51吃瓜网黑料

Nuala Smith was born in Drogheda in 1946. She worked as an air hostess, ran a vegetarian restaurant, and a garden centre, before moving to San Francisco with her daughter in the early 80s. Returning to Ireland, she taught office skills in Wicklow where she still lives. She has written for Irish Radio (RTE) and had short stories and articles published in newspapers and magazines. She is currently working on a Life Writing project on the MA course in 51吃瓜网黑料.
Contact: smithnuala100 [at] gmail [dot] com

A Record of Melodie 

 

The light came on and he got out of bed. I lay on my side, watching him. It was five thirty 鈥� Friday morning. He stood on one leg, hopped twice, getting into his underpants. Navy and turquoise, paisley pattern, bri-nylon. He鈥檇 dropped them on the floor last night.

鈥淲here are you going?鈥� I asked, my face in the pillow now.

鈥淗ome,鈥� he answered, pinging the elastic at his waist, a full stop to his sentence.

鈥淕oing for the first flight.鈥� 

He鈥檚 mad, I thought. Off his head. Now, I hated this ugly, square man, struggling into what 鈥� disgustingly 鈥� he often called his 鈥榢nickers鈥�. Hated him. Loathed the whole revolting business.

After a minute I said:

鈥淚鈥檓 going to Brampton.鈥� I began to get out of bed.

Quickly, he sat on the side. A roll of flesh fell around the navy waistband. He took my fingers and rubbed them against his jaw, stared at the wall behind the bed.

鈥淕ood girl.鈥�

Now he lifted the phone.

鈥淚鈥檒l organize a taxi,鈥� he said, 鈥淚鈥檓 coming with you.鈥�

Gallant.

I started into the bathroom. My stomach felt sick. Curry and beer, I could still taste it. Christ. January, London, fog.

The hotel bathroom had no window. Closing the door started the air extractor. The robot in the ceiling, whirring away, watching. I began to swab the smell of him out of me.

鈥淚鈥檝e got a taxi Darling,鈥� he called through the door.

鈥楧rop dead,鈥� I mouthed to my face in the mirror.

鈥淔reddie? You okay?鈥� he called.

鈥楾here鈥檚 a laugh,鈥� I thought, baring my teeth at the glass. I looked at the deeper yellow where they met my gums.  

鈥楳ust go to the dentist,鈥� I thought, peering closer. A sudden whiff of garlic made me throw my head over the toilet bowl. I retched. Strings of bile. And the heave for it.

Jesus 飞别辫迟鈥�

鈥淔reddie, are you okay in there?鈥� he tapped.

I wiped my mouth.  

鈥淵es Denny 鈥� fine.鈥� I used it 鈥� my pet name for him.

His name is Dennis. Dennis Harton. Age, thirty-four. Occupation, dentist. 鈥淒ennis the Dentist.鈥漌hen we met first, we used to laugh at that one. Everything made us laugh then.

Hair colour; fair. Eyes; blue. Build; could loose weight. Hobbies; me.

鈥淵ou鈥檙e terrific,鈥滵ennis said when I came out.

To be honest, I suppose all this started with me, talking about time ticking away. And when he said: 鈥淪tella鈥檇 have to understand, 驰辞耻鈥檇 need me more then.鈥� Well, you know how a few drinks changes the landscape. Everything seems possible.

And so, my Melodie. Bingo. I knew, next morning. Felt terrific. There鈥檚 not a lot of sun in December, but I remember that morning. Warm on my back going to work that Friday, the evergreens glistening round the car park. Hugging myself. Over the moon.

As I scooped into my case, he slid his arms over my shoulders. Pressed me back against him. Ginger hairs on his forearms. In Spain, in the sun, they鈥檇 looked golden.  I don鈥檛 like red hair. Moving away to the mirror, I brushed my hair. Brushing is calming. It鈥檚 so ordinary.

Still dark as we get in the taxi. Traffic crawls. I鈥檝e never seen fog like this.

***

On the way here from Dublin, our plane turned back, ten minutes out of the airport. Almost a week ago now. Furious people, checking their watches. One hour鈥檚 delay.  

Ten weeks, three days, plus one hour more, for Melodie.

So, where did the week go? Well, you have to see a councilor. It鈥檚 part of the formula, believe it or not. That鈥檚 why I agreed to come in the first place.

You see, as soon as the colour changed, I started clearing space for Dennis. Then he came up with the idea that maybe I wouldn鈥檛 be up to it! 

鈥淎fter all you鈥檝e been through,鈥� he said. My 鈥渋nstability鈥� 鈥�  I was 鈥渟o changeable鈥�;  He actually said 鈥渟chizophrenic鈥�!

鈥淎nd whose fault is that?鈥� I yelled at him.

I should never have told him about the nightmare 鈥� and Stella, under the boat with all the blood in the water, like shark-fishing. I woke up sweating.

The name? Melodie? I got that in Spain. Dennis and I shot off on one of his trips. We were sitting on a wall beside the market in the sun. Our second day. Two tiny French kids came running past. Dark-haired, they both wore red and white, stripped dresses.  The older one had a fringe. She was chasing the smaller one; 鈥淢别濒辞die! Ou vat u? Melodie?鈥� she called.

鈥淢别濒辞die,鈥� all chaotic curls, toddled on, giggling and no shoes. Then the pair disappeared.

Dennis started imitating the child鈥檚 voice.

鈥淢别濒辞dee.鈥� He got it exactly, raising the 鈥榚e鈥�. He鈥檚 a terrific mimic. I loved the way he loved their little voices too.

I said, 鈥淚f I鈥檇 a little girl, I鈥檇 call her Melodie.鈥�

Sometimes I thought Dennis was a bit of a child himself. He always bought a comic book to read on the plane, told me stories about a kettle he loved when he was four. But then, you couldn鈥檛 believe him. He makes things up. All the time he lied about Stella.

Can you love someone who lies? Oh you can. Only you understand him. You can blot out the bad bits. Love the bits you love. It鈥檚 addiction. Then, when you do what everyone says you must, you feel great 鈥� for a while. Exhilarated. Till the longing starts again; Aches. Begs. Once more. Just once. You think you鈥檙e strong enough. Then you鈥檙e back. Round and round. Deliriously happy 鈥� till the next shattering row; or the silent phone weekends, when you ring police stations, asking for names from car crashes; or A and E鈥檚. There鈥檚 lots to keep you busy, till its Monday and he鈥檚 on the phone again.  

Whatever your price range. Exactly. Yes, Spain. Now, this ghastly London.

***

鈥淪orry gov鈥檔or. Shockin鈥� fog.鈥� The taxi driver, over his shoulder, through the glass. Freezing in the back, the seat, icy under my hand. Dennis is holding my other one, the two-faced bastard. God, don鈥檛 let me puke.

鈥淣othin鈥� I can do Sir. Croyden crawl eh?鈥� The man chuckles. Steam comes from his mouth, on to the windscreen. Everything鈥檚 going somewhere; Melodie.

***

The day after I told Dennis, he suddenly goes off to a conference in Budapest. No messages. I nearly went mad. When he gets back he does nothing but go on about how unstable I am, would I be 鈥�肠补辫补产濒别鈥� 鈥� as if I were some sort of half-wit!

And what about our 鈥榗elebration鈥� dinner when he wheeled in that vile Peter with the nose. He鈥檚 been having an affair for years with an ex-nun. She lives at the end of their garden. When Dennis told me that first, we had such a laugh. It sounded like she was a garden gnome - or someone camping. 

She鈥檚 in their mews 鈥� how handy for Peter  鈥� and he鈥檚 so awful 鈥� fat and disgusting. Dennis knows I loath him. And his ghastly bracelet, like a big curtain ring.

Maybe that鈥檚 why I agreed, in the end to see the blessed councilor; the omniscient person who鈥檇 鈥榢now鈥�. Dear Christ, to be shut of it all. Start again 鈥� Canada maybe?

But not in the days when Dennis was away. On my own, in the silence, I knew I鈥檇 adore her. Melodie鈥�blue eyes, tiny shoes鈥�

***

Yes, I saw the 鈥榝acilitator鈥�. Around my own age, twenty-eight ish I鈥檇 say. She told us that she couldn鈥檛 鈥榬ecommend鈥� as I was 鈥榮till unsure鈥�.  

I was thrilled.

Then she suggested a few days 鈥榩ostponement鈥� so that we could 鈥榬econsider鈥�.

Dennis was peppering.  

Then, if we made a decision to go ahead, we could go along to Brampton Hall on Friday.

鈥淐heck in at seven in the morning, fasting,鈥� she said.

鈥淎n airline for saints,鈥� Dennis whispered to me and I got a fit of giggling.  She though we were laughing at her.

***

Three days to kill. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, with Dennis, in London. Normally, I鈥檇 adore it. We鈥檝e done it so often, his old home town.

Not now. Each day I felt sicker. Each time I felt sick, be bought me brandy.

鈥淪tella always took brandy,鈥� he said.

鈥淒on鈥檛 talk to me about her,鈥� I hissed. 鈥淲hy鈥檚 she featuring now? God诲补尘尘颈迟?鈥�

Then I鈥檇 mellow. Feel better. We鈥檇 be off again about what it might be like, me and my job, how I鈥檇 manage. Stella, and his boys. Round and round. Then eating in the Greek place with his London pals, throwing plates. Laughing our heads off. And the hotel. The plans. Like Spain again. That was Tuesday.

Wednesday, he needed a couple of hours. Gave me money. Said maybe I鈥檇 need things 鈥� just in case. Tube, clatter. Sway the nausea. O vomit. No 鈥� please. March the hoards in grey, on down Oxford Street. The low gut pain. In a trance to Marks and Spencer for a nightdress. Boiling, no air. Marshmallows. Florals. Christ, who cares. Freezing again. Plastic bag one step closer. O Melodie.

We met at the Hungarian place with the violinist. More drinks, food I couldn鈥檛 touch. Ready to puke all the time. So tired. Dennis eats everything. Keeps looking at me, all concern.   

Thursday, I track down my brother, Robert, in his new local. He thinks it鈥檚 all great. After a while, I鈥檓 sure too. Yes, the squat鈥檚 still going. His jewellery鈥檚 beginning to sell. Fine. Dennis appears. He鈥檚 had a few too.

Now these men I love, shake hands again. Between them, the brainwave. They draw up an agreement. Melodie will be cared for by Dennis and me. Money won鈥檛 be a problem. Robert has witnessed the bit of paper. They keep shaking hands, best buddies now, while I smile between them.

鈥淵ou eat Indian?鈥� Dennis ask him and we go somewhere exotic and turbaned. I don鈥檛 remember saying goodnight to Robert.

Then, just after five this morning, I wake to witness Dennis鈥檚 struggle with his underpants.

鈥淚鈥檓 going home,鈥� he says. And he always will.  

I hate him.

***

London streets. Suburbs slide past behind the gauze of fog. People trickle to work.

There, below the nausea. Melodie.

鈥淗ow鈥檙e you feeling Darling?鈥� Dennis leans his head against mine. We stay like that for a few seconds.

鈥淧oor old Freddie,鈥� he whispers, squeezing my fingers. It hurts.

I draw on the window; a circle with a cross inside. It leaks at the base and a drop begins to slide down. I draw a matching one.

Silver eyes. Looking silent in.   

Oh Christ, I am mad.

***

鈥淭his it, Gov?鈥� The driver knows the place. Swings the wheel left.

鈥淥kay mate.鈥� Dennis speaks his language.

It鈥檚 easy to get out of a London taxi, you can almost stand up straight. God, the diesel smell鈥� Dennis pays, and his usual big tip.

Brampton Hall. People played croquet here. Gravel. Not a weed. Granite steps up to a green double door with a light on over it. Cars parked by bushes. Another car crunches up. A man in a duffel coat gets out, opens the back door for a blonde. She鈥檚 smoking.

Inside, pale women sit, coats on, disembarking. Brisk ones in navy, with square white tunics, speed around in shoes that grip rubber floors. Florescent lights. A check-in sign, red letters over an arrow.

鈥淣ame please?鈥� My voice begins to pass details to her. The record of Melodie. I could run.

鈥淎ddress?鈥� Dennis gives that address from when he lived in London. Now it鈥檚 a hairdresser鈥檚.

There鈥檚 a red, minute hand on the clock behind her. Seven forty-eight.

鈥淥-Kay鈥� the woman鈥檚 voice takes that word slowly, raising her head on the 鈥榢ay鈥�, her pen stabbing a final, full stop.  She looks over her glasses at Dennis; 鈥淵ou can phone tonight, after six. Discharge in the morning at seven.鈥�

Her eyes swing to me, she says, 鈥淭his way please.鈥�

Now we grab each other, bang our faces together, try to hug. My small bag, my handbag, - in the way.

鈥淔reddie,鈥� he says to the side of my head.   

As he pulls back, I see his tears. I鈥檓 blinded too. I will stay on his hand, connected like this, go on out of here, a straight line, back, back鈥�

O please! Melodie. Yes!

But we release each other. We turn away in our separate, desperate directions. I see his beloved, square shape move towards the door. Like a dull beast, I follow the nurse鈥檚 squeaking stride.

Taking off my shoes, I will open my mouth and scream.