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I did, she said. I ruined the evening. She put her hands over her face, as if she was ashamed even to be looked at. He sighed and put the pot and the brush down on to a sheet of newspaper.
Eleanor, he said, I was only joking. Everyone had a lovely evening. He took hold of her wrists and gently lifted her hands away from her face.
Really? she said.
Really, he said, licking his thumb and wiping a smear of plaster dust from her forehead; I promise. She wrinkled her nose and looked up at him, and the flush of embarrassment ebbed out of her face. She smiled.
I'm sorry, she said. It just worries me, what people think, especially your family and everyone. He kissed her forehead, then her nose.
They all think the world of you, he said. And so do I. He let go of her wrists, kissed her lips, and started to unbutton the worn-out shirt she was wearing, uncovering her small neat breasts. So do I, he murmured again, stooping to kiss each dark nipple, unbuttoning the rest of her shirt, slipping his hands behind her back. Eleanor stepped away, covering herself and fiddling with the buttons.
David, she said, quietly. Not now. I'm not— she said, and stopped. We've hardly started in here, she said. Give me a brush. David passed her another brush, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, surprised and a little embarrassed at himself. He moved the ladder, and went back to the painting without saying anything more.
Later, sharing a bag of chips while they waited for the first coat to dry, she said, I'm sorry about before. I just wasn't feeling like it; I wras a bit preoccupied.
It's fine, he said, pretending to have forgotten. Don't worry about it.
And the next day, when all the painting was done, the brushes washed and the spattered newspaper thrown away, the furniture shifted back into place and the pictures rehung on the wall, when they were looking around the room and each wondering if they'd ever really like the colour, she turned to him and said well, I think we're all done here now, aren't we? She swept the loose strands of hair away from her face and unbuttoned her shirt. He noticed that she still had yellow paint under her fingernails, and across one of her knuckles, and he noticed that she was shrugging her shirt to the floor.
Afterwards, lying across their bed together, he said now tell me something. She turned her face towards him, questioningly. Tell me what it was like, at home, when you were growing up. I want to know more, he said.
So she told him about watching her mother clean the kitchen floor when she was a child barely old enough to speak; hiding under the table, watching soap bubbles balloon and burst into the cold sunlight as her mother's wooden-soled shoes slid like skates across the wet flagstoned floor. The hot soapy water slopping towards her, and her mother hoisting the chairs from the floor and slamming them up on to the tabl
e as she caught glaring sight of her daughter.
She told him about her mother not talking to her for days at a time, not talking to anyone, stopping in bed with a mystery illness that nobody ever discussed.
She told him about having to make her brothers' beds each morning, slipping out of her own to straighten the mess left from the morning's rush into work, gathering the tight-rolled balls of yesterday's socks and heaping them into the wash-bag, untangling the sheets and blankets from their heap at the bottom of the bed.
She told him about her mother cutting her hair, insisting on keeping it short so that it wouldn't be any trouble, never taking any time over it so that she always came out looking hacked and shorn and the other children would tease her. I didn't dare say anything though, or ask to get it done in a shop, she said, Mam would have walloped me. It was only when she was older, fourteen, fifteen, that she resisted and persuaded her mother to let her be, and her hair began to grow long and straight and fine. I couldn't keep my hands off it for a long time, she said, smiling, playing with it even as she spoke; it seemed like such a new part of me.
She told him that once, when it had reached down to her shoulders, her brother's wife Rosalind had brushed it for her, telling her how she could keep it nice, showing her different ways of wearing it, running the brush and her fingers through it over and over again. It was the first time anyone had touched me like that, she said.
29 Set of clothes pegs, traditional style, w/hand-drawn faces, C.1920S-1950S
When Eleanor was seven years old her sister Tessa told her something awful, whispering it in her ear while they sat in their bedroom one long Sunday afternoon. Tessa was already laughing to herself when I ran downstairs to find Mam, Eleanor told David, but I didn't know if that meant it was true or it wasn't true. She found her mother in the kitchen, sitting on a chair with her hands pressed against her lower back, arching her spine, a pile of freshly wrung sheets leaking murky water into a tub in front of her. Outside, more sheets were hanging on the line, swinging and snapping in the hard wind blowing up from the sea.
Oh you've come to help, have you? Ivy said, and Eleanor looked at her blankly. Because there'll be no food on the table while these sheets are waiting to be hung. Eleanor nodded and followed her mother as she hauled the washtub out into the backyard. She fetched the basket from the scullery and took the end of the first unpegged sheet from her mother, bringing the corners together and pulling them tight, bringing the corners together again, passing the ends back to her mother and fetching the hanging end up to meet the top until there was a neatly folded square in the basket. She knew exactly what to do. She'd had plenty of practice. They folded two more in this way, and then Eleanor said Mam is it true that when you have a baby all your stomach comes out and they have to stick it back in again? Ivy looked up.
Eh, no, she said, not quite. Feels like it mind, she said, unpegging another sheet. Eleanor looked at her, eyes wide.
Does it? she said. She was quiet for a moment while they folded the next sheet, thinking. But is there any actual blood? she said, and her voice was quiet and disbelieving.
Oh aye, said Ivy, there's blood all right. She passed Eleanor the end of another sheet. When I had you, she said, looking at her daughter carefully, the whole bed was covered in blood, and every towel in the house wasn't enough to mop it up off me. Her daughter stared back at her, bringing corner to corner and fetching up the hanging end, the colour fading from her face.
Did it hurt? she whispered, and her mother laughed, a single hard snort of unamused laughter. Or she laughed long and hard, sarcastic but also genuinely entertained by her daughter's innocence. Or she didn't laugh at all, but stared and thought there's a lot I've got to teach you yet my girl.
Did it hurt? she replied. Oh, aye. Felt like my whole body was ripping in two. Felt like my bones were cracking every time I pushed. Wasn't as young as I used to be, my body was too old to be coping with that kind of nonsense. I shouldn't really have been having a baby at all at that age. Midwife said I was lucky, said she thought she was going to lose us both with all the blood that was pouring out of me.
Ivy watched the effect her words were having on her daughter. She wanted her to know how it was, to understand and be grateful. Or she deliberately wanted to frighten her, to find revenge for what had happened. Eleanor stared at her.
But your stomach didn't come out at all? she asked eventually, confused. Her mother shook her head.
No girl, she said, smiling thinly. May have felt like it, but no, my stomach didn't come out at all. Who's been telling you that? she asked, and Eleanor's eyes immediately dropped away.
No one, she muttered.
Aye, well, of course, no one, said Ivy, hoisting the first wet sheet into the blustery air and pegging it to the line, glancing up at the house. Drops of water fell from the sheet on to the cobbled ground, spattering up around Eleanor's ankles, winding their way between the stones to the gutter running along the backs of the yards. The wind began to blow stronger as they hung out the rest, Eleanor passing the ends up to her mother and holding out the pegs, and as they went back into the house one of the sheets was lifted and flapped suddenly into shape by a sharp gust, the sound like a whipcrack echoing off the dark stone walls.
