its head right down into the
water until I thought it could easily be drowned. A third drake was
swimming round about them without interfering - maybe it was afraid, or
was being a voyeur.
I was sitting on a quay by the tethered-up rowing boats, while Frank
was trying to find the boatman. I threw a stone at the ducks, but it
missed by a wide margin. Then the underneath one managed to paddle
itself to the mud and squirm free, and they flew off, high over the
fields, the aggressor duck still pursuing. "I saw two ducks having a
fight"
I told Frank, without wanting to be more specific. I felt quite
embarrassed, although I suppose these things do happen in nature.
Frank had tried at the castle, but the boatman was apparently not
hiring out boats that day. "That's how he runs his business" they told
Frank. So there was nothing we could do.
There is also a mad swan on this river, which patrols up and down with
its wings half-lifted and curled round in a threatening way, and its
head down low, making it look huge but also quite unsteady in the
water. When other swans come sailing along the river in couples, it
attacks them. My mother would say something to the effect of "Poor
thing, he's feeling lonely. If he had a wife he wouldn't behave like
that". She is always sympathetic to men/male creatures. And certainly
it is the mating season. That may be the key to it all.
I suppose I should feel grateful to be married and therefore
emotionally secure. But here I am instead having these terrible
thoughts and feelings. Being married - it's like a doorway to the
future. I am like an open door, through which anything might come
flying. Or creepy-crawling.
I also see, every day, crows and seagulls dive-bombing the heron, when
it's trying to catch fish. The heron shrieks in fury and tries to peck
them as they fly past. But the cruel game always ends with the heron
being driven off.
Witnessing all these incidents, I get an accumulating sense of wrong. A
feeling of things being out of control, so anything might happen in the
world. Is happening. Likewise with that television presenter being
killed and the bombings in London. And then of course there's the war.
I don't mention these morbid thoughts to Frank, since we are on our
honeymoon.
We have lunch at The Hermitage pub - named after a cave up-river where
a hermit used to live and which is now run by English Heritage, open
Wednesdays and Sundays. Frank jokes that the hermit probably spent all
his time in the pub and would then truthfully be able to say "I never
leave the Hermitage". I order chicken curry, which comes with rice and
chips, while Frank has lasagne, with "roast" potatoes. Parboiled and
then deep-fried - not exactly what I would call roast. The rice comes
in a smooth high mound, topped with a slice of tomato. The landlady
wears a neck brace, following a recent car accident - a white Volvo
ploughed into her car, when she was going to fetch her daughter's
wedding-dress.
The fog horn moans from Coquet Island. Fog rolls on the dark ploughed
earth like phantom waves. Even the river is hidden now and the tall
trees on the other bank are only just distinguishable from the sky.
Only last night we watched a programme about the dangers of driving in
fog. People in the simulator thought they were doing a steady 70mph and
were astonished when told they had touched 80 or 90. The programme
ended by showing a simulated multiple pile-up on the motorway. In
normal circumstances of course one would keep glancing at the
speedometer and Frank is a very safe driver. However, we decided to
stay at home today.
Which is how we come to be making love in the middle of the afternoon.
This is what people are supposed to do on their honeymoon, isn't it?
Stay in bed all day? Though as a matter of fact, it's the first time
since we came here and we leave tomorrow. We might have set a record
for not doing it. But it wasn't a conscious decision: I think we just
forgot.
At a certain point comes that fantastic moment, like falling asleep,
when I become unselfconscious - I mean my body loses its awareness of
being ugly and fat. That, believe me, is the pinnacle of sexual
achievement. It even stays with me for a while afterwards.
Unfortunately our lovemaking seems to have a totally different effect
on Frank. Sometimes he cries, or has a fit of sneezing. This time he
just lies still. I can feel the sadness rising off him, like fog off
the river.
Holding my hand, he says "You won't leave me, will you?"
"Don't be daft."
"I've been thinking, maybe we ought to go for marriage guidance
counselling. To what's it called, Relate?"
Frank initially gives the impression of being a stodgy type -
unimaginative. But in fact he's full of surprises.
"We've only been married a week!" I protest.
"I'm serious, Maria love."
"Why?"
"Because we're not talking, are we? I mean, you hardly say a word to
me and I don't have the faintest idea what's going on in your mind. I
sometimes feel like I've married a zombie."
"That sounds fine coming from you, gasbag" I reply defensively.
Frank persists: "Something's wrong, isn't it?"
Silence, then it comes out. "I don't want to have a baby". Said aloud,
that doesn't sound exactly true.
"We don't have to" Frank says gently.
"I could be pregnant already."
"Your mother tried for eight years before having you."
"Anyway, I do talk" I say - remembering pouring my heart out to Frank,
during our courtship. Mind you, we were sitting right under one of the
pub loudspeakers. He appeared to be listening, while downing a pint,
but he might not have caught much.
It was all about my dad, of course. Frank knew him a bit. They worked
together on a buildings project - Frank is a quantity surveyor, my dad
was a contractor. And this may sound funny but I don't think I could
have married anyone who hadn't known him and could at least picture him
when I talked about him. Grieving for a person who's died, you enter
such a closed and private world - in itself a source of loneliness.
Because Frank had known Dad, I could trust him to know something about
who I was.
We lay there in bed holding hands, like innocent children. Frank is
more vulnerable than I am, really. We should both lose weight - don't
ask me to explain why that thought should have crossed my mind at that
particular juncture.
I'll admit I did also have a momentary explosion fantasy, which
included quite a clear picture of Frank's dismembered leg lying in the
gutter on the other side of the street, but that's all it was - a
fantasy. I know bombs don't really solve anything.
That night I dreamed I was on a merry-go-round, riding on a big golden
rooster. A number of my ex-boyfriends were there too, mounted on
different beasts. The merry-go-round stopped, so I got off, and then
Frank and I walked hand-in-hand through the fairground, eating
candyfloss. I was about to throw away the stick when Frank said "No
don't, that's the best part". So I took a bite of the stick. It was
deliciously sweet and crunchy. Then we came to a Hoopla stand and Frank
bought me a hoop from the stallholder. I asked "How come we only get
one ring?" and Frank replied "It cost me a month's wages". When I threw
the hoop it went over an aluminium can, which the stallholder handed
me, saying "Congratulations, you've won a can of worms". I said to
Frank "How are we going to open it? We haven't got a tin opener". Frank
told me "Don't worry" and took the can from me. In his hands it turned
into a box, with a lid. And the dream ended, or I don't remember
anything more.
The next day, our last morning, it was absolutely pouring with rain.
All the birds were gone from the river. Still, a river under rain is
quite a nice thing to watch in itself. The river taking a drink. Like
thousands of little mouths opening and closing.
I remembered how the doctor had told my mother that he probably
suffered a number of small strokes in the year before he died. Tiny
ones that nobody noticed. Invisible strokes, or touches. Silent
explosions in his body. Until the one came that paralysed his right
side and took away his speech. In the hospital, seeing me, he held up
his useless right arm with his left hand, with such a look of sadness
and distress.
Dad, dad. He was such a sweet man, the nurse said.
The rain fell on me, trickling down my face as I crossed the back
yard, taking the rubbish out to the green wheelie-bin. Life goes on,
that's the most terrible thing. That's the problem really. I don't want
to bring more life into the world. As if a baby would somehow replace
my dad, or be a sign that I accepted his death and the way he suffered
before he died. Which would mean I had forgotten.
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