Isolate

RISE AND SHIINE

Sunday bloody morning and still no rest. Five am and the baby wakes and howls. I gorge her with breast, lying on my side, feeling her little fingers squeezing, the milk flowing and my exhaustion and thirst deepening even as hers is sated. And then she unhooks her little mouth with a surprised look, and she throws up all over me.

It’s dark outside. Winter. Miserable. The house is a mess. There’s washing hung over the sofa, the banisters, the doors, still damp. Toys scattered all over the floor, bright plastic colours. My desk, piled high with books, homework bags and unopened bills. The computer screen is dusty. It’s got socks and knickers drying on it.

I pull on a pair of dried jeans corrugated from the radiator. The buttons won’t do up. My thighs are the size my waist used to be. Who cares? Who cares? Tea. A cup of tea.

The kitchen. Washing up not done. Yesterday’s porridge turned to concrete in the saucepan. The dustbin crammed and climbing out of itself. Oh God. What good is a degree when your brain flows out of you with your milk, and kids and babies need common sense and capable hands not erudite minds and poetic phrases and .....damn we’re out of milk. And I can’t even buy any because even if the shops were open and the other kids awake and dressed, I don’t have any money and Patrick’s away until this evening and my bank’s shut down on me. I pour the tea anyway and squeeze my own milk in. Hold my nipple over the cup, and there you go. It’s the right colour anyway.

“Mummy, Mummy I can’t sleep.” The whine leaves Lucy’s voice as she clocks what I’m doing. “Mummy why are you putting your Breast milk in the tea?”

“I’m not,” I say giving a last squeeze and popping it away.

“Yes you are,” Lucy senses a secret.

“Because I can’t stand black tea in the morning.” I’m curt and no nonsense, but Lucy is intrigued.

“Can I have your milk with my weetabix then.”

“No Darling, of course you can’t. We’ll go out and get you proper milk.”

“That’s not fair. You and Esme are having it.”

“Yes, but....we only need a tiny bit, you’d need so much with weetabix it would take far too long to get it out.”

“I’ll help’”

“No.”

“Not fair.”

“Can we watch Bugs Life?” Laura’s standing half way up the stairs wearing her school uniform. “Why are you wearing that it’s Sunday?” She ignores me, smooths her skirt, and gives a kookie twist and slant of the shoulders.

“Can we watch Bug’s Life?” she repeats like a broken record, “Can we watch Bug’s Life, Can we watch Bug’s Life?”

“I’m hungry,” Lucy joins. “I’m hungry Mummy. I’m hungry Mummy, I’m hungry.”

Breakfast Time. Lucy and Laura at my heels, Esme over my shoulder. Swing open the fridge. A scattering of colourful plastic magnetic letters. Damn forgot about the milk. The fridge is virtually empty. ....Eggs? Eggs. Eggs....and bacon. Yes. “Who’d like eggs and bacon?”

For a brief moment we are a proper Sunday morning family. Sunny side up. The girls with egg on toast and the smell of bacon in the air. Esme feeding. The clink of knives and forks, a munching content. I even hum a snatch from the Sound of Music.

Ten minutes later and the egg is congealing on the plates. Lucy and Laura are squabbling on the stairs and Esme is crying. I rummage in the cupboard for those homeopathic teething powders I used to give Lucy. I’m sure there were some left. I empty two cupboards. Then I remember. Inside the screwing up doll which lost all it’s babies and is on the shelf in my room. Got them. Sprinkle them into Esme’s mouth. There. God my room is a mess. Into the girls room. Toys, blankets, beds, books, upside down. The landing, damp washing. No where to go. A breeding sprawl of clutter. We have to get out. I have to get out.

“Lucy, Laura, come on get dressed. We’re going out. We’re going to the park,” and then a memory flows through me warm and comforting. Hot chocolate and coffee. “We’ll have hot chocolate and coffee in the café.”

I go to Laura’s money box and count out four pounds in change. I promise her I’ll pay her back in interest. Now we’ve got a mission, now we’re in gear. Somewhere to go. Something to do. Coats, Hats. Gloves. Can’t find gloves. Never mind. Socks on hands that’ll do. The girls laugh.

The streets are empty. The occasional car that does pass us as we troop down the Askew Road still has it’s lights on. It’s cold and damp. “Come on,” I drag the girls on. They’re doing their best to please me but it is truly a miserable morning and it is really far too early. Lucy coughs. This isn’t a good idea. Laura’s nose is running. Get her to blow and catch the snot in my fingers and flick it away.

“I hate it when you do that mummy. I like using tissues.”

“So do I darling. But if there isn’t.....”

I trail off. The gates of the park are in front of us. They’re dripping wet. That means the swings will be wet. The slide will be wet. The grass will be wet. But the girls have seen the playground. Such gratitude for a few brightly coloured bits of metal. Even Esme is kicking her heels and waving her fists.

When I catch up with them Lucy is going down the slide. She’s soaked. Laura is stamping in a puddle. I open my mouth to shout. No point. They’re happy. A dad goes past with one of those three wheel buggies. He’s in shorts and trainers, jogging. God. He’s red faced, full of exertion and smugness.

Lucy is wailing. She has fallen over in the mud. She’s covered. Nasty, cold, dripping mud. She looks the picture of neglected childhood. Blotchy face. Dripping nose. Arms outstretched. Mouth wailing. I’ve got Esme strapped onto my front and can hardly manoeuvre at all. It’s started to drizzle. Esme starts to scream. And there’s Laura crying as well.

“You stupid girl. Why did you have to go and fall over? What are you doing playing in the mud? We haven’t got any other clothes? Don’t look at me like that. What am I supposed to do? Stop crying. Stop it. Stop crying.”

They all stare at me wide eyed and howl louder.

“Stop crying. Stop it or I’ll smack you. Stop it. Stop it.”

My hand has taken on a life of it’s own. My hand is suddenly all my anger in one place. The mess. The congealed egg. The sicked on sheets. Yesterday’s washing up. No milk. All my own incompetance. I smack them. Both of them. Thwack. Thwack. Not hard enough. Thwack. Thwack. I don’t hit them again. I hit the dustbin. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. I stop. My hand throbs hot and dizzy. But they’ve stopped crying. They’ve all stopped crying. We stand there a moment. And then the rain pours down.

I’ve got them both by the hand and we’re running. The sky has cracked open on us. We make it to the big plane tree before the worst comes. It’s madness. Lightening and thunder. This 9:45 in the morning seems suddenly 9:45 at night. The sky bruised and lowering as if it has been smacked itself. Have I struck the sky?

Through the rain I see the café. Shut. Of course. I register it without a twinge or a flicker. The taste of the coffee that wasn’t lingers on my tongue a moment, calls to my veins, and is gone.

I hold the girls hands tightly and pull my coat over Esme’s head. The backs of my jeans are soaked and sticking to my legs. Through the railings, on the other side of the road. People. People and umbrellas, hurrying with intention. Why on Earth out on a morning like this? I screw my eyes up against the raindrops and peer through the sheets of rain. Church.

“Do you want to go to church girls?”

They look up at me.

“Yes Mummy,” Lucy says. She doesn’t know what church is. But she’s saying yes because she’s scared of me.

“It’s lovely. I used to go to church when I was little.”

There’s a momentary break in the sheets of rain and we run for it. Out of the park, over the road, following the umbrellas.

“Can I be of any service,” A gentleman holds his umbrella over us and pushes open the door.

“Oh, Thank-you. Say thank-you girls.” And we move out of the rain and into the lobby. Out of reality and into an incense scented, wood polished world.

“Oh my you did get caught in it didn’t you?” says an immaculate little old lady handing me a hymn book and a bible. “Dear me.”

“We’ve just moved in. Alwayne Rd?” I lie and believe it.

“How lovely. Welcome to St Christophers. So this is ...?”

“Lucy,” I’m on cue, charm comes back so easily, “And this is Laura and Baby Esme.”

“Mary,” the old lady calls and then bestows a smile on us all, “Mary runs Sunday school and you know I think she might even have a spare set of clothes up there for you. Would the girls like to go to Sunday school? Ella,” she’s calling to another girl, “Why don’t you take Lucy and Laura up to Sunday school and see if we’ve got any clothes to fit Lucy,” Ella’s got the girls hands. She’s perfectly dressed. Cinderella. Glittery blue clips in shining plaited hair. Lucy and Laura look at her admiringly and follow her off, with only a small questioning look at me. The old lady ushers me through with a senile Pollyanna smile, “They’ll be brought down after the sermon.”

So Esme and I go on in. The Father nods and smiles as I go past. I mutter hello, my hypocrisy tight in my chest. It’s been so long. A scattering of weddings, christenings and funerals over the years. Before that school. I’m Jewish really anyway.

I sit in a pew towards the back. Just in case Esme cries, I want to be able to make a quick exit. I loosen the wilkinet and cradle and rock her while the organ massages us with its’ marrowy growl. There. Eyes shutting. Breath deepening. Little hand with fingers curled around mine, She’s gone. I relax. The peace flows into me like gold, and frankincense and myrrh.

We rise to our feet for the first Hymn. Do I know this one? Memory stirs as we begin.

“Oh Lord My God, When I in awesome wonder

Behold the wonderous things thy hand hath made...”

I raise my head and take in the vault of the church, the stained glass, the stone pillars, the wooden pews, the statues. The congregations one voice separates inside me into its isolated component parts. A crowd of tiny solo voices singing out and up and alone.

The little baby, the Christmas tree, the cattle, the stable, the musty smell of hay....The poor bleeding inaccessible adult on the cross.....the nice brotherly fellow at God’s right hand on High. All the different Jesus’ I used to know are thronging up inside me. A riot of memory and long stretched minutes of childhood come fresh and first at me again. I have a choke of fear that I have come Home. I never wanted home to be here, in the stony cold Church of England.

I sing the first verse, and the second, and then I can’t sing on. What is happening to me? There is a soft gulp in my belly . I am not crying but my face is soaked with tears.

“Then Sings My Soul.

My Saviour god to Thee,

How Great Thou Art,

How Great Thou Art...”

I am so sorry I hit you Lucy. I am so sorry.

“When I behold ,

The mountains in their splendour,

When I come home,

How Happy I shall be.....”

I am so sorry I shouted at you for no reason Laura. I am so sorry I have forgotten everything I knew I would never forget when I was a child. I am sorry I have grown up.

“Then Sings my Soul,

My Saviour God to Thee..”

It is all so simple. So attainable. Home happy, Soul Singing. So difficult to keep it that way. My throat aches, and stretches and arrives. For a moment arrives. The Church is full of voice. I kiss Esme’s head. Kiss her and kiss her and kiss her. I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

“How Great Thou Art’

How Great

Thou Art.”

Reassuring my sleeve and my nose remember each other so well.

Photographs by Sasha Hails - click to see more