What Have I Done

Ten years ago



It was nearly time for the school bell to ring, announcing the end of the last period. Kathryn stood with her back to the door, twisting a tea towel inside a coffee mug, soaking up any drips, filling her time.

‘I must remember to chill the dips and give the glasses a good wipe…’

‘Who are you talking to?’

His voice surprised her; she spun around, tea towel in hand and looked at her son as he delved into the bread bin in his relentless search for carbohydrates. He was a handsome boy, tall with a laid-back demeanour and appealing voice that was just on the right side of posh. It still took Kathryn slightly by surprise, how her baby had grown into this teenage life force. It staggered her how quickly the years had flown by, staggered and frightened her. For every year that sped by, allowing her child to stride towards adulthood, was also a year of her life that she had spent tethered to Mark.

‘Hello, my darling! I didn’t hear you come in. How was your day?’

‘My day was complete and total shit.’

‘Oh right, I shan’t ask then.’ She attempted to win him over with humour.

‘Well you can ask as much as you like, but I won’t tell you.’

She swallowed his sneer and let it settle in her stomach. It was easier to ignore his comments than allow them to escalate. He was probably just tired.

‘Are you here for supper, Dom?’

‘Depends.’ He had turned his attention to the cupboard and was now addressing her from behind the open door.

‘Depends on what?’

‘On what supper is.’

She chewed her bottom lip, containing it all, swallowing the latent aggression, the indifference, the mild hostility, the unspoken irritation. These behavioural traits were typical of boys his age. He was a child-man trying to find his place in the world and not quite sure how to fire off the steam that built up inside him. He had also adopted some of his father’s views and attitudes, albeit subconsciously.

‘It’s coq au vin with steamed fresh green beans and purple sprouting broccoli.’

‘I really, really hate the way you do that.’

‘The way I do what?’

He closed the cupboard door and looked at his mother.

‘The way you try and entice me to stay for supper by delivering the menu as though it was a fancy restaurant. Why can’t you just say “We’re having chicken”?’

She would play along, she would humour him; she didn’t want to argue – she hadn’t seen him for a day or so.

‘Fine. I shall no longer try to entice you to allow me to cook for you. Tonight, Dominic, we are having chicken. Are you here for supper?’

‘No, I’ve already eaten.’

She looked into his eyes. ‘So can I assume that you’ve already eaten whether we are having coq au vin or just chicken?’

‘Yeah.’ He scowled.

She bent forward and rested her arms on the counter top. Her hands joined together, subconsciously simulating prayer. She brought them up to her forehead and exhaled deeply. Closing her eyes, she spoke to the presence that she could still feel but could no longer see. It was sometimes easier that way.

‘Dominic, is there something going on with you that you want to talk about? Anything upsetting you?’

‘No.’

‘Because you can always talk to me, you know. That’s my job!’

‘There is nothing I have to say that I think you will want to hear.’

‘Well in that case, I really need you to think about the way that you treat people; more specifically, the way that you treat me. I am not your enemy, or the hired help for that matter. I am your mum and I don’t know why you think that it is okay to talk to me like that, but it is not. I know that life is not always perfect for you, but let me tell you, mister, that your life is a lot more perfect than most people’s. I understand that you have the pressures of school work, the distraction of girls and having Dad work here… I know that it’s not always easy, but please, please don’t shut me out. I love you, Dominic, I love you very much.’

Dominic stared at his mother’s back, bent over the kitchen counter, and studied the knobbles at the top of her spine, which were visible through the thin fabric of her shirt.

‘If you must know, Mum, it’s nothing to do with Dad. It’s you.’

‘Me?’ She tried to keep the surprise from her voice, tried to mask the sadness and resignation at his comment. ‘How is it me?’

‘You are just so…’ He fought to find the words as he breathed out from inflated cheeks.

‘So what exactly, Dominic?’

She stood straight now, with her hands on her hips, and he faced her.

‘You’re weird.’

She laughed. It was a quick, loud laugh to hide her nerves, and something else – relief?

‘I’m weird?’

She posed the question and yet did not want to hear the answer.

‘Yes, Mum, you are weird and it is so not funny so I don’t know why you are laughing.’

She noticed that he emphasised the ‘so’. He wasn’t finished.

‘You talk to yourself and people in school notice, my friends notice. You float around the place as though you are only half aware of what you’re doing; it’s like you’re completely bonkers or on drugs or something. You smile even though you are clearly unhappy. It’s like living with someone that’s got a secret; it’s like you know something that no one else does and it sets you apart from us, from me, Dad and Lyds. I feel sometimes like you’re not part of this family and all my mates joke about how bloody strange you are with your clean sheet obsession and it’s shit because it’s true and worst of all it makes me weird by association. It’s just complete shit.’

She looked at her son.

‘I understand, Dominic. It’s shit.’

‘No. No, Mum, you don’t understand and that’s just it.’

He turned and left the room. She was once again alone with her tea towel.

The ghost of his words swirled and spiralled around her form and settled over her like a fine mist. ‘It’s like living with someone that’s got a secret; it’s like you know something that no one else does and it sets you apart from us…’

Clever, clever Dominic. My clever, beautiful boy. He was right, that was exactly what it was like.

Kathryn gathered her thoughts and tried to focus on something, anything other than the ache of her son’s words and the manner in which he had felt it appropriate to deliver them. She was sifting through the encounter, trying to pick out any tiny positives, when in walked Lydia with an oversized sketch pad shoved under her arm.

‘What’s for tea?’

‘Hi, Lydia, yes I’m fine, thank you, my day was fairly good and how are you?’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. It’s chicken.’

‘Just chicken? Yuk. That is so totally boring.’

‘Well it’s coq au vin actually with steamed fresh green beans and purple sprouting broccoli.’

‘Oh, well why didn’t you say that? God, Mum, sometimes you can be so—’

Kathryn held up her hand, interrupting her daughter’s flow before she had the chance to throw any fuel on her already broken spirit.

‘Yes, Lydia, I know. I have an inability to accurately describe supper. Forgive me. I am weird beyond belief. I’m an embarrassment to you, life is shit and it’s all my fault, everything from world famine to the war in the Middle East, global warming, the current economic crisis and of course the fact that Luca Petronatti won’t go out with you. It is all my fault, all of it. You can quite legitimately blame me for everything.’

Lydia was speedy with her retort.

‘Are you menopausal? Is that what this is all about?’

‘Probably, Lydia.’

‘I’ll eat in my room.’

Lydia marched back into the hallway and up the stairs. That was it, end of discussion. Kathryn tried to imagine a similar conversation with her own mother. She tried to imagine first of all enquiring about the state of her mother’s biological cycle, commenting on it and then demanding in so many words that her supper be waitressed up to her room. She could of course imagine neither, for she wouldn’t have dared or wanted to. Things had been different.

Opening the cupboard door, she turned the tin of peas to face the ‘right way’. For the first few years of their marriage, the tasks that Kathryn performed which required detailed and careful instruction were varied and numerous. Up until then she had inadvertently been executing many tasks wrongly. Who knew? Not she. She had been blissfully unaware that there was a right way to put honey on toast, a right way to make coffee in a cafetière. Luckily, Mark was on hand to help her realise the error of her ways.

The list was long and meticulous. Tins had to be stacked no more than three high and with all the labels facing outwards; when opened with a tin opener, their lids had to be removed entirely – never, ever left jagged and hanging by a thin hinge of metal – and placed inside the empty tin for disposal.

A carpet had always to be vacuumed in straight horizontal lines, allowing you to follow the previous edge – haphazardly roaming around a room until you were sure that you had covered each area at least once was out of the question. There was a right way to store socks (balled together with its opposite number and placed in colour-coordinated order in the drawer); a right way to stack a dishwasher, fold a towel, tie and dispose of a bin bag, brush your teeth, park the car, drive the car, feed the children, comb and cut your hair, make the bed, polish the floor, address the neighbours, write Christmas cards, answer the phone, dress, walk, talk, think…



Mark Brooker always entered a room loudly, even if he didn’t say a word. He never simply arrived anywhere. It was as if he always had to announce his presence, like an actor walking onto the set of an American sitcom. As his head appeared around the door, Kathryn always half expected to hear clapping and canned laughter, merely at the fact of his arrival.

He came to where she stood and eclipsed her with his form.

‘Good evening, Kathryn.’

‘Hello, Mark.’

‘You look neat and pretty.’

She smiled weakly up at him. ‘Thank you.’

‘Something smells good. What’s for supper?’

‘It’s… err… it’s…’

‘It’s… err… it’s… what?’ His tone was clipped, through his smiling mouth.

‘It’s chicken… It’s coq au vin… Chicken.’

‘Chicken coq au vin chicken. Splendid.’

He pulled her face into his hands and kissed her hard and full on the mouth before turning on his heel and retiring to his study. She waited until the door clicked in its frame before raising the checked tea towel to her mouth and wiping away the moist evidence of his presence.

She set the table for the two of them; her lips ached and swelled slightly from his aggressive contact. Her mind flitted to an evening during their courtship. They had been in the bar at University College, London, among a small group of fellow students, when the conversation shifted to the subject of working women. There was the usual banter about chaining wives to sinks and the old jokes about why were women married in white? To match the rest of the household appliances – boom boom! How they all laughed.

After walking her home, Mark had turned to her as they stood in her parents’ doorway.

‘You will stay at home, won’t you, gorgeous? You’ll stay at home and grow our babies and I will look after you so that you never have to worry about a thing, not one single thing.’

She smiled up at him.

‘Well, Mark, I will stay at home eventually, when I do have babies, but up until then, I definitely want to teach. I want to use my degree. I think I’ll be really good! I certainly love my subject and I’m very patient – unlike a certain someone I could name!’

‘Impatient, moi? It’s not my fault if most of the kids that get shoved in front of me are retards. I need a better calibre of child, one without the IQ of a pot plant!’

‘Ah, what is it they say? “A bad workman blames his tools.” Is it the same for bad teachers?’

Suddenly and without any warning, Mark grabbed her right wrist, lifted her hand up to her own face, and laughed.

‘Stop slapping yourself, you silly girl!’

He was laughing and smiling as he slapped her hand across her own face, hard. For a moment, she was too shocked to react. Then realisation dawned and she clenched her muscles and splayed her fingers taut. But he was much stronger and simply carried on making her hit herself in the face.

‘Stop it! Stop it, Kathryn! You silly girl!’

She cried and gulped air in surprise. It was some seconds before he stopped abruptly.

‘Oh my darling! Why are you crying?’

She looked into his beautiful pale blue eyes as her own pooled with tears.

‘Because you hurt me, Mark.’

He crushed her to him, folded his duffel coat around her and spoke softly into her scalp.

‘Baby, baby, it was just a joke! I love you and I would never hurt you intentionally. I would rather die than hurt you.’

She had been shaken when the mirror revealed an angry red mark across the side of her face.



As Kathryn positioned the table mats, coasters and the salt and pepper centrally on the table, she reflected that this, among many other things that Mark did and said, was a lie. He would not rather die than hurt her. This she knew for a fact.

At eight o’clock, with supper finished, the various masters began trickling in and making themselves comfortable in the kitchen. She circled the room, dispensing wine and mineral water into sparklingly clean glasses whilst nodding, smiling and commenting where appropriate or necessary.

‘Yes, it is unusually mild.’

‘Thank you, yes, I am well, very well.’

‘Dominic? Oh, you know, studying hard.’

‘The first eleven? Oh, it’s against Taunton School, I think.’

‘For aphides, I trust a mixture of vinegar and water, liberally sprayed.’

Kathryn looked at the rag-taggle group of old men clad in their fusty corduroy garments. Collectively they gave off the faintest whiff of decay. Thick tufts of hair sprouted from ears and noses – the kind of thing that an attentive wife would have taken care of. Their teeth were also neglected. She imagined them as a group of ageing penguins, squawking and jostling for position even though no one else in the world was the tiniest bit interested in anything they did or said.

At approximately ten past eight Mark made his grand entrance.

‘Good evening one and all!’

He stood by the opened door and Kathryn noticed a flicker of hesitation, correctly guessing that he considered bowing before deciding against it.

The assembled crowd nodded their heads and muttered incomprehensibly, honoured to be in the presence of their esteemed head, waiting to hear what wisdom would follow that dazzling smile and its flash of whitened, straightened teeth.

‘Right, gentlemen, shall we get started?’

Mark rubbed his palms together with Faginesque enthusiasm.

The masters took their positions around the kitchen table, each man’s status apparent by how close he sat to Mark.

‘Agenda item number one: the Excellence in Education Awards, which I may or may not have had a tip-off about today—’

Before he even finished the sentence there was a chorus of comment from around the table.

‘Oh well done, Headmaster!’

‘Bloody marvellous news, Mark!’

‘Much deserved, old chap, really much deserved!’

Kathryn, having heard enough, slipped into the sitting room and closed the door behind her. She crept silently over to the telephone table, opened the drawer and carefully removed the copy of Tom Jones that she had placed at the back, secreted away for just such an occasion. She picked up the novel and ran her fingers over its cover, feeling a small yet familiar surge of happiness, knowing that she could snatch a few minutes of reading until her services were required again. She knew the drill: fifteen minutes to allow proceedings to get underway, then back into the kitchen to serve canapés and dips.

Kathryn sat in the comfy chair in front of the window and dived in.

The reader will be pleased, I believe, to return with me to Sophia. She passed the night, after we saw her last, in no very agreeable manner. Sleep befriended her but little, and dreams less. In the morning, when Mrs Honour, her maid, attended her, at the usual hour, she was found already up and drest.

She fell into the pages happily and allowed herself to slip into the world created by Henry Fielding.

Reading was Kathryn’s greatest passion and her only escape. She had always known that it was a very dangerous thing; if a book was good enough, it could rob her of time and awareness, and would entirely consume her, forcing her to take every step with the characters, unable to pull away for fear of leaving them in limbo. This was how it was for Kathryn that night. And when she heard the sitting room door bang loudly against the wall, eighteen minutes had passed – not the agreed fifteen.

She dropped the book without regard for its welfare, caring not that the lovely Sophia would be tumbling downwards unprotected to land with a thump in darkness. Her husband remained by the opened door, saying and doing nothing, his expression blank. She tried not to catch his eye as she sidled past him and into the kitchen. Not one word was spoken between them.

Offering a muted apology to the guests, Kathryn quickly removed the cling film from her canapés and uncorked another bottle of chilled medium white. She waltzed around the kitchen distributing plates and napkins before circulating again with platters of goodies; all were eagerly received and consumed with the appropriate appreciation and thanks. Crumbs littered grey-streaked beards, and sauces and dips were dripped onto ties and lapels. A job well done.

It was gone eleven o’clock by the time all the guests had left. The dishwasher whirred away, the table had been wiped clean, mats and coasters were restored to their drawers and the chairs pushed in just so.

Kathryn climbed the stairs and entered their bedroom. She walked with a measured pace, not over eager to reach her destination, but aware that any delay would only put off the inevitable.

It was a beautiful room. The high ceiling and ornate period coving complemented the magnificent wallpaper design of peonies and cabbage roses whose many shades of aubergine and purple petals looked so real you wanted their scent to invade you. Two large sash windows overlooked the sports field, although at this time of night the roman blinds obscured the view. The carpet was cream and topped with bottle-green rugs to give just the right amount of underfoot snugness. The antique bed was large and grand, with deep floral carvings in the mahogany headboard. It had belonged to Mark’s grandmother and was much admired, but Kathryn hated it intensely. She often dreamed of it being consumed by woodworm until nothing remained but a tiny pile of dust and a very fat worm.

For all its beauty, the room held fearsome associations for Kathryn. She was always taken aback when visitors made approving, envious comments: she fully expected them to inhale the misery that lodged in every nook and cranny and would not have been surprised to see the oceans of tears she had cried seeping from the walls and the mattress, forming pools on the floor.

Kathryn removed her shoes and skirt. She paired her tan leather loafers with their heels together under the old, overstuffed, chintz-covered chair that sat in the corner of the room. Her skirt she rezipped and folded in half before hanging over the back of the same chair. Her shirt she rolled into a ball and placed in the wicker laundry basket along with her discarded pants and bra. She undid her earrings and pearl necklace, carefully placing them in the jewellery box on the dressing table. She brushed and flossed her teeth and combed her hair, removing all traces of make-up. Finally she slipped into one of five identical white cotton nightdresses that she owned. They were rather long, plain and Shaker in style, each with a Peter Pan collar and small ivory buttons at the base of pin-tuck pleats on the cuff and neck.

Kathryn then knelt at the foot of the bed, bowed her head and waited. Just as she had done every single night for the last seventeen years and five months.

She heard the creak of the top stair, followed by the telltale tap of wedding ring against wooden banister rail. Her muscles tensed as they always did at the familiar sounds; it made no difference how many times she had heard them. Finally she heard the bedroom door snap shut into the frame and the scraping of the old brass key in its lock.

The creep of fear plucked at her muscles, invaded her bones and pricked at her skin. Closing her eyes briefly, she shuddered involuntarily as her heart performed its customary jump.

Mark walked towards her kneeling form and stood behind her in his usual position, with his hands behind his back. His thighs almost grazed the back of her head. She could feel an almost incandescent heat coming off him in waves. His voice, as usual, was calm, lilting, almost soft.

‘Well?’ he asked.

Her mouth twitched and she swallowed as she tried to form the words. Experience had taught her that it was better to speak concisely, honestly and audibly… Much better.

‘I think four points.’

‘You think four points?’

‘Yes.’ She swallowed again.

‘Well you would be wrong. It is seven points.’

‘Seven?’

‘Did I ask you to repeat that figure? Did I tell you to speak?’

She shook her head. No, no, he hadn’t. Don’t look and don’t speak.

‘Four points indeed!’

He gave a small laugh before tutting as though admonishing an amusing child.

‘I shall now tell you why seven points.’

He cleared his throat with a small cough and began.

‘Firstly, I would ask you to cast your mind back to this morning. When I gave you a flower, you did not raise your face to me with thanks, preferring instead to stare at the floor like an insolent teenager. Two points. You had also been chatting in an overfamiliar way with two of the pupils. Two points. When I asked you what was for supper you gave me some hesitant, irritating comment, “Chicken, blah blah, chicken”. One point. And finally, after being given specific instructions, you forced me to leave my masters’ meeting to call you to serve the appropriate refreshments, which were not only late but were rather average. This, Kathryn, embarrassed us both. Two points. Which makes a grand total of…?’

‘Seven points,’ she replied, in a small voice.

‘That is correct.’

He ran his fingers through her hair, gently stroking the nape of her neck. Bending low, he kissed the top of her spine and she felt the air blow cold against the wet imprint from his mouth.

Mark went into the en-suite bathroom to take his nightly shower, leaving his wife kneeling on the floor to contemplate the error of her ways.

Her legs went numb and, as usual, pins and needles consumed her feet and toes.

Fifteen minutes later Mark emerged, damp and lemon-scented. He sauntered over to the bedside table and flicked the button on his alarm clock. All set. He then walked to the wardrobe and selected a tie for the following day: cornflower blue silk with a yellow spot, very dapper. From the drawer of his tallboy he chose some cufflinks, silk knots of course, in a corresponding blue and yellow. He reached for his cologne, Floris No. 89, and daubed the citrusy top notes behind his ears and across his chin. Next, he slid open the lower drawer and removed the small square of waxy paper, which he unfolded to reveal the shiny steel razor blade. He pinched the blade between his thumb and forefinger and examined it in the lamplight.

‘Come.’

His outstretched palm pointed towards the bed as if calling a dog to heel.

Kathryn stood on wobbly legs. She knew what to do, she knew the drill; she had done it more than six and a half thousand times. Six and a half thousand! Unbelievable. Unthinkable, but true.

She lay face down in the middle of the bed with her nightdress raised to just above her bottom. At this point he always asked, ‘Are you comfortable?’ and she would either murmur or nod into the creamy silk comforter that yes, she was comfortable. She had learned through experience that there was no point in saying or indicating anything different.

Over the years, Kathryn had come to view Mark’s behaviour as ‘normal’, in so far as ‘normal’ meant something that occurred commonly, regularly, as standard, something that was routine, predictable, a benchmark; something that happened every day.

Mark had a method and rhythm to his cutting. He would never sever an incision that had not properly healed and he would cut in a pattern of lines, only millimetres apart, always with precision, on a slight diagonal and always working from the outside in. The backs of Kathryn’s thighs were a dense matrix of lines and tracks, over six and a half thousand of them, in varying states of healing and recuperation.

Mark only ever made one cut per night – a single line – regardless of the number of points he had dished out. The points were not about quantity: they were a measurement of depth.

The points allocated ranged from zero to twelve. In all their married life Kathryn had never scored a zero and did not believe she ever would. Twelve points meant she would lose consciousness, but this was sometimes preferable to the lingering pain of a nine or ten.

She found it morbidly fascinating that her blood continued to flow. A thick, sticky trickle, night after night. Would she never run out? Would the day come when he would make his incision and there would be nothing? A barren source: used up, finished, gone, enough.

The cutting could take anything from three minutes to ten. Her blood would meander, warm and viscous, down between her legs and onto the white linen sheets. There it would form lake-shaped patterns; on a good day it might be Placid, on a bad day, Geneva. When he had done cutting, Mark would rape her.

Kathryn was not allowed to wash following this nightly ritual. In fact she wasn’t even allowed to move until her husband had fallen asleep. She would then wince as she shuffled across to her side of the bed; sleep would come to her eventually when the throb of pain subsided slightly. Sometimes she would cry hot, silent tears into her pillow, but mostly she did not, not any more. This too, experience had shown her, was futile; there was no one to see or hear those tears.



The alarm pip-pipped its irritating echo around the room; it was 6 a.m. Kathryn reluctantly opened her eyes. Mark was already awake and standing by the side of the bed, watching her come to. He reached out and tenderly took her hand as she slid off the mattress, still foggy with sleep. Her nightdress, as was customary, had dried and stuck to the bloody cuts on her thighs. She stood still and upright as he gently gathered the fabric in his free hand and, pulling it taut, yanked it from its plasma tethers. It woke her up.

He took her hand and led her into the bathroom. She watched as he turned the nozzle and allowed the shower to run into the tray.

‘Today, Kathryn, you have two minutes.’

He smiled and bent forward, grazing her forehead with a kiss. She raised her bloodied gown over her head and let it fall into a cotton heap on the tiled floor. Stepping into the current, it took a few seconds for her body to adjust to the temperature, which was as usual slightly too hot. But there was no point raising an objection. The fresh cuts always stung in protest, but that too would settle down to almost bearable.

She closed her eyes and let the water run over her face, washing away another night and heralding a new day much like any other. Reaching for the bottle, she squeezed out a blob of apple-scented shampoo, a little larger than the size of a fifty pence piece, just as her mother had taught her all those years ago. Now that the fifty pence piece had become considerably smaller, should she apply a little bit extra to compensate? Kathryn’s mind flitted to other things that had diminished in size since she was a little girl: Wagon Wheel biscuits, telephones, journey times to Cornwall…

Kathryn applied the shampoo to her hair and scalp, feeling it grow into a mound of froth. Mark stood on the other side of the glass screen, watching her every action. She closed her eyes and scoured her scalp and hair, enjoying the sensation. Suddenly the water stopped running. She yelped slightly in surprise, the suds still in her hands and eyes.

Mark opened the door and she stood there dishevelled, slightly disorientated and covered in sweet-scented foam. Her hair looked like an uncooked meringue.

‘I said two minutes.’

She knew that protest would be pointless, even if she were able to find the courage. It was her own stupid fault, daydreaming about rubbish from her childhood. She wouldn’t say anything; she didn’t want to start the day any more points down than was absolutely necessary. Shivering, she stepped from the steamy cubicle into the cool air. Mark placed a large towel around her body and with one free end he wiped the foam from her eyes and face.

‘There now,’ he cooed, ‘that’s better.’

She padded into the bedroom and got dressed while her husband showered. Despite using the towel to remove as many of the suds as was possible, her hair was still a sticky mess. She ran a comb through it as best she could. Looking into the mirrors on her dressing table, she practised her smile. Was it her imagination or was it becoming more and more difficult to get it right?

Kathryn stripped the bedclothes as she did every morning and tried not to look at the scarlet pond of misery that spoilt the white perfection on which it sat. She added her nightdress to the middle of the bundle of linen. As ever, she would have this on a hot wash before the children surfaced, and they would never know. They would never know.



By the time Lydia made her way into the kitchen nearly an hour later, the laundry was ready to be pegged out, the table was set for breakfast, bacon was crisping under the grill and Kathryn was standing at the sink, ready to face the day.

The first she knew of her daughter’s arrival was when the chair legs scraped on the wooden floor.

‘Good morning, Lydi! Did you have sweet dreams?’

There was no response from her daughter, whose head lay on her arms which formed a triangular cradle on the table.

‘Lydia, I said did you have sweet dreams?’

Kathryn approached her slowly and stroked her hair away from her shoulder.

‘What?’ Lydia shouted, yanking the two tiny white headphones from her ears.

‘Sorry, darling, I didn’t realise you were plugged in, I was just asking if you—’

‘Oh my God! What on earth have you done to your hair? It looks awful! Really awful!’

Kathryn chose to ignore the comments, as she had no adequate response.

‘Would you like some bacon?’

‘Would I like some bacon?’ Lydia’s voice climbed in incomprehension. Why had the subject been changed? Had her mother finally flipped?

‘What are you two shouting about?’ Dominic was an unwelcome addition to the already uncomfortable conversation.

‘I wasn’t shouting.’ Kathryn corrected him.

‘Jesus Christ, Mother, what’s with the wet look? You look like a mental patient. Seriously, like a real total freak! For God’s sake, sort it out. My friends might see you!’

‘Would you like some bacon, Dominic?’

‘Would I like some bacon?’

‘That’s where you came in, Dom.’ Lydia rolled her eyes. ‘I was telling her how totally weird she looks with whatever you call that thing going on with her hair and she replied with “Would you like some bacon?” I think she’s finally lost the plot or, as I’ve been saying recently, not that anyone listens to me, she is seriously menopausal—’

‘Can you two please stop talking about me as though I am not here; it is really very rude and hurtful. What does it matter what my hair looks like? It’s only hair! Now, more importantly, can I get anyone some bacon?’

For some reason this was hilarious to her teenage children, who chortled and slapped the table until tears began to gather, among wheezes of ‘Bacon!’ And then back to laughing.

‘Good morning, family Brooker! My goodness, what is all this jollity for, first thing in the morning? What have I missed?’

‘Mum…’ Dominic managed before pointing and collapsing again.

Mark ruffled his son’s long hair and smiled at the twosome.

‘Come on, you two, nothing can be that funny.’

‘It is!’ Lydia squawked.

He shook his head.

‘Kathryn, is there any chance of some bacon?’

This sent the two into hysterical convulsions and their dad had little option but to join in, the laughter being impossibly infectious. The three sat at the table and laughed and prodded each other and laughed some more and occasionally pointed at Kathryn’s head. It was all very, very funny.

Kathryn picked up the wicker basket and loaded the wet bed linen into it. She wandered out to the clothes line with her floral bag of dolly pegs.

‘Come on, Peggy, time to go to work.’ She ran her thumb over the little smiling face as it took up its position.

As she stretched the sheet taut on the line and watched it billow in the breeze, she thought of something else that had diminished: she had. She was getting smaller and smaller and of less and less consequence. She was quite certain that one day she would simply disappear, and absolutely no one would notice. She shivered as she pegged her nightdress next to the sheet.

‘Morning, Mrs Brooker!’

‘Morning, Mrs Bedmaker!’

Again the two spoke simultaneously, suspecting that she would miss the cruel moniker. They were right, she didn’t notice a thing.

‘Morning, Luca! Good morning, Emily! How are you both today?’

‘Good, thanks. Is Dom ready?’ Luca spoke for them both. Emily had the guilty and furtive air of someone who was sleeping with her son.

‘I think so. Feel free to go in. There is breakfast ready if you are hungry.’ She smiled at the two of them.

Mrs Bedmaker, Mrs Bedmaker, Mrs Bedmaker… the words spun around inside her head, a silent taunt.

Clearly they were in too much of a hurry for breakfast as within a minute the four children were making their way back down the path and off to morning lessons.

‘See you later!’ Dom shouted over his shoulder. Lydia was once again plugged in and oblivious to the rest of the planet.

‘Bye, love! Have a good day!’

Kathryn hated the false brightness of her tone and the smile that she knew was an inadequate veil to her silent misery. She watched them disappear behind the hedgerow and seconds later heard a roar of laughter. She knew instinctively that they were laughing at her – about her, at her, it made little difference which. It hurt just the same.

As she walked into the kitchen Mark pushed his breakfast plate into the middle of the table, ready to be tidied away by his wife.

‘Kathryn…’

He always said her name when starting a conversation, to make sure that he had all of her attention, so that she wouldn’t miss a detail or even a nuance.

‘Kathryn, I think fish for supper would be good.’

‘Fish. Yes of course.’

‘Good.’

He rose from the table and pulled his double cuffs to the desired length below his suit jacket.

‘I don’t know if you have heard on the rumour mill, but I, and as a result the school, are being honoured. I have had it on good authority that the National Excellence in Education Awards are naming me Head Teacher of the Year. How about that?’

She blinked at him. Speak now, make it something nice.

‘That is very well done, wonderful.’ She tried hard not to make it sound stilted or mechanical.

‘You are right, it is very well done and wonderful. You know why I am being honoured in this way, don’t you?’

‘No, well, yes, I’m not really sure…’ She didn’t know what the correct or expected response was.

‘Fret not, Kathryn, I will tell you why. It is because I am quite brilliant. Why did I get it?’

‘Because you are brilliant, Mark.’

‘That is very kind of you to say so, my sweet wife.’

Pulling her forward by the tops of her arms, he kissed her full and hard on the mouth just as Judith opened the back door.

‘Only me!’

Seeing that she had interrupted an apparent moment of tenderness, Judith felt the scarlet stain of embarrassment creep up her chubby neck.

‘Oh, Headmaster! Kathryn! I am so dreadfully sorry to impose! I’m obviously interrupting at a delicate moment.’

She was flustered, jealous and intrigued all at the same moment.

‘Not at all. My wonderful wife was just telling me that I am brilliant!’

Judith pushed her glasses back up onto her nose. ‘Oh, but you are, Headmaster, quite brilliant.’

She stared slack-mouthed at Mark, as if she had forgotten that Kathryn was there. Kathryn could imagine her salacious, lewd thoughts.

‘That is very kind of you to say so, Judith. Have you come to escort me to the office?’

‘Well, yes and no! I mean, I will obviously escort you, but also I wanted to pick your brains about speech day refreshments and the siting of the marquee; we must prepare for the possibility of light showers!’

‘Ah yes, indeed we must. And there was me looking forward to a leisurely stroll to my office. Never mind. No rest for the wicked, isn’t that what they say?’

He turned and winked at his wife as the two of them left the kitchen, neglecting to shut the back door. Wicked indeed.

While stacking the dishwasher, Kathryn smiled to herself. Judith’s entrances always made her think of Natasha and how much she missed her friend’s visits. Natasha used to imitate Judith by entering with a much exaggerated ‘Only me!’, which would render Kathryn helpless with laughter. She thought back to one particular rainy Tuesday, when the two had been chatting in the school shop. Natasha was stocking up with pencils and Kathryn was putting up a notice about a fundraising event for the rugby first fifteen’s trip to South Africa.

Natasha had turned to her friend and asked, ‘Notice anything different about me today?’

Kathryn cast her eye over her friend’s striped tights, flared mini-skirt and pale pink ballet cardigan. ‘Not really. Should I?’

‘Yes! I am rosy and glowing with love! Well, lust actually, but in my cynical book they are one and the same.’

Kathryn felt her cheeks colour. She routinely avoided conversations around this topic, especially with Natasha, so as to evade any reciprocal questioning about the state of play in her own love life. Kathryn felt out of her depth and slightly uncomfortable with the whole subject.

‘Oh? Anyone I know?’ She prayed that it wasn’t anyone that she knew, not wanting the mental pictures that were threatening to form in her mind.

‘Actually you well might. Do you know Jacob Whittington, sixth former?’

‘Yes, nice-looking boy, off to Oxbridge…’ Kathryn wasn’t sure where this was heading.

‘Well, if you think he is a nice-looking boy, you should see his dad. He is hot! I mean, seriously hot! And a surgeon and divorced and shagging me! Aren’t I the lucky one!’

Kathryn stared at her friend and felt her jaw drop, quite literally.

‘Really? Dr Whittington?’

‘Yes, really! Dr Whittington – or Max, to those of us that get to see him butt-naked and making me cups of tea at three in the morning! God, don’t look at me like that, Kate. It’s like I’ve just told you that I’ve committed a heinous crime, you look so disapproving. Why are you looking like that? Is it because he’s so out of my league? You’re right, of course, he is and I know we are not supposed to fraternise with pupils’ parents, but he is really scrummy and I am rather keen, in fact super keen. I can almost guarantee that young Jacob will be getting the A star that he is so desperately seeking if it means I get to keep seeing Daddy! Kate, say something, anything…’

‘Are you not a lesbian?’ Kathryn blurted.

The question caught Natasha off guard and left her momentarily lost for a response, until eventually she screeched with laughter, her head thrown back, loud and unrestrained.

‘Am I not what?’

‘A lesbian,’ Kathryn repeated, feeling embarrassed at even using the word on school premises.

‘A lesbian? Oh my God! Why did you think that? Because I have short hair and wear men’s shoes?’

‘No! No, Natasha, not at all. It’s just that Mark said—’

‘Oh well, that figures. Mark wouldn’t know a lesbian if one came up and bit his arse! He is so keen to pigeon-hole everyone with his nasty clichés. Grrr, that bloody man! It’s not that I give a shit what he thinks about me, but he could really cause some damage with his mean little rumours and nicknames.’

She remembered suddenly that she was talking to not only her newest best friend, but also to Mark’s wife.

‘Sorry, Kate, no offence intended, but you know what I mean.’

‘None taken, and I’m sorry, I should never have supposed that his assumption was correct. I should have known better. And there was me feeling terribly cosmopolitan with my first ever lesbian friend.’

‘Ah, honey, I have really disappointed you, haven’t I? I’m sorry if I’ve let you down with my boring heterosexual practices, all that deviant sleeping with men.’

They both laughed and strolled off arm in arm. The shop staff watched them walk from the store and no one commented as Natasha playfully squeezed Kathryn’s bottom as they were about to round the corner.

‘Well, Kate, if they are going to talk, we may as well give them something to talk about.’

Kathryn had jumped and shuddered, not at the playful act of her friend, or even with embarrassment at the gossip it would create, but because Natasha had inadvertently pulled apart a cut that was trying to heal, breaking the skin and causing her to bleed.



Kathryn smiled at the memory. She closed the dishwasher door and focussed her attention on the task in hand. Tuesday, Tuesday… Think, what are the chores for Tuesday? She had had years to memorise the weekly calendar of chores, and yet increasingly she found herself forgetting. It must be her age. Ah yes, it was coming back to her now. Tuesday’s chores included removing all of Mark’s textbooks from the shelves in the study, dusting the shelves as well as each individual book and replacing them just so; stripping the children’s beds and washing and ironing their bed linen; weeding the flower bed at the back of the kitchen door; and cleaning both the family bathroom and the en suite thoroughly, ensuring that baths, taps, sinks and loos were all shiny. Finally, before going into the village to collect eight organic salmon fillets and the accompanying veg, she had to wax and polish the parquet flooring in the hallway. It was a day like any other, but a busy day nonetheless.

* * *

Kathryn clicked the kettle on to boil. The salmon fillets were herb encrusted and roasting nicely, the asparagus and ribboned courgettes sat in their steamer and there was ten minutes before she had to make herself ‘neat and pretty’. She extracted the thin book from its hiding place between two cookery books. She knew no one would consider looking between Jamie’s Italy and Jamie Does … . Kathryn thumbed open R. K. Narayan’s Tales from Malgudi.

When he came to be named the oldest man in town, Rao’s age was estimated anywhere between ninety and one hundred and five. He had, however, lost count long ago and abominated birthdays; especially after his eightieth, when his kinsmen from everywhere came down in a swarm and involved him in elaborate rituals and with blaring pipes and drums made a public show of his attaining eighty. The religious part of it was so strenuous that he was laid up for fifteen days thereafter with fever.

The snippets of books that she managed to devour were enough to transport her, to give her the means of escape in the spare minutes of her day. The time constraints allowed her little more than eighty words at any one reading, but those eighty words were her salvation. For the next few hours, her mind would be full of questions. How old was Rao? Where did he live? How did he die and at what age?

Kathryn took her cup of tea upstairs to the dressing table and sat in front of its triple mirrors, angled to show her whichever way she glanced. There was no escape.

She placed her finger against the cool glass of the mirror and traced the reflection of her nose, eyes and mouth. She stared at the image in front of her, the face of a sad lady trapped inside the mirror who needed to practise her smile. Kathryn was unable to decide which the real image was. Was it the flat, cool face that stared back at her or the bewildered, lonely mask from behind which she viewed the world? Withdrawing her hand, she realised that it didn’t matter. The flat-featured woman that stared blankly from the glass and the veiled lids through which she saw were one and the same.

At such moments Kathryn felt she was living in a state close to madness. She figured that as long as she recognised how she lived was indeed ‘mad’ then there was always hope.

She combed her sticky hair and placed a marcasite clip in the side, to try and distract from the texture. What had Dominic said that morning? ‘You look like a mental patient.’ Any nasty statement hurt, but its impact was doubled if not trebled when it came from someone you loved.

She applied a little rouge to her cheeks and sprayed scent along her décolletage. As usual, the words of the song entered her head and spun around until she listened and gave them an audience:

For wives should always be lovers too.

Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you.

I’m warning you.