The Secrets She Keeps, page 8
“Nothing,” says Jack, covering up.
“Go back to bed,” I tell her.
“I’m not sleepy.”
“Go downstairs and watch cartoons.”
“Lachlan wet the bed.”
“How do you know?”
“The smell.” She wrinkles her nose and waits for me to do something. I pull down my nightdress and swing my legs out of bed. Jack groans. I lean over and kiss his cheek, whispering, “Wait here.”
“I can’t,” he says. “I’m being picked up at seven.”
“When will you be home?”
“Not until late.”
By the time I get back to the bedroom he’s showered and shaved and is answering emails on his phone. The car arrives. He kisses each of the children. I get the same peck, but no words of encouragement or secret squeeze. I envy him going off to work, talking to adults about grown-up things. OK, I don’t regard sports as being a grown-up subject, but it beats the hell out of discussing tantrums, toddler recipes, and teething trouble with a group of mothers who subtly try to one-up each other, complaining about their precocious offspring, calling them “too clever for their own good,” by which they mean cleverer than other children.
Neither of my kids is a budding Einstein. Lachlan once shoved a raisin up his nose and we spent four hours in Accident and Emergency; and Lucy swallowed a pound coin, which meant squeezing her stools for a week to make sure it passed.
This morning they’re being particularly obstreperous. Clothes are rejected, breakfast orders are rescinded, negotiations are undertaken, and squabbles are nipped in the bud. Lachlan wants to wear his Wellingtons and Lucy insists her space buns are crooked and make her look lopsided. I blame Jack for showing her Star Wars.
Leaving the house late, I rush across the green, dragging them along while they complain and bicker. As I near the pond, I notice someone standing between the trees. I recognize her from somewhere but can’t think of where or why.
I kiss Lucy at the school gates and drop Lachlan at his preschool. Today he decides to latch on to my leg, begging me not to leave. One of the staff distracts him long enough for me to slip away.
As I’m folding up the pushchair, I catch sight of two mothers whispering and stealing glances at me. They look away guiltily.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“No, nothing,” says one of them, curling her top lip. I hear them laughing as I leave. I want to know what they’re saying, but it’s not worth the effort. I have a whole five hours in which to cook, clean, shop, wash, and iron before I get to have some Meg time.
First I have an appointment to see an obstetrician, Dr. Phillips, who has consulting rooms on the lower floor of a large Victorian house near the river. My GP made the referral because of complications when I had Lucy and Lachlan. Nothing particularly serious. Their heads were too big. My pelvis was too small. Something had to give.
Dr. Phillips has a waiting room covered with testimonials, photographs, and cards from satisfied patients, thanking him for delivering their “precious gift,” as though he’d personally arranged the conception, pregnancy, and birth. Reassuringly middle-aged, he has John Lennon spectacles and a slight overbite that makes his mouth the most interesting feature on his face. I wonder if he’s married. If so, what does his wife think about this part of his job—looking at other women’s bits? I can imagine him getting home and not wanting to look at another vagina. This sets me giggling and I can’t stop even when he’s palpating my womb.
“He’s almost crowning,” he tells me. “Not long now.”
“Thank God,” I mumble.
He goes to his desk and types notes on his computer. I pull down my dress and take a seat opposite.
“We do need to discuss the birth,” he says, clasping his fingers on his small potbelly. “I know you were hoping to have another natural birth, but you tore in both previous deliveries.”
“Maybe I won’t tear this time.”
“That’s highly unlikely, and stitching you again will be more difficult. I think you should seriously consider a cesarean.”
I’m struggling with this—not because of political correctness or the idea that I’ll be judged by other mothers as being “too posh to push.” Twice before I’ve done things the old-fashioned way, which hurt like hell but gave me a tremendous sense of satisfaction.
“How long would I have to stay in hospital?” I ask.
“Without complications, you’re looking at three to four days.”
“And that’s what you recommend?”
“Absolutely.” Dr. Phillips opens his calendar on-screen. “We can bring you into hospital early on Thursday, December seventh, and operate first thing.”
I want to argue, but I know he’s right.
“Talk to your husband. If there’s a problem with that date, give my office a call. Otherwise I’ll see you then.”
AGATHA
* * *
At thirteen I was baptized as a Jehovah’s Witness. It meant I could go door-to-door and help others repent their sins and live in peace on earth. In the months leading up to the baptism I attended scripture classes. My teacher, Mr. Bowler, was a church elder with a moon face and a bowl haircut that made his name seem very apt. He talked a lot about God’s Kingdom and Armageddon, who I thought must be an apostle because the scriptures kept saying, “Armageddon is coming.”
Mr. Bowler had four daughters and owned a clothing store in Leeds. His youngest daughter, Bernie, was a year above me at school, but we weren’t really friends.
After my baptism, I continued going to Kingdom Hall twice a week, where Mr. Bowler helped me with my maths and science homework. He also read my English texts in advance and helped me write essays.
One day he asked me if I would go door-to-door with him, distributing the Watchtower, which was the church’s magazine. I wanted to be the best Jehovah’s Witness I could be, so we walked the streets and stood on doorsteps, telling people they could live forever in paradise if they woke up to the truth. Most of them were annoyed but didn’t say anything nasty because I was so young.
It grew dark and started to rain. We had to run. I laughed. Mr. Bowler bought fish and chips. We ate them in the basement of Kingdom Hall, licking salt and vinegar from our fingers.
I shivered.
“You’re cold,” he said. “You should take off those wet clothes.”
He tried to unbutton my blouse. I told him no. He tickled me, pressing me down. He kissed me on the lips. He said he loved me. I said I loved him too. It was true. I did. He had been nicer to me than anyone I had ever known. I wanted him to be my father, but he had his own daughters.
I remember the musty smell of the sofa and the rough fabric of the upholstery itching my skin. My dress had ridden up to the top of my thighs. His fingernails were scrabbling at my knickers. I pushed his hand away.
He said that when two people love each other they did more than kiss. They took off their clothes. They touched. He kissed me again. I didn’t like the fat wetness of his tongue, which tasted of cod and vinegar.
I knew what he wanted. I had heard girls talking. He took my hand and moved it up and down. He sighed. He shook. I wiped it off with his handkerchief. This will be our secret, he said. Nobody else would understand.
Why must it always be a secret?
The next time we went door-knocking he gave me a bracelet engraved with a message: There is no cure.
“To what?” I asked.
“To love,” he replied.
Afterwards we went back to the basement at Kingdom Hall. We sat on the sofa. He pushed the same fat wet tongue into my mouth and forced his knee between my thighs. I didn’t like the kissing. I didn’t like his weight or the pain or the shame, so I burrowed inside myself and hid in the shadows.
“Open your eyes, princess,” he said. “I want you to look at me.”
Please don’t do that.
“Isn’t this nice?”
No, you’re hurting me.
“You’re a proper woman now.”
Can’t we go back to the way it was before?
I vomited the fish and chips. He reared back as though scalded, swearing at the mess on his clothes. Marching me into the small stark bathroom, he made me undress. I stood naked on the freezing floor and noticed the semen and blood on my thighs. I cried. He said he was sorry. I felt sad for him.
In the weeks and months that followed, we knocked on many more doors without saving any souls. We had sex in the basement afterwards and Mr. Bowler said that when I turned seventeen we were going to run away together and live in a house by the sea. He showed me photographs of pretty cottages covered in wisteria or ivy. In the meantime, we had to keep our love secret because he was married.
That summer Mr. Bowler took his family to Cornwall for a holiday. I thought I’d be relieved, but instead I missed him and couldn’t wait for him to come home. He brought me another present—a fossil of a snail that was millions of years old—and he said our love would last that long. I knew that wasn’t true.
I grew more silent as the weeks passed. “Where’s that pretty smile?” he’d ask, and I would try to smile. “You like this, don’t you?” he’d say as his hot breath puffed against my face. “Tell me you like it.”
One day he asked me if his youngest daughter, Bernie, had a boyfriend or if any boys had shown an interest in her. I didn’t know. He became quite agitated at the thought of some “grubby teenager pawing her” and asked me to spy on her and report back to him. I recognized the hypocrisy. He thought it was OK to have sex with me, but his daughter had to remain pure. I watched Bernie in the playground, chatting and laughing with her friends. She was pretty and popular and excited to be alive. I knew I would never be like that again, never clean or happy.
Mr. Bowler had sex with me for another year, never using a condom, always withdrawing from me at the last second. When he finished, he buckled his belt and told me to clean up before he took me home.
One evening, as he seesawed into me, I felt my mind separate from my body and float upwards, looking down on the room. I could see Mr. Bowler’s white buttocks and the corduroy trousers around his ankles and the sleeveless sweater his wife had knitted him. I opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out. Instead I felt a creature slide down my spine and slither between my organs until it curled around my heart, stopping it from breaking.
I came to with Mr. Bowler slapping my cheek and calling my name. I didn’t want to wake.
“You must have blacked out,” he said, zipping up his fly. “You made a strange sound, as though you were talking to someone, but it wasn’t your voice. I hope you don’t talk in your sleep at home.”
Mr. Bowler no longer helped me with my homework or asked me to go door-knocking. And as the weeks passed, he found more and more things to criticize about me. My skin. My weight. My smell. He didn’t kiss me anymore or tell me he loved me.
The creature woke and slept and slithered inside me, whispering advice, scribbling spidery words on the pages of my diary, laughing at my feeble attempts to express my feelings.
Nobody cares what you think.
Mr. Bowler cares.
He doesn’t love you. He thinks you’re getting fat.
No.
That’s why he pinches the rolls of fat above your hips. He finds you disgusting.
He loves me.
He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t buy you presents. He doesn’t take you door-knocking.
I turned fifteen. There was no birthday celebration. My mother asked me about my last period. She gasped when the doctor confirmed I was pregnant. My stepfather demanded to know the name of the father. I shook my head. He looped my hair around his closed fist and lifted me off my feet.
I remember the look on their faces. Shock. Disbelief. I was sent to my room, where I sat on the bed and listened to them arguing. My mother wanted to call the police, but my stepfather said the elders would know what to do. I scratched at the Little Mermaid stencil on my headboard, slowly peeling it away. The notion that I was carrying a baby seemed ridiculous. I still had a dollhouse and a dress-up box.
The following day my parents received a phone call and I heard my stepfather ask, “Is it a judicial committee hearing?”
I didn’t hear the answer.
I was taken to Kingdom Hall and interviewed by three elders whom I had known since I was a child. Brother Wendell ran a carpet-cleaning business, Brother Watson installed blinds, and Brother Brookfield worked as a gardener for the local council.
They asked me questions. When did I have sex? Where? How often? Was Mr. Bowler circumcised? (I didn’t know what that meant.)
“How far were your legs apart?” asked Brother Brookfield, who had a face like a tomato.
“Pardon?”
“Show us how far your legs were apart.”
I was sitting on a hard wooden chair, wearing a knee-length dress. The elders were lined up along a long table. I opened my knees. They leaned forward.
“She must be lying,” said Brother Wendell. “How could she be raped with her legs like that?”
“Why didn’t you tell your parents?” asked Brother Watson.
“Mr. Bowler said he loved me.”
Brother Wendell scoffed. “So you willingly had sex with him?”
“No. Yes. I didn’t enjoy it. Not the sex.”
“Did you tell anyone else?” asked Brother Watson.
“No.”
“Did anyone see this happen?”
“We kept it a secret. Mr. Bowler said when I was seventeen we would run away together and live in a house by the sea. He showed me pictures.”
I thought they might laugh.
“When was the first time?” asked Brother Brookfield.
“I don’t remember the exact date.”
“Were you a virgin?”
“Yes.”
“Surely you must remember the date,” said Brother Wendell. “The week . . . the month?”
I struggled to think, eventually guessing a date. “Around Easter.”
“You don’t sound very sure.”
“I think it was around then, but I’m not sure.”
The elders left me alone. I wanted to go to the bathroom but I was too scared to ask. Instead I crossed my legs, squeezing everything shut. Soon I heard Mr. Bowler shouting in another room, accusing me of telling lies. A little bit of wee came out.
When the elders came back they had my parents with them. Mr. Bowler entered through a separate door. Before it closed I saw his daughter Bernie standing behind him. She was holding her mother’s hand.
The judicial committee took their seats at a long table. My stepfather sat behind me and my mother stood just inside the main doors, looking bewildered.
Brother Wendell spoke first.
“Very serious allegations have been made against Brother Bowler, a senior member of our flock. Sister Agatha is pregnant. She claims that on more than one occasion, Brother Bowler fornicated with her and made her perform other sexual acts. Brother Bowler denies any wrongdoing and has made a countercomplaint against Sister Agatha, accusing her of slander. He has asked for permission to question his accuser.”
I thought I was going to vomit.
Mr. Bowler crossed the room and stood directly in front of me. He wore familiar corduroy trousers and a sleeveless sweater. Smiling kindly, he said hello, telling me he was sorry to see me in such circumstances.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“So you haven’t had sex with a worldly boy from your school.”
“No.”
“You are lying, Sister.”
“No.”
“You came to me and confessed to me six weeks ago. I told you that the Watchtower forbids such acts. I counseled you. I warned you to stay away from this boy, but you failed to listen.”
“No!” I looked at my mother. “It’s not true.”
“My daughter Bernie has confirmed it,” said Mr. Bowler. “You admitted it to her.”
I was shaking my head, trying to think clearly. Why would Bernie say I had a boyfriend?
“Do you know what a lie is, Agatha?” asked Mr. Bowler.
“Yes.”
“You told your parents you were going door-to-door with me, was that a lie?”
“Yes.”
“So you lie when it’s convenient for you?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“You told the judicial committee that I first had sex with you at Easter two years ago. I have my diary here, which shows that I was away at a trade fair for a week over Easter.”
My mouth opened and closed. “I couldn’t remember the date.”
“So were you lying about that?”
“No, I mean, I wasn’t sure.”
“So when you’re not sure about something, you tell a lie.”
“No.”
“Were you lying to the committee, or are you lying to me?”
“That’s enough!” yelled a voice from the back of the hall. My mother marched down the center aisle, gripping her handbag. Normally so meek and submissive, she fixed her gaze on the elders and declared, “Agatha has answered your questions. Make a decision so I can take her home.”
Nobody tried to argue, not even Mr. Bowler.
The committee retired to consider its verdict. I went to the bathroom and washed out my knickers, holding them under the hand-dryer.
An hour passed. The committee returned. I was told to stand but I didn’t think my legs could hold me. My mother and stepfather remained in their seats.
Brother Wendell had a Bible with him. He didn’t look at me.
“The scriptures say in Timothy 5:19, ‘Do not admit an accusation against an older man, except only on the evidence of two or three witnesses.’ In the case before us, Sister Agatha is the only witness against Brother Bowler. This is not to say that she is lying or that Brother Bowler is lying, but the Watchtower policy states that two witnesses or a confession are necessary to prove allegations of this nature. Since none of these rules of evidence have been met, the judicial committee will take no further action and the matter is left in Jehovah’s hands.”
