We/She E-Book

Rosalind Stopps

• Herausgeber: Arachne Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 172

Beschreibung

In Collaboration with Liars League. A celebration of the centenary of women in the UK getting the vote. Stories about women by women, which have been performed at one of Liars' League's events in London, Hong Kong, New York or Portland, Everything from fantasy and historical through magic realism to SF and humour.

Leseprobe

Contents

Arike Oke

A Crowing Hen

Uschi Gatward

Birth Plan

Elisabeth Simon

Gloves

Jenny Ramsay

The Lost Species

Elizabeth Stott

One Beautiful Day

Carolyn Eden

Some Carpets To Remain

Cherry Potts

The Real McCoy

Peng Shepherd

Bad Plates

Joanne L. M. Williams

Cages

Katy Darby

Comeback Special

Rosalind Stopps

Destiny’s Children

Jennifer Rickard

Smoking Ban

Elizabeth Hopkinson

Desperately Seeking Hephaestion

Julia Kent

Joy

Lucy Ribchester

At the Bottom of the Sea of Troubles

J A Hopper

We/She

Fiona Salter

Ugly Duchess

Swati Khurana

We Hate Daddy’s Girlfriends

Ilora Choudhury

The Dead Wives’ Club

A Crowing Hen

Arike Oke

A whistling woman and a crowing hen can drive the Devil out of his den.

Proverb used by the Hessle Road, Hull, fishing community.

When I’d finished rubbing down the stove I took a bucket and brush out to scrub my doorstep. Mam was out there on her own step. I hadn’t moved far when I’d married Freddie. ‘All right Mam?’ I said. I had to ask her in for a cup of tea.

‘Not pregnant yet?’ Mam asked. I looked at the mantel clock. It was a minute past. Seemed always to be that time.

‘We’re trying, Mam,’ I said, the same answer as usual. ‘He doesn’t get much time away from sea now. He wants to get enough saved up for when we have a family.’

‘The way I hear it,’ Mam said, picking up a spoon, stirring her tea, ‘he’ll have another mouth to feed soon.’

I blinked at her. ‘I’m not pregnant,’ I said.

Mam examined her reflection in her spoon and said, ‘There’s muck on this.’ She dropped the spoon back on the table. I felt the ground jolt underneath me. I bit my tongue and asked after the little ones. Mam barged on, gargling gossip. This was the third year in a row that Mam hadn’t been pregnant; maybe she was finally done with all that. At nineteen it was my turn. I felt her eyes patting down my dress where it slumped empty over my hips.

*

When Freddie’s boat came back from sea the house was scrubbed to shining. I brushed my hair out and drew it away from my face. I’d spent all afternoon cooking. Steak-and-kidney pie, and jam sponge for afters. The lard bought with the last of my house money. The smell drifted out of the house and down the street. The little ones came over from Mam’s with big eyes. ‘Got enough for us, Biddy?’ they asked. I chased them off. Our brother Tommy was on the same boat so there’d be something special cooking over at theirs anyhow.

Freddie came in and slung his kitbag down on the floor like his whole body wanted to follow it. I put my hand on his cheek. It was cold, hairy, and rough, like a sea animal’s skin. He rubbed his face into my hand. ‘Your hands are soft,’ Freddie said into my palm. My hands were rough as any woman’s: made into leather by hot water and carbolic soap.

I took him to the table and sat him down. I poured him a beer and he stared at the bubbles rising in the glass. The seam across his face seemed paler than ever. His hair was so blonde it was almost white. I wanted to feel the heat of him. I’d been cold so long while he was away.

After a while Freddie said, ‘Okay girl.’ He lifted me off his lap and reached for his boots.

‘You’re off out.’ My voice fell, flat, onto the floor at his feet. A pause stretched between us.

‘Bridget –’

‘Just stay in with me, can’t you?’ I tried to put my arms around him but he pushed me off. I could feel the restless sea moving in him.

He didn’t come back until late next morning. His clothes were wet. Mam told me later that he’d been found sleeping outside the pub. They’d had to put a bucket of water over him to wake him.

He only got three nights at home between sailings. He hadn’t spent a single one at home. I ironed his clothes and laid them out on a chair-back. He dressed without looking at me. He greased his hair and went to call for Tommy, his best mate, my big brother.

The night I met Freddie, two autumns ago, Tommy peacocked around the kitchen in the clothes Mam had just ironed. The little ones were impressed with the bits Tommy brought for them. For me he brought stories of the sea. He talked about the pancakes of ice that could rip out the hull of a boat. He told me about the harshness of his skipper and how the cook himself had been put on a bread-and-water diet, after threatening to go on strike. ‘He’s from the East,’ Tommy had told me, like I knew what that meant. He showed me where the salty sea-frost had cut furrows into his hands. The skin was red, raised, cracked. He took off his boots to show the fat blisters along his feet. I promised to knit him thick socks. It was all I could think of. He said, ‘You’re a good ’un.’

That night there was no sign that Tommy’s feet hurt as he strutted around the kitchen. Dad was still at sea; for a few days Tommy was the man of the house. Tommy’s floor show was interrupted by a rattling at the door.

‘Freddie,’ Tommy greeted the stranger at our door.

‘You owe me a drink, you’d better have your money ready,’ the stranger said. His words were croaky. His nose was bent oddly so instead of being straight like Tommy’s, it listed to one side. Tommy shouldered past me, brushing off his clothes, and was gone with the stranger. Like two river creatures flickering and vanishing in dark water, they were there and then they’d gone.

Tommy’s second day between sailings was spent in bed, and in the evening Freddie came to pick him up again. Tommy was still in bed when Freddie turned up, thudding not knocking at the door. Freddie sat at the kitchen table answering Mam’s questions with short creaking responses. I sat in the corner turning the heel of the sock I was knitting.

‘Could you make me a pair of those?’ Freddie said. He had to repeat himself; I didn’t understand him the first time. Mam threw a fork at me.

‘Don’t be ignorant, girl,’ she said.

‘I can knit you socks if you need them,’ Mam said to Freddie. ‘Where’s your mam or sweetheart though?’

‘My family’s in Noreg,’ Freddie said, slowly, looking at me. ‘I’m from Norway. I’d like it if you could find the time, Bridget. Tommy told me your name. I don’t have anyone here to do that for me. I’m in lodgings.’

Everyone around here had brown eyes except for me and Freddie. His eyes were blue, like the sea, or the sky. No, more like the sea. I couldn’t see into them. I lost pieces of language when I looked at those eyes. I couldn’t reply, though I felt Mam’s fury building. Tommy came down the stairs then and the men flickered out, shining in their onshore threads.

Between the second day and the third day I didn’t sleep. By the time Tommy was packing his kitbag I had two sets of socks made.

‘Can you give Freddie this pair?’ I asked Tommy. ‘They might not be any good, I’m sorry.’ I put the socks on the table.

Tommy picked them up. He pulled the ribbing between his hands and rubbed the grain of the stitches with his thumb. ‘They’re grand, Bridget, thanks.’ Then he was gone again. He didn’t look back, because if you look back you won’t come back. I never said ‘Goodbye’, because if you tell a fisherman that, you’ll never see him again.

*

When the birds were bringing in the dawn with groggy chirping I heard the shuffle of the front door as it opened and closed. I wasn’t asleep. I closed my eyes when Freddie entered our room. I felt his warmth near to me, smelt the sourness of his breath. His stiff chin-hair scratched when he kissed my forehead. I kept my eyes closed.

Freddie lay down beside me. I could tell from his stillness that he wasn’t asleep. A scent I didn’t recognise seeped through Freddie’s smell. Something womanly. He turned his body to me and moved his hand inside my nightdress. He handled me until I was face-down and underneath him. My nose filled with the scent of soap, rising from my laundered sheets.

I couldn’t hear the birds outside any more. Seemed to me that this time, before it’s decent to get up, is when bad thoughts become real. He couldn’t be seeing another woman. That couldn’t be what I smelt on him.

I made eggs and bacon while he packed his kitbag. It’s our sailing-day tradition. I put new socks out for him, thick red hand-knitted socks. He folded them slowly and put them in the top of his bag. When he left he held the back of my head; stroking my hair, he pulled me towards him and kissed the same spot he’d kissed when I pretended to be asleep. He emptied the loose change from his pocket onto the table, to avoid bad luck at sea. Then he was gone, no goodbyes, not on sailing-day, not unless you never want to see your man again.

I sat at the table, rolling the coins around in my fists. Then I went back to bed. Lying on top of the bedclothes I said out loud, ‘He’s not seeing no-one else. He’s mine.’ I kept repeating this, rolling the words around. I don’t remember falling asleep, I swear. I didn’t mean to dream it.

*

In the dream I’m walking to the docks through streets of dark-windowed terraces. My vision telescopes down to a focused circle: the docks are all I can see. I can hear the river rolling through the town. The river is all I can hear. My footsteps, breath and heartbeat become muted.

I step onto the docks. The sound breaks. I can hear everything now. It’s a clamour: men’s voices and money clanging onto the stone. Boys laughing and yelling as they scramble for the coins. It’s all a tumble and a mess of people. I have been to the docks once before in my waking life, and nothing has changed.

There he is: Freddie. His head is up, scanning the docks for his boat. He is true to taboo and doesn’t look back. Goodbye, say my thoughts before my lips echo them. I feel a snake uncoil in my chest and then re-spool around my heart, squeezing tighter.

‘Freddie,’ I whisper. He turns around, sees no-one, turns back. He boards the ship.

‘Freddie,’ I say. The word leaves my throat raw.

‘Freddie,’ I shout; the word is gunshot in my ears. I am deafening myself.

Freddie turns, despite tradition, and scans the dockside. I see his face change when he finally spots me. The colour leaves his face. I lift up my arm. It’s as heavy as an anchor chain. I wave at him with difficulty. ‘Goodbye,’ I say. With one word I break tradition and something is unleashed.

If he loves me, if he’s true to me, then the bad luck won’t touch him.

*

I woke up shivering; my whole body shuddering and shaking. I pulled the wool blanket that Freddie bought up to my nose. ‘It was only a dream,’ I whispered.

Winter was riding in and sunlight receded more each day. I put the dream out of my mind. It wasn’t real. I kept myself awake at night cleaning and re-cleaning. Knitting baby things, pulling them apart and re-knitting them. The night before Freddie’s boat was due back, sleep took me while I was sitting on a hard chair in the kitchen desperately sorting buttons.

*

In the dream Freddie is home. He is playing with a young girl. The girl has my hair, long and dark. I know, somehow, that I’ve plaited it for her. I’ve never seen this girl before. They’re both laughing. I join them, putting my arms around Freddie, looking into his sea-blue eyes. He says, ‘I love you.’

I smile and reach out an arm to include the girl. The knowledge unfurls: she’s our daughter. She comes into the circle of the hug. I look down and see that her eyes are green, same as mine. She’s crying.

I taste salt.

I woke up lolled over the kitchen table. Someone was at the door. It was Mam, carrying a packet of biscuits. She told me the news as I put the kettle on the stove. There’d been a storm at sea. All hands lost. Freddie wasn’t coming back.

I suppose Mam was waiting to see how I’d react. She crackled the biscuits inside their plastic. The kettle began whistling. I felt something slide around inside my body, above my navel.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I already know.’

Birth Plan

Uschi Gatward

Birth partner:

husband only. No-one else to be admitted until post-natal ward.

Midwives:

would prefer female midwives and other medical staff.

Positions for labour:

would prefer active labour if possible to enable me to work with gravity.

Monitoring:

where monitoring is necessary we would like explanations as to why it is being done.

Pain relief:

gas and air. Epidural if necessary (but so that legs still mobile). Would like epidural to start to wear off before the second stage so that I can push the baby out myself.

Episiotomy:

would like to avoid if possible.

Placenta:

happy to have the injection to speed delivery and prevent bleeding.

Vitamin K:

happy for the baby to have this injection.

Visitors:

I wish to see no-one except invited guests and medical staff – no non-essential staff, sales reps, or other visitors please.

Particularly not my mother-in-law.

Actually, the same goes for my father-in-law. And my mother. We’ll see them when we’re ready. If they ring up to ask which ward I’m on, please tell them nothing. If they want to make the trip down to London to stay, that’s up to them. We don’t plan to have any visitors at home for the first week at least.

If I have to have a caesarean then my husband will fetch more clothes for me from home. He will have done the laundry while I am in hospital. He will also have stocked up on groceries (including baby toiletries in the event that the baby is premature and we have not had time to get these in). He will also, ideally long before the birth, have assembled the new chest of drawers for the baby’s things. He will go out and buy a car seat so that we can bring the baby home from the hospital. He will have mopped the floors.

He will have painted the hallway, including the woodwork, so that we are not ashamed to open the door. It is fine saying that the rooms we live in are the important things, but the postman, neighbours and other people who come to the door only see the disgusting hallway, and gain a false impression of the flat.

If the baby needs medical attention, then my husband is to remain with the baby at all times. Similarly if I need a general anaesthetic for any reason then my husband should take the baby and stay with it. I would like to breastfeed, so if I am still unconscious after the baby is born then the baby should be placed on my breast to encourage it to suckle.

Please monitor my blood pressure hourly as there is a history of problems in the family.

In the event of my death, my sister has all my bank account, pension and life assurance details.

Did I mention that I particularly do not wish to see any sales reps after the birth?

Please keep my wedding dress for my baby to have when she is older. In the event of my death, that is. The shoes and veil and tiara as well.

There are casseroles and a lasagne in the freezer. Also flapjacks – I have not tried freezing these before but I am assured they will be fine.

Some of my eggs (as in ova) have been frozen too, so there is the potential for a sibling for my child. I sanction this.

The life assurance payout could be used as a deposit on a house. I believe there would also be some death benefits due from my employer – you could check this.

I am happy with an open casket and a wake as per family tradition, but please check my family’s wishes.

On no account is my mother-in-law to choose hymns or readings for my funeral, nor to read at it. I have still not forgiven her for the wedding.

If you need someone to make a decision and cannot get any sense out of my husband, please try my sister.

I would like the baby to take my husband’s family name.

I am happy for it to be baptised.

If the baby is baptised then my sister is to be a godparent.

I think I would like it to have a name from our list, but see what it looks like once it is born.

The baby is to be placed on its back to sleep.

My husband will need some help to look after it. I am happy for family members to contribute, but would prefer the involvement to some extent of a trained professional.

The sling, cotton wool balls and other bits and pieces are in the large Ikea bag at the back of the wardrobe.

I will leave to my husband the decision as to whether to use reusable nappies or disposables.

Please keep my grandmother’s locket, my rings and other heirlooms for the baby (my sister can tell you which). My friends Marie and Katy can have some of my other pieces of jewellery if they would like them.

My sister might like my grandmother’s pink bowls.

I don’t know what you will do with my clothes and shoes. I hope you don’t throw all of them away.

The gold cross belongs to my mother – give it back to her. She gave it to me and I love it but I’ve never worn it.

I need a haircut. Perhaps my usual hairdresser could do it. If he is squeamish, please work from a picture.

*

Don’t bury me in my maternity clothes.

*

Please try to keep the laundry under control. Also the kitchen. If you do nothing else, try to keep the kitchen, bathroom and toilet clean. Be vigilant about mopping the floors, especially when the baby starts to crawl.

Don’t leave her with the neighbours, however nice they seem. My mother can come over if you are stuck. Or I would prefer that you took her to stay with your parents, even. But they are not to take her to that evangelical church. And give all our parents clear instructions e.g. about sleeping on the back, as things have changed.

Never allow the baby to eat melon or butternut squash at your parents’ house: I have seen what they do to it. If you need to prepare food for her while there, refrain from using their tea towels. This might be the time to educate your father on the subject of hand hygiene. And lavatory hygiene, for that matter.

Do not allow your mother to dress our daughter. If she buys clothes for her, ever – and you must discourage this – please ensure that they are not in that hideous shade of terracotta that does nothing for anybody. You might tell your mother that she herself would take ten years off if only she would wear normal-coloured neutrals and stop shopping at Per Una. I never did find a nice way to say it.

Keep the bathroom cupboard closed at all times because of the asbestos. Don’t keep anything in this cupboard. Treat it as if it were sealed up. In fact, having it sealed up would not be a bad idea. Consult my uncle on this.

*

There is a DVD of instructions with the pram, telling you how to assemble and collapse it.

You know I would prefer it if you continued to wash the tea towels at 95°.

If you do use reusable nappies, buy a sanitising product from the supermarket to pre-soak them (you can also use this in the washing machine to be doubly safe).