"It occurred to her Mark had been doing this, a night here, a night there, for a good while."
A Passionate Affair by Katri Skala
When Jackie noticed Mark was spending an unusual amount of time locked in the downstairs loo before coming to bed, she intuited it was more than a desire to have a quiet evacuation. He had always been a fastidious person, careful to contain exhibitions of a bodily nature. He managed the humdrum physical intimacies of marital life, the burping, the farting, morning breath, stray hairs and armpit odours, with a discreet formality. A courtesy Jackie found appealing right from the start of their relationship, and increasingly so after the children were born when the slops and eruptions of domestic life threatened to overwhelm her.
She counted on each finger, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and so on through the week...which nights exactly had Mark behaved in this strange way? The exercise in recall led her to feel doubly exasperated, the days blended into one another; she was having trouble remembering anything in detail. Again. With renewed effort, she started at the beginning of the week. Monday...the kids were acting up after supper and it took ages to get them tucked up for the night. She had gone to bed straight after and Mark had watched the 10 o'clock news - she remembers hearing the sound of the television through her half-conscious state - and then he'd padded into the loo. Tuesday. A WI meeting for her, he'd got the kids fed, washed, into bed, and was reading to them on her return. They'd watched the news together, she was feeling a little exhilarated by the outing and was telling him about the spring fete they were planning and about progress in the campaign against domestic violence, and - he'd interrupted her, excused himself, gone into the loo and not come out until she'd retired upstairs.
Now it was Friday. With rising apprehension she wondered what would happen tonight. The kids would be dropped off in half an hour...She stared at the digital kitchen clock, the seconds flicked by. The grey dusk was inching through the house. It occurred to her Mark had been doing this, a night here, a night there, for a good while.
Later, he accompanied her to bed. In the comforting dark, she snuggled up to him and prompted, 'All right?' He grunted assent, planting a kiss on her cheek. She caressed his familiar paunch and said, 'You sure everything's ok?' He held her close and pulled up her nightie. His lovemaking was unusually tender.
Saturday and he was at it again.
Her own nightly routine beckoned. It was half ten. She was knackered. The kitchen was clean, the kids asleep. A thin gleam of light shone under the loo door. She hesitated at the foot of the stairs and decided she might have forgotten something. She clumped to the kitchen, grabbed a magazine and returned to the stairs. Damn! The kitchen light was still on. She made as much noise as the soft pile carpet in the corridor allowed and switched the lever with a vigorous click...Still no movement from the other side of the locked door. She scuttled up close and knocked firmly, 'Need any paper, love?'
'No, I'm all right,' came back the muffled reply.
'What are you doing in there?' She cocked her head, keeping the tone of her voice light.
'Just having a quiet think and read.'
'Why don't you use the sitting room?'
'I'm ok here - you know how it is.'
Well, no, Jackie didn't really know. She put her ear to the door, but heard only his breathing. And that seemed suspect, as if he, like an animal in his lair, sat hiding from dangers in the outside world.
***
Mark kept his collection of history books piled in a neat chronological tower in the downstairs loo. It had taken him a couple of years to work through the centuries, starting at the Norman Conquest and finishing on the First World War. In all, he had read ten books. The process of acquisition had filled him each time with a warm, sweet satisfaction; the fingering of thick paper, the caressing of hard covers...the lingering for thoughtful minutes in front of shelves marked 'British History', reviews of latest publications in hand. Then home, swinging a heavy plastic bag, his step light. The book would wait until all daytime activities had been concluded - his work, family supper and bedtime with the children. Until that moment when a solicitous calm would settle on the house.
Jackie had not wanted these weighty texts anywhere near their bed. They triggered in her a shrill angry panic. The first time he climbed in next to her with a thick tome, plumping up his pillows and adjusting the angle of his lamp, she shrieked, 'Get out of here with that thing!' Ever since he read in the sitting room. This became a habit of which she was tolerant and he was careful to limit the sessions to three nights a week at most. But even now, if she happened upon him, nestled in his comfy armchair - 'Dad's reading chair' the children called it - book on knees, pencil in hand, underlining points of particular insight, she would emit a theatrical sigh and roll her eyes to an invisible audience.
He pulled a fat book from the middle of the pile, and sat for several minutes on the hard-wood loo seat, twiddling his pencil. Her footsteps had receded upstairs. She had twigged to the loo. He would have to give it up. If she found out about his new interest she'd kick up the most unholy row.
Her aversion to his extracurricular learning exasperated him. He felt he should be admired. Especially as she had given up her law studies soon after they'd met to take a job in the family planning clinic, only to quit when Thomas was born. But, he reasoned, the giving up was probably exactly why she now disdained any show of intellectual endeavour. That and a strong hangover from childhood when her father would disappear into hobbies of an arcane nature instead of spending time with her. Her two brothers had been happy to jump aboard the rolling ship of their father's enthusiasms. They relished the chopping and changing of topics...there was nusmatics for a time which gave way to Outer Hebridean erotic poetry after a family holiday spent on Uist; and somehow this then led, via some digressive pathway, to the Indian Raag , and so on. And on. Mark had been given an account of her father's waywardness on more than one occasion. How it had made her feel ignored, unimportant, stupid. Especially as her mother had died of cancer when she was only ten, leaving her the sole female of the family. Mark was sympathetic to Jackie's feelings of neglect, but still, his reasoning continued, he was most definitely not her father, and anyway, wasn't this the only thing in his life that he laid claim to? The job, the children, the house, the family, the social life - all these belonged to Jackie, to her decisions and planning and values.
His new passion - yes, that is what it was, it was more than a mere interest, it struck at the heart of his being! - his passion, he whispered the word to himself and repeated it passion - would test all her patience. He sighed, opened the large book on his knees, and stared at an underlined passage. Better is a dry morsel, and quietness therewith, than an house full of sacrifice with strife.
***
She knew where the history books lived, of course, though she hadn't taken much notice of the growing tower. She also knew he'd finished with that particular project. He'd been fidgety for weeks after, scanning the bookshelves in the sitting room with a disappointed frown, as if looking for something and yet not finding it. And, anyway, he'd read when the house was quiet, mainly at night in his armchair. No, this was something else. Quite puzzling. She tried to ignore a suggestive, tight feeling of alarm taking hold.
She could not deny Mark was most considerate in the management of his emotional affairs. Like the fastidiousness, it was an aspect of his behaviour she very much appreciated. In spite of nine years of marriage, which might have led to an unwitting complacency, as it had, she'd noticed, in many couples of their acquaintance, she cherished his thoughtfulness, a delicacy of approach. These were stressful times, and he managed the ups and downs so common to a professional in mid-management with admirable restraint. He worked as a salesman for a national insurance company whose headquarters were based in the city centre, about a fifteen minute drive from their home. If his boss had given him a rough time, or if the dread of downsizing and the alarming statistics on collapsing sales captured all his energy, these were mentioned in note form, an aside at supper, or as an apology if his preoccupations made him curt and inattentive during family time. She had always felt they made a good team. The balance had been difficult to achieve - his work, her responsibilities, a division of labour, all had been worked out over several years in a stop-and-start, groping manner. But they'd done it.
Many of their friends found him hard work. Not that any of them ever said so - oh no, they were far too polite - it was evident in the occasional throw-way comment during a coffee morning or afternoon tea when Jackie would meet with other wives to discuss the business of their daily lives.
Husbands were discussed in the context of dirty laundry (piles of), habits of messiness/tidiness, work hours (too long), travel (good to have time apart/not good to be separated), DIY (useful/disaster). And, from time to time, when the mood was unusually light and spring in the air, confessions of lust were offered up. 'I love it when Paul's been working on our car, the smell of oil drives me wild,' giggled Siobhan, who lived next door to Jackie and Mark. 'It's the way Mark has of suddenly breaking into song, it makes me feel young again,' said Jackie dreamily. The grittiness of sexual lapses, disappointments and infidelities were strictly off limits. These were kept for intimate conversations with a best friend, if you had one. Jackie did not. Although, she did have Vi.
Only last week, Siobhan said, 'Well, he never gives much away, does he, your Mark.' She had four children under the age of five and husband Paul, a boisterous land agent with a habit of bullying cheerfulness, mitigated just a little, in Jackie's and Mark's view, by a melancholy love of the natural world. Siobhan was a slim blonde, always on the brink of laughter, and never, it seemed to Jackie, ground down by her brood of offspring or the messy home whose structure though identical in every way to Jackie's couldn't have felt more different inside. Siobhan's comment was careless, and felt like a judgement. They were circling the subject of recession. This was dangerous. Whose husband might be on the verge of redundancy or, worse, bankruptcy were subjects that belonged to the private realm of couples; any interrogation into these matters was viewed as prurient curiosity. Jackie had made a casual remark about being uncertain of what was happening to Mark's company, one of the biggest in the region, and had offset this general comment with one about Mark having 'not said a word about it.' When Jackie failed to respond to Siobhan's observation, there was an uncomfortable pause, broken by Siobhan, eager to redress the balance. 'Must be nice, living with someone so - quiet.' She hesitated before the word 'quiet', as if 'shy' had come to mind first and had been dismissed. And it's true, Mark wasn't shy. But, as Jackie knew, neither was he quiet. His personality conformed to the old saying about still waters running deep. 'Anyway,' chirruped Siobhan. 'Anyway,' concluded Jackie.
***
Sunday was a typical family day. Their eldest, Thomas, was up early in front of the TV. His younger sister, Eva, enjoyed a lie-in. They were finally of an age when they didn't need constant supervision.
The family shared a full English breakfast late morning after which Mark took the kids to the park. Jackie scanned the papers, put in a load of laundry, and got the roast in the oven. On Sundays, the big meal was mid-afternoon lunch. It allowed them plenty of time to relax into the evening and to prepare for the busy week ahead.
'Where's Dad gone?' Thomas was standing at the kitchen door, maths homework in hand. Jackie thought he might be in the garden, doing some early spring planting. But no. The dying sun was throwing the expanse of lawn into shadow. He wasn't there. What about his office? Nope, Thomas shouted from the corridor next to a small room at the front which housed the family computer, not here. Exasperated, Jackie dialled his mobile. It went to voicemail. Now she was worried. His behaviour had been so odd of late. Where was he?
She opened the front door. His car wasn't in the drive. She peered left and right. A March wind blew across green lawns up and down the street, early daffodils swayed in yellow bundles and the sun was disappearing fast. All was quiet, empty. Some houses were already stirring with evening activities, drifts of smoke curled up from chimneys, lights clicked on. She stood alone on her front porch.
Their home was one of a series of new-build mock Georgian, a well-kept grid to the north of the village green. As newly-weds they had shared a luxury flat in the city, but when Thomas was born they did the only sensible thing - moved out to this house, with its garden, proximity to a good school, shops, pub . The WI chapter. And one of the lowest crime rates in the county. Rationally, she thought he was unlikely to have come to any harm. There it was....that rising sense of panic. Surely, he was fine...everything was fine...
***
Thankfully Mark had remembered to pick up some shaving cream on the way. Last time, he'd forgotten, but Jackie had been out with the children and hadn't known about his absence.
He pulled into their road just as she was cutting across Siobhan's and Paul's front lawn. A look of relief crossed her face when she saw the car. By the time he'd parked fury had taken over.
'Where have you been? I've been so worried.' Low and harsh, with a rising pitch on worried.
He waved the shaving cream at her.
'Oh,' she tried to control a boiling rage. He had acclimated to her flash anger over the years and now pulled her into his arms, 'Sorry Love, I'd yelled out before leaving, I guess you didn't hear.' Her body was rigid; from experience he anticipated that if he held her tightly, she would relax, in spite of herself.
'What about your mobile?' Hitting that word with an acid punch. She pushed away from him. So, this wouldn't pass quickly. He sighed, which had the effect of kindling her wrath. Ra-ta-ta came the fire of words. 'How was I to know? You didn't shout. I would've heard you. Anyway, why have you only just remembered? You should've thought about it yesterday when I went to the shops.'
In the early days of their relationship, he had hung his head low, and scuttled away from her accusations, nursing a feeling of victimhood. But, as time went by, he had learned that if he faced her and kept his cool, her rage would subside. And apologize, always, no matter how unfairly accused. Repetition of the words I'm sorry had an immediate tranquilizing effect on her turbulence. Notions of justice and fair-play had long ago ceased being touchstones in his estimation of their relationship. But neither could he accommodate her order of things - she was a bean-counter, one for you, another for me. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, with the occasional magnanimous gesture of mercy. When the storm had passed she would exhibit a giggling affectionate tenderness for him. If the row had been particularly bad, sheepishness would steal over her, and he would find her nestling into him, as if the clock had been turned back years and she was a young girl again. He'd found her especially sexy in these moments.
He tried again, 'So sorry Love, I really am.' And in a gentler voice, 'Come on, let's go in. It's over now.'
He came to bed with her that night. And the following nights. Putting aside his longing to be locked away in the loo downstairs. Her mood was difficult to gauge. A new tension had established itself between them.
***
The time had come to talk to Vi. Vi - short for Violet - lived in one of the older houses in the village. A large Georgian. She lived there alone, but it was a hive of activity during the day and often at night too. She ran her own business, operated from the many rooms in her house. Jackie was still unclear as to the exact nature of the enterprise; it was something to do with widgets for large farm machinery. Vi didn't actually manufacture them but she was the distributor for the German company which did. It was a tough world. She worked almost entirely with men. 'That's because she's one of them,' Mark had joked. Vi was lesbian, and though she had long hair, dressed most days in skirts and heels, Mark insisted her masculinity was obvious. Jackie thought this was simple male prejudice.
Jackie and Vi had become friends through the Women's Institute. Vi was a most unlikely member, but the WI was not what it had been in the days of Jackie's grandmother's participation. Now it was peopled with as many professional young women as there were housewives and grannies.
There was a girlfriend but she didn't seem to be around very much. Jackie had invited them often to supper but Vi always came on her own. Jackie was sensitive to Vi's sexual orientation and only ever invited guests who had clearly stated liberal views about such things. Like Siobhan and Paul. Even if Siobhan's exuberant charm and laughing accounts of her children's quirks and antics were not entirely to Vi's liking. And occasionally Paul's unabashed curiosity in Vi's life bordered on the voyeuristic. 'Don't worry,' Mark would reassure, ' she's used to deflecting comments from men like Paul, she spends her days with far worse than him.' True, but Jackie wanted her friend to feel safe and included in their social life. She had come to depend on Vi's friendship more than she was willing to acknowledge.
'He doesn't seem the type,' Vi said, almost more to herself than to Jackie. She'd made them a pot of tea, and closed the door of the kitchen, blotting out distractions from the office next door.
'For what?' Asked Jackie, though she knew what Vi was getting at.
'For an affair,' stated Vi, in a clear plain voice that made Jackie feel instantly clearer herself. 'But then,' she resumed -
Jackie cut in: 'No, he's not!' This certainty had been one of the reasons she'd married him. He had been the most attentive suitor, bumbling and awkward and so very sweet. She had not been short on dates. She was very pretty, had an uncommon good figure, and the sort of loyalty that she knew counted far more than her looks. She knew these things about herself with a poised, uncomplicated confidence. In earlier days, friends at school and university had openly envied her. She had her pick of men. Mark had not been the best-looking or the most ambitious, nor the wittiest. He had a quality of what Jackie could only call soulfulness.
'Have you checked his mobile?' Vi put some biscuits on a plate.
Jackie felt a deep blush spread across her face. She had. That morning. There it was, a shiny BlackBerry, beckoning from its position on the kitchen table after breakfast. Mark was in the front office, collecting papers before going to work. She'd quickly scanned the emails, but there had been nothing, at quick glance, that screamed, 'Affair!'
Vi was a practical woman and approached life's varied problems with a stripped-down efficiency. 'So, what about hiring a private detective? I know a good one.'
A consuming fierce panic gripped Jackie. 'NO,' she shouted at Vi. 'Not that. No. I - don't want-.' And she found herself, face in hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
'Ok,' Vi said sensibly, walking to the other side of the table to pat her friend's back, 'not that. We'll just wait then.'
Jackie couldn't tell Vi about the woman she'd seen with Mark at a cafe in the city centre. It had been down a back street, off the main shopping square. She was rushing by, in a hurry to return to the car before she got a ticket. She didn't think it was him at first. But seconds after she passed the window, the image of the two of them took hold, and replayed itself with increasing clarity. So she'd walked back and taken a closer look. They were at a table in the window. The woman could hardly be described as young or pretty, but Mark was clearly into her. Jackie recognized the attentive, curious expression, an openness which was only there when he felt vulnerable and safe, often after they'd made love. She scurried back to the car just as a traffic warden was writing out a ticket, and poured all her alarm into a tirade against the young woman.
'Good girl,' said Vi, 'for now.'
***
It was the tenth anniversary of his mother's death. Her absence from Mark's life was not lamentable or shocking. He did not even, exactly, miss her. But he felt a growing sense of sadness at each passing year. His father had died when he was in his late teens. That too had been sad in a different way. His father had had a long battle with cancer and a sense of relief had accompanied his death. They had held a service in a crematorium and the local vicar officiated, a man whom his father had known less through going to church and more through sharing rounds of drinks at the pub. His mother had died quite suddenly one April morning, out in the garden, of a cerebral aneurysm. He and his sister had quarrelled about the funeral. His mother had been a life-long atheist, they had not really known how to send her off. Mark wanted church, his sister balked. Her coffin ended up in the same crematorium with Mark leading a small service. He read passages from an anthology of poems, marketed for just such occasions, and played a couple of her favourite songs: Burt Bacharach's 'Raindrops are Falling on my Head' and the Beatles 'All You Need is Love'. It had all felt so very inadequate, so respectable. An apt description of his mother's emotional registers.
But where was the drama? The acknowledgement of suffering and loss? The Passion. A word so important to the Christian account of that other death, of the suffering body that loomed large over Western civilisation. The ashes of both his mother and father had been scattered in the garden of the home they had shared for two decades. Mark wished there was a graveyard, two tombstones side by side, which he could visit, in whom he would confide this aching sense of loneliness; in front of which he could lay claim to their irrefutable absence. I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.
He had insisted this past Christmas on taking Thomas and Eva to an afternoon carol service at the cathedral. Jackie had done her best to stop him. It had almost led to an all-out fight-to-the-finish domestic.
'It's their history,' he'd said.
'It's brainwashing,' she'd said.
The temperature had risen quickly. Mark found himself unable to control his feelings. Jackie had leapt from the blanket statement on brainwashing to accusations of bad parenting and emotional abuse.
'How can you say that?' He was incredulous. They stood in the middle of the kitchen, wound tightly, facing each other. He was resolute. Not giving in. She was outrageous. 'You're fucking mad.' He felt his voice amplify, acquire an unusual authority. 'Nuts.' And he'd ground his finger into his temple. The children were hovering in the hallway, already snug in winter coats and hats.
'Mad? Me mad? It's those people who are mad. They knock at your door, eyes gleaming, pretending to be nice, just to get a foot in the door. And then, in for the kill. That's what religion does. Or have you forgotten? Death, war. Hypocrisy. I'm not having my children exposed to that!'
And then he remembered: lower the voice, hold her, apologize, pacify.
'Come on Love. It'll be fun for them. A sing-song. And it'll give you some time to finish the wrapping.' It was the best he could manage and he didn't like the wheedling tone of his own voice.
'What's all this about then?' Some of the aggression had left her. He could sense a weakening, a touch of perplexity. Good.
'Nothing. I just thought it'd be a fun outing, teach the children something. After all, they sing all those songs, they might as well know the nativity story.'
She looked so tired; this latest row seemed to have really knocked her back. Christmas was not a good time of year. The shopping, the presents, the cooking; her father and negotiations with siblings; drinks parties and his work do. Expensive. Lists and demands and toil. He had hoped she might come with them too, make it a family outing. Silly. Her resistance to religion was deep-rooted and unlikely to shift. He wanted to scream at her, 'It will help, make Christmas better, more meaningful.' And the words 'damn you' slipped from his mouth.
'What?' She turned sharply. She was making a shopping list of thing to get after the service. He shook his head. Must be careful.
'I said, poor you.' Tears welled up in her eyes, and he was now able to give her a consoling hug. 'Have a lie-down. I'll help you with everything when I'm back.'
The children had returned, wide-eyed, awed by the enormous Christmas tree, the vaulting cavernous space, the haunting choir and candle-lit processions; they had delighted at the charming crèche with a little dolly Jesus, and huggable stuffed animals that Eva wanted to pick up. They were well-behaved that night, and Eva had insisted he tell them the story of baby Jesus - or 'Cheeses' as she called him - at bedtime. Jackie didn't bring the subject up again.
***
The early evening service was short and sparsely attended. Mark preferred it to the crowded family service he had tried two weeks ago. This had the same friendly quality but a quieter tempo. Some readings, a couple of hymns. No sermon. So different to the morose and hectoring dictats delivered from the pulpit at the cheerless independent school of his youth. This church was modern, filled with light. Chatty people gathered as if they were coming to a social at a community centre. There were programmes for the unemployed, the recovering addicts, and the terminally ill. A cafe was run by volunteers during the week. The vicar was called Marion. She was unfussy and full of humour, and made him feel most welcome. Attractive. She had clasped his hand in hers at the end of the service and winked - as if they shared a secret.
Marion was a woman he could really talk to. She was attentive and compassionate; he was convinced her manner arose from something much stronger than professional good manners. It was her faith, a devotion to the idea of a Good, of God. Love on a grand scale.
'Isn't it difficult,' he'd asked last time they met for coffee, 'in the face of all the scepticism and derision?'
She'd raised an eyebrow, spoke kindly, 'Belief is very assailable. But you must trust your faith, in here.' And she'd tapped her heart. He couldn't help noticing she had round upright breasts. 'Don't fight it,' she added eagerly, 'allow God in.'
'My wife won't understand. She grew up in an atheist household. Her father considers himself sort of intellectual. She hates religion.'
'Understandably. It hasn't had very good press recently. But the numbers returning to the Church are re-assuring. We gain new adherents every week. People are finding their way back to the Truth.'
'What if I have to choose?'
'God will show you the way.' With this she took his hand and Mark could've sworn caressed it. 'Trust in the scriptures, the answer is there.' And then she quoted: 'For they being ignorant of God's righteousness, and going about to establish their own righteousness, have not submitted themselves unto the righteousness of God.' And sighed, 'So beautiful the old text. A little too obscure for most people. Depend now on the New Revised edition.' There was a hidden compliment in this, which pleased him. He was not most people.
'I miss my mother... my dad. He died when I was a teenager,' he said suddenly. 'Do you think they're in heaven together?'
Marion nodded, a gentle movement up and down of her sympathetic head, eyes - large sea-green eyes - dancing with...joy? Yes, joy! Very definitely, she stroked his hand.
***
Ye have sown much, and bring in little; ye eat, but ye have not enough; ye drink; but ye are not filled with drink; ye clothe you, but there is none warm; and he that earneth wages earneth wages to put it into a bag with holes.
Jackie was baffled. What did this mean? She had finally exercised some initiative. Vi had suggested she wait. But for what? A truth to declare itself? For Mark to confess? So she had braved the downstairs lavatory. Would there be a love letter hidden between the pages of one of those tomes? After all, it was these nightly retreats that had first sowed suspicion. She went through the tower, one by one, opening the books wide, shaking them face down... until - in between 'One Hundred Year War' and 'The Victorians', A Bible. On the inside cover Mark had scrawled in schoolboy hand, 'Mark Braithwaite, Hedgefield School, 1971.' And within its leaf-thin pages, numerous bold lines, recently drawn - she could tell from the pencil marks and annotations - under a variety of seemingly random passages.
Mark's parents had been socially anxious, awkward in their recently achieved middle-class status. They'd sent Mark to the local independent C of E school, keen for him to acquire an education, not only in books, as they saw it, but in something called 'social training.' Jackie had only met Mark's mother a few times before her death, and had found her timid and aloof. His father had been long dead; a driven, nervy, handsome man given, Jackie suspected, to extra-marital wandering. She and Mark had discussed at length the children's education. Jackie was adamant they would go to state schools. Secular, egalitarian, normal. She thought Mark had agreed with her. So what was he doing with his school Bible? She remembered the argument about taking the children to the carol service. Was this his idea of social training?
The Bible fell with a loud thwack onto Vi's wooden kitchen table.
'He's having an affair,' she said, flatly. 'There's the proof.' And pointed at the Bible.
Vi opened a bottle of wine, even though it was only four in the afternoon. Jackie took a long gulp. Eva had a play date and Thomas was at football club. They were both being dropped home later. There was a ready-made pie in the fridge for supper. She finished off the glass, held it out for more.
'Here,' she said opening the bible at a passage in the New Testament, and read,
'Let the husband render unto the wife due benevolence: and likewise also the wife unto the husband.' Vi picked up the book and looked at the underlined passages. They were from Paul's epistle to the Corinthians.
'Why do you think this means he's having an affair? It suggests quite the opposite.'
Jackie shook her head. 'No. It's his way of trying to handle guilt. Justification. He's always been a bit church-y. Not literally, but, you know, kind of liking the tradition. He maintains he hated all the religious stuff of his school, but...he's always used sayings and things to make a point.' And she slapped her hand down on the offensive tome. The wine was making her light-headed and reckless.
'King James' version.' Vi was examining the book. 'I see he's underlined the famous Hymn to Love, although in the King James' it translates as charity. Hi-jacked by the marriage crowd when a new translation used the word love. The original Greek was undoubtedly agape. Much better.'
'How do you know?' Jackie was momentarily distracted from her own drama. Vi, a Bible scholar?
'My father is a vicar,' said Vi. This was most surprising, and in her current state of squiffiness and distress, alarming. As if the woman she'd always known as Vi was now someone different, and here in front of her sat an impostor.
'But what does he think about you being lesbian?'
'He doesn't know. He'd hate it, and I don't want to upset him. He'd pray for me. Probably already does. '
'But,' Jackie swigged more wine, 'that's outrageous. How can you stand it? The lies, hypocrisy.' Her voice was sliding up a decibel.
Vi shrugged her shoulders. 'Sometimes, it's best to keep things to oneself. There's love between us. That's enough. '
A strong argument began to form in Jackie's mind, a surge of anger swept through her, but just as she was about to unpick her friend's opinion, she remembered. Mark and his infidelity.
'I saw him. With her. At a cafe in the city. Looking all lovey-dovey.' Ah, now, Vi was interested, a little relieved the spotlight was off her, and said, 'Do you want to do something? Challenge him?'
Jackie spat out, 'Challenge? I'll fucking kill him.' She thumped the table on 'him.' 'There were others, plenty of interesting, ambitious men, much more impressive than him, but I chose him, because, I...' 'Fell in love with him?' suggested Vi. Jackie nodded, and felt tears welling. Oh dear, oh dear. The tears trickled down her cheeks. This couldn't really be happening. She'd been so careful, always, to keep their life tightly focused, integrated, family-driven. Vigilant. She could've had a big career, but they had decided - yes, they, she and Mark together, had discussed all this when Thomas was born - how they needed to maintain stability and peace at home, how assailable the modern family was; the necessity of this for their children's success and happiness in the world. She and Mark, together against the world. It was all slipping away....going wrong...
'Do you want to do something?' Vi repeated the question. Jackie didn't feel at all capable of answering . She was aware, in a vague, insistent manner, of an overwhelming emotion behind the anger. No. No. 'Or,' Vi continued, choosing her words carefully, 'you could do nothing.' There, that feeling turning her stomach into a washing machine...more wine. The kitchen was beginning to pitch.
***
Her behaviour was strange. She was clearly drunk, lurching as she doled out portions of shepherd's pie; attempts at precise speech undermined by a slurring of words. Thankfully, the children were too busy with accounts of their day to notice. She either avoided his eyes, or pinned him with what could be described as a piercing look. Not auspicious for what he was about to tell her. He had the brochure in his briefcase, given to him earlier in the day by Marion. Marion. His thoughts lingered for a minute on her cheerful smile, beautiful eyes, trim figure. Her simplicity. Her soul. Her rich, generous soul. He liked the word. Soul. She had talked to him a lot about soul, and then given him a brochure about a religious retreat at which she would be one of the counsellors. It would take place in early summer over a long week-end. She thought it might allow him to explore and deepen his relationship to Jesus. He wanted to go. He would go. Even if it meant a row with Jackie. Time taken from work would count as holiday, and this would eat into his annual allocation. And it was expensive. Not outrageous, of course; but still, money spent on something other than family.
After supper, the children lolled about in front of a video. Normally, Jackie wouldn't allow this, but they had asked and she hadn't answered, and seizing the opportunity they'd rushed into the snug and put on 'Jungle Book'. He could hear them singing along.
Water was gathering in puddles on the floor around the sink where Jackie was washing pots.
'I have something to tell you,' he said. A strong shiver went through her. The splashing became more frantic. 'Please sit down.' She took a deep breath, turned off the water, dried her hands in a slow exaggerated manner, and sat opposite him. Did she know? Surely not.
Then she said, 'Are you having an affair?' Her voice was strained, her hands shook and she kept her eyes lowered.
'What...,' he was taken aback, 'no, no..that's not it at all.'
Then her whole body drooped, and she was sobbing and muttering, rocking back and forth, 'So-o sc-ar - red, scare-d.' He was rooted to his chair, unable to move around the table to comfort his wife. He needed to tell her his thing. It was important. He needed her to listen. He retrieved the brochure and put it on the table. Minutes passed. The tears subsided. She wiped her face, sniffed back snot, glared at him. 'How do I know you're telling the truth?' He pushed the brochure to her side of the table. 'Look at this. This is what I'm trying to tell you. I'm doing this.' She took her time picking it up. Took her time reading the cover. Opened the first page, scanned. Closed it.
'What, exactly, do you mean?' Her voice was neutral. He normally found her easy to read; she could be sharp and quick to anger, also funny and volatile and warm. He never knew exactly how she might respond to news, welcome or otherwise, but he felt he understood her, and had become good at anticipating her reactions. But now, as they sat at the kitchen table, new territory was being explored. He felt nervous, but also, for the first time in many months, perhaps years, unaccountably excited. 'This is a religious retreat, and I'm going on it in early June.' She picked up the brochure again and flicked through the pages. Very carefully, she said, 'Is she going to be there?' Oh for god's sake. How irritating she can be. 'Do you hear what I'm telling you? I'm not having an affair. I'm going on a religious retreat. Alone.' Pause. 'I want Jesus in my life.'
Her laughter bordered on hysteria, 'Jesus, Jesus?'
He so wanted her to understand. Maybe he could make her. 'Yes. I know it seems sort of crazy to you, and it's difficult to explain. But I have this overwhelming sense of his presence. I want to be in communication with him. There has to be more - no, there is more,' and he waved his arm at the kitchen, 'than all this.'
She opened the brochure and read aloud: 'to understand his courageous suffering on our behalf. To help us endure our own.' She slapped it back on the table and said, 'Suffering? Your suffering?'
He leaned into the table towards her, as if about to whisper, and pressed, 'Don't you feel it?'
'Feel what?' Her voice was controlled, laughter now bubbling just beneath the words.
'God,' he affirmed, triumphant.
***
Vi persevered with Jackie in the days and weeks following Mark's revelation. His betrayal - if indeed it was that - was really quite negotiable, couldn't Jackie grasp this? 'No,' Jackie fretted, 'no, you don't understand. It's as if the person I've shared my life with, my dreams, and hopes and expectations has just disappeared...it was our shared project, and now - it's as if he's a different person.'
The row gathered momentum. Mark demanded she let him take the children to church. She refused. Siobhan and Paul were horrified one Sunday morning on hearing raised voices out front to see little Eva in between her parents, each grasping an arm, tugging the little mite as if she were a rope. They rushed out and broke up the fight. Siobhan guided wailing Eva and white-faced Jackie back indoors, and called Vi. Mark sped off with Thomas in the back seat, both grim-faced.
Vi suggested he was having a mid-life crisis. Jackie should cut him some slack. 'This could be just a phase, you know.'
'I could understand,' said Jackie, 'if he'd behaved like other men, got a sports car and fucked his secretary. That I'd understand.' Privately, Vi thought Jackie was fooling herself. If she'd discovered Mark with someone else he'd have been out on his arse with the daily refuse. It wasn't long ago that Jackie had, in fact, thought Mark was doing just that.
What she said was, 'I still think this might be something that dies down - if you give him some leeway.'
'What about the children,' demanded Jackie, 'what about them? I can't let him confuse them with all this god stuff. I'd be a terrible mother if I allowed that.'
'I'm sure they'd survive,' replied Vi crisply. The speed with which Jackie went from rational to hysterical was a source of continuing astonishment to Vi. Why could she not keep hold of herself? Maintain a sense of proportion? How blessed she felt to have escaped all this heterosexual woe. There were advantages to being lesbian and childless, something she felt quite often but rarely articulated, aware that most people regarded her status with a mixture of pity and condescension. What she liked about Jackie was the eagerness for friendship and a self-absorption - or, what Vi thought of as a family-centredness - that kept Jackie well away from the subject of Vi and her sexuality. But the woman sitting at her kitchen table was different to her friend of several years. Gone was the nervous glow of motherly concern. The brittle chatter. The strong limited intelligence. In front of her sat a woman in torment. Vi wondered how she had become so involved in this silly dispute. She was determined to get Jackie out of the kitchen within half an hour. The end of the financial year was on her, and there were audits and accounts and reconciliations to be seen to. She tried again, 'There are worse ways of being a father.' Jackie's wan face stared at her with a mixture of resignation and irritation. 'You wouldn't understand,' she snapped, 'you're not a mother.' No, this isn't going to pass. Maybe not ever. Vi reached for another bottle of wine.
Vi spoke to Mark once. It was late one night. He had knocked at her door, drunk after yet another fierce quarrel. She let him in and sat him at the kitchen table.
'Persuade her,' he slurred, 'she respects you.'
Vi didn't much like Mark. She found him sneaky and weak. She could almost understand how he might be attractive to Jackie: the stolid build and foppish hair, the suggestion he understood exactly how you felt. She supposed he was what the media might term a new man, caring and emotionally attuned. Yet she was unconvinced. She found him doughy.
She made him strong coffee, told him to go home. Yes, she would keep trying with Jackie. But maybe he should let up a bit. Keep his belief private. Where it belongs, she muttered.
'What was that?' He asked scowling.
'I think it'd be best if you didn't try to get the children involved. Let them come to it of their own accord, if they so wish, when they're older. It would help your relationship with Jackie.'
'Bah,' he spat at her, filling the air with a stomach-churning mix of wine and curry. 'Jackie's only interested in Jackie. Fucking bitch.'
'I don't think that's quite fair.' Vi was leaning against her aga, careful to keep distance between them.
'Fucking bitch,' he repeated, louder this time. Then with sudden force he said to her, 'I bet you put her up to this!'
'What are you talking about?' Vi wondered how she was going to get him out of her house. He stared at her. Vi could feel the force of his hatred.
'Yeah - you're just a jealous cow, aren't you? Jealous of Jackie - of what she has and you don't. Need to fucking ruin it for us, don't you.' With each accusation his voice grew louder. He was leaning his arms on the table, his hands tightened into fists. Vi scanned the room for her phone. Then remembered she'd left it in the office. Damn. How was she going to get him out? He then slumped on his chair and put his head in his hands. She heard what sounded like grunts... she thought he might be crying, but his shoulders weren't heaving...oh - he was gearing up to some kind of action.
'I think you should go now.' She tried to sound authoritative.
He jumped up from his chair, knocking it over, fists raised.
She ran to the front hall. Flung open the door.
'Out,' she yelled, 'get out of my house. Now!' Her words echoed in the dark village street. There was no one about.
He lunged at her. Before she could move out of the way, he had her by the shoulders and was forcing his lips on hers. She fell back, away from him, her stomach in convulsions. 'Don't you dare,' she hissed.
'Go on, you want it, really.' His rubbery face dissolved into a clownish leer.
'You disgusting bastard. Get out.' She was gripping the doorjamb.
'Fucking rug-muncher. You'll burn in hell, you will,' he shouted in her face.
'You're already there, mate,' she snapped back, and with a quick movement of her leg, kneed him in the balls.
***
Vi never found out how the problem was resolved. She never had a conversation with either Jackie or Mark again. They avoided her. She tried with Jackie, called her several times. But each time, Jackie brushed her off, or didn't answer. A For Sale sign went up in front of the house. A new family moved in.
Several times in the year following, Vi thought she saw Mark on a bench in the city centre. A different version of Mark. Not the polished suave executive. A tramp. Greasy long hair, filthy clothes, scuffed plimsoles, bottle of cider. She slowed her pace as she walked by this creature, peered at him. Yes, she was sure. Mark. He looked up at her, bottle poised between lap and lips, and murmured, 'And the Lord said If ye had faith as a grain of mustard seed, say ye to this sycamore tree - '. He swigged from the bottle. 'Do you need money? She asked. 'Fuck off,' he gurgled.
And weeks later, cleaned up, walking arm and arm, in casual clothes, with a woman of about the same age, kindly face, plain. He recognized her, she was sure of it, so studious was his look through her. She lifted her hand to say 'hi', and let if fall again to her side.
Rumours drifted back to the village of Jackie's new life: a boyfriend, a house in the suburbs, a teaching career. Vi missed the friendship from time to time. At the end of a WI gathering. Her dinners. The occasional drink. The intimacy of their chat at her kitchen table. These small encounters had helped her feel a part of the community. Siobhan tried to strike up a friendship, would skip up to her with an open smile and burble away, but Vi felt lacking in her presence. Jackie's brittleness had been a good foil to her own detachment. Siobhan was so...cosy, so complete. Siobhan offered her Jackie's new mobile number. I'm sure she'd like to hear from you, she suggested, appeasing. Thanks,Vi said, and put the number in a pocket. She wasn't so sure.
And then a Christmas card arrived from Jackie. 'Keep in touch!' But there was no accompanying number. It felt as hollow as that other exclamation on the card 'Peace in the World!' Vi looked at the bit of paper with the phone number on it. Should she? Something stopped her calling. No, thought Vi, I wiped my hands clean of that affair last year. Let bygones be bygones and she threw the number in the bin.
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Katri Skala has worked as a curator of literary programmes in New York and London, most recently for the University of East Anglia and the New Writing Partnership. She is currently completing her novel, Questions of Pleasure.
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Thursday, 5 August, 2010
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