In which Helen annoys Malcolm
As Helen parks the BMW at the side of the outhouse Malcolm is already hovering in the hallway, already unshackled from the grey suit jacket. He stands there, tie in hand, shirt collar released against the lingering heat, uncertain where to put himself in the absence of the customary routine.
‘You’re late,’ he says.
Helen quickly prepares the dinner, which is eaten in comparative silence after Malcolm has heard about the delay. He insists he doesn’t mind, but his reticence is the usual punishment for her having inconvenienced him. It’s the charity work, he says pointedly. If she hadn’t been at the meeting she couldn’t have met the girl. Then he chews in studied self-absorption, head lowered, presenting Helen with an uncommunicative and receding hairline.
Helen is cross for having allowed herself to be delayed, knowing it would cause trouble; and rather more cross – irrationally so, she knows – with Malcolm for having ‘Malcolm J. Byrne’ imprinted in a position of prominence on the leather briefcase positioned as usual at the far side of the hall and visible through the open dining room door.
And the feeling of dislike persists, when he attacks her once again after the meal.
‘You could have thought of protecting the car seat,’ he says with annoyance.
‘What, with a blanket from the nearby shop?’
‘It’s all right for you. It’s not your car. I’m the one who works.’
She swabs and blots at the seat cover, frowning. She knows he’s tired.
His mood passes when he climbs into bed, hastily uses her and falls into a relieved slumber. He has told her she is everything he wants. Helen lies awake long afterwards, comforted more by the soft acceptance of the 10-tog quilt than Malcolm’s middle-aged presence.
With the lamp extinguished, she stares upwards till the black becomes grey, then merely shadowy, and makes a decision to visit the hospital in a couple of days to see how Carla has fared.
Tentacles of light-dark drift through the curtains, and, with them, an unease across the years, a prodding at the wisps of memory, a lurking fear that something is wrong.
Neither partner has mentioned the new job. Helen feels it like a log between them. If Malcolm is aware of this, she knows it will be neither a hindrance to him nor particularly corporeal. He has, after all, never asked her opinion about the option. Helen believes Malcolm is self-sufficient in any chosen environment, both consumer and provider within a tight emotional framework that has no outer reference. He accepts with ease the various promotions he earns, moving and re-establishing himself without damage. It would not naturally occur to him to consult her about any new job or proposed move.
Helen sighs, turns over and snuggles deeper into the quilt. She knows that this particular log is gently smouldering, something she should attend to, but which is not yet visibly different from the other logs in their life.
Nevertheless, a slight hint of danger penetrates her womb-like cocoon. She must tackle Malcolm tomorrow night about the move and the new house; and, yes, she will visit Carla whether he approves or not.
Or perhaps she will not mention it.
***
Throwing her bag into the passenger seat of the car, she carefully steers backwards past the personal mail box sticking into the drive entrance where Malcolm has fixed it prominently, and enjoys the crunch of gravel and the increasing heat of mid-afternoon. It is quite reasonable, she tells herself, to visit a girl you have rescued. She is going to check she is well. She certainly doesn’t want thanks.
The road camber jolts her back to the stark reality of what she is doing. She is pursuing a course that Malcolm would disapprove of. Sentimental, he would say: a waste of petrol and time. Well she has obviously been aware of that subconsciously – hence the timing of her trip while Malcolm is on his regular Saturday visit to his mother in Coleville. She doesn’t want to antagonise him. But she is caught by a compulsion.
At just forty, Helen is aware how frequent an appearance babies and pregnancy make in her mind.
She has no idea why she hasn’t become pregnant in fifteen years of marriage. She never raises it with Malcolm, who also never mentions it to her. Should she decide to pursue the matter, a gynaecological examination will be out of the question, even with a lady doctor. The prospect blanks her mind in the same way a freak storm scrambles the television signal. To compensate, she has allowed herself to accept the illogical, reasoning that it must stem from her total disgust at the act itself. She knows the truth of the matter lies hidden in her subconscious but she recognises often these days the irrepressible urge towards motherhood. How the problem can be overcome is beyond her discernment. She tries never to dwell on it, but she’d felt the familiar pang when she realised the stranded girl was hugely pregnant. And a spark in a dry forest is lunatic. This is a very, very dry summer, she hears the voice warning in her head.
She turns off on the slip road to the maternity unit, now familiar, and signals to an ambulance to pull out first from the Visitor and Emergency parking bays. She pulls in near a hovering Fiat, notices the slim driver staring at her intently, and blushes. Quickly she locks the car and turns away from his unsettling gaze. Even so, the after-image makes her shiver.
But the girl draws her like a magnet and Helen ascends the worn stone steps of the hospital as if she were late for an appointment, and follows the corridor to Ward B. She frowns at the silk flower arrangements on each small window recess: they hardly counteract the austerity of the welcome and are powerless to detract from the odour of scrupulous hygiene.
‘Carla Martin?’ the staff nurse repeats. ‘Down at the last alcove. Probably feeding, and her husband’s with her. But you’re okay. Go ahead.’
Helen pauses once on her way down the ward, not to look into cots but to set in order once more the books that have been disarranged on the shelves in the bay window. The head librarian’s words return unbidden: Untidy books are rarely consulted and imply disrespect for the contents.
She worked in the central library before meeting Malcolm. When he wanted her to leave, she acquiesced, partly on account of these stereotyped pronouncements by the head librarian. The work at the charity is not so fulfilling – she is, after all, only dealing with computer input of donations and legacies, and calls from would-be donors – but at least Malcolm has accepted it without too much fuss.
Arriving at the end of the ward, Helen experiences a brief moment of insecurity trying to picture Carla’s face. What if she can’t find anything to say?
She resolutely steps past the pink floral curtain, tasteless in its ubiquity, and then left into the alcove.
Posted by psychmum 
Posted by psychmum 