What is ‘courage’ in our M/otherTongue?
Contents
Fiction: The Committee 4 — 2023 part 1
What on earth is going on? What is ‘courage’ in our M/otherTongue?
Bonus fiction: The Committee 4 — 2023 part 2
Introduction
Exciting news! This hobby has transitioned to a Research project with ethical approval from the Faculty of Education, University of Cambridge. It’s registered under reference Ethics_019_2324. If you have any ethical concerns, you can now address them. Special thanks to Pam Burnard for reviewing the ethics form.
What changes will this bring? Practically, not much. Emotionally, it brings legitimacy to my exploration of M/otherTongue in my practice as a therapist and researcher, using fiction writing to illuminate the tacit knowledge and knowing I already have.
The fiction this month is long. I selected it, then rejected it because of its length and, quite frankly, how boring it is. But when I tried to select something else, it re-presented itself. I decided to stay true to my method of allowing myself to be drawn to a section of fiction and trusting that it has something important to tell me. I review my use of the word boring (Phillips, 1998). The material in the fiction makes me look at stuff that is painful, unpleasant, and I’d rather avoid. Not boring then, but hard. To make it more manageable, I have split the fiction in two, with some included as a “bonus” at the end of this blog post.
There are new characters and shifts in scenes in this fiction, so by way of orientation here is some background.
In the novel The Mad Man in the Attic, The-character-who-shares-a-name-with-me joined an online writing group during the Covid-19 lockdowns, meeting Brenna. The group continued post-lockdown, now including in-person meetings. In the fiction, The-character-who-shares-a-name-with-me is writing a novel for NaNoWriMo exploring her family roots in Bournemouth, but is struggling. Brenna goads the character about the difficulties she is having with the novel. So far, this is the part of The Mad Man in the Attic that is most like autofiction. If that is an unfamiliar genre to you, Maggie Nelson (2016) is a great exponent of the form, or you could peruse this helpful Guardian article.
The novel also explores Val's history and her relationship with Graham. Graham discovers Gordon was Val’s biological father. They visit Gordon’s home in Bournemouth and meet Alice, a spinster schoolteacher who lived with Gordon and Marjorie when they were alive. She was instructed by Marjorie to never go to the attic, but did so when she heard distressed noises coming from inside. Gordon was having a war-induced flashback, and attempted to strangle her. The aftermath leads to Gordon's hospitalisation, and in response to the brutality of his treatment, his rape of Val’s mother. He fled back to the house and was hidden in the attic by Marjorie and Alice until he died. Marjorie feels Gordon's emotional wounds because of their loving connection, as seen in House clearance, and is compelled to express his pain in her art.
The novel questions the connection between these stories. Is The-character-who-shares-a-name-with-me the author of Val, Graham, Alice, Gordon, and Marjorie's story, or are these separate narratives? When narratives intersect, the writing is titled The Committee, suggesting a form of communication, despite the characters never directly interacting. I’ve kept that title for the fiction, even though it really makes little sense. That is the whole point of this project. Trying to make sense of something that seems to make little sense: why tacit maternal knowing is not central to our understanding of the human condition in academia, clinical theory, and clinical practice, why we do not speak our M/otherTongue
Fiction: The Committee 4 — 2023 Part 1
They met in the café in town. Having started their writing group during Covid-19 and dealt with the rigours of connecting online, this was a particular treat. The five of them, able to sit and sip tea or coffee, eat cheesecake — by far the best for miles around — and catch up about their projects.
“How is it going?” Sylvia asked Fiona. She thought she saw Fiona flinch.
“It’s going,” Fiona responded. “It’s tough. Not going the way I expected, but I guess that is what happens.”
The conversation moved on. Clare talked about writing the history of the trees in the town's park. She bemoaned the loss of the free newspaper that used to absorb her local interest pieces — unpaid, of course. She hadn’t stopped writing such pieces, and her blogs were well-read: she could see how many people opened the posts through the Substack data. But although she’d never know whether her writing was read in the papers, or whether it was immediately consigned to the bin, blogging still wasn’t the same as picking up newsprint and seeing your words, in black and white, in front of you. It made her feel real!
Sylvia silenced them with a poem that left them thoughtful about loss. Rowan shared her agonies over her research project and how to write it up: saying what she wanted to say while still meeting the assessment criteria of her programme. Brenna sat sideways on a chair, leaning against the wall, chewing on a straw. Fiona felt a surge of rage towards them and wondered why the group let them stay. They didn’t offer any writing to be thought about — but then, today, she hadn’t either. The Graham pieces and the one about Alice had felt too exposing, and she wasn’t sure how to relate to the mad man in the attic, so had no idea where the story would go.
The group members started to drift off.
“I’ll come with you,” Brenna said as Fiona stood up, putting her glasses in her bag and pulling on her coat.
“Sure,” she replied without enthusiasm.
***
Fiona was overcome with a profound sense of sadness as they walked through the pedestrian shopping area towards the car park. The town had an escalating down-at-the-heel sense. She didn’t come into the town centre often, and it shocked her to see the boarded-up windows of Marks and Spencer, to be reminded that Woolworths was so long gone that the shop that had taken over the space had gone bankrupt as well. Other local landmark department stores had gone too. Places that had once felt immovable, now lost. It was almost as if she was walking along Holdenhurst Road with Marjorie, recounting how the Jones had lived here, and Auntie Deirdre and her husband over there — where there were now just gaps in houses and piles of rubble.
She felt her arm being grabbed. Gasping, she was brought back to the present. It was Brenna.
“Thought you were going to walk into the flower bed there,” they said.
“Thanks,” Fiona replied, “I was miles away.”
“Bournemouth?” Brenna asked.
Fiona smiled. “Yes. That obvious?”
The smile happened as a reflex of connection, not because she wanted to smile at Brenna. Her feelings were still too complex. Brenna lengthened their stride so they were now alongside Fiona, another reflex of connection. They, too, had complex feelings about Fiona.
Fiona felt tongue-tied, not sure what to say but feeling like the silence was hanging between them, as if she ought to make conversation, and that she should be the one to find a way. She felt as if she was having to trot to keep up now with Brenna’s long strides. She had lost touch with her inner preoccupation and felt less herself.
The alley between the old British Home Stores and the building that used to be a cheap shoe shop was always a bit unsavoury. Slightly out of sight, the height of the buildings cut out most light, meaning it always felt dark and cold whatever the weather in the rest of the town. But at the same time, it was a route that cut out a significant walk when you needed to get to the car park before your ticket ran out, or if you were tight on time to catch your bus.
Brenna was on alert as soon as they turned towards the alley. They seemed to become three inches taller. Fiona smirked. Then stopped and questioned herself. Why? Why did she tend to respond dismissively to Brenna when they carried their height and their strength with presence? Sylvia and Rowan — they had a quietness she responded to, and they were unthreatening to her. Brenna kind of scared her, so she made them small in her mind by her held-in mockery. It was not a pleasant insight into herself.
The cut through wasn’t very long, and at the same time seemed to take them into a different world: darker, muted, suspended from the safety of being seen by many other eyes. Anyone walking past either end could look. They could see if they chose to. A world within a world.
Fiona became aware of a sense of unease before she saw or heard the hissing. A figure seemed to rise from the ground like a cobra. His eyes were intent on them. No, not on both of them — on Brenna. His rising seemed to galvanise others in the area. A rising tide of men in a sea of oil, coming towards them: slick, deadening, deadly.
Reactively, Fiona found her hand forming around the car keys in her pocket, pressing the button that released the shank of the key from the fob. She moved the key around in her pocket until the shank stuck out between her first and middle finger, the fob of the key sitting comfortable in the palm of her hand. Familiar, a regular way of self-protection. She had time to wonder if Brenna automatically did the same as one of the men walked past her. No eye contact. She almost convinced herself that he was just leaving the area. But too close. She did know, just didn’t want to know. His hand, oh so well disguised, grabbing and squeezing her buttock as he passed.
As expected as it was, it still shocked her, his brazenness. She glanced over at Brenna, who seemed more shocked than she. Fiona felt animalness in the area, felt the pack seeking to separate Brenna from her, as if they found Brenna an abomination that must be…what? Annihilated? This was the centre of town. Afternoon. One ordinary afternoon. Their writing group had just had coffee and cheesecake in the café on the high street. Yes, they seemed intent on annihilating Brenna.
It came naturally, as well as somewhat out of the blue, to Fiona. A flow out of her body, no real thought or will involved. Her hands emerged from her pockets and were held by her side, relaxed but ready. She half turned, stepping back on a diagonal, giving her a better view of the alleyway and at the same time channelling Brenna towards the wall before the men got to them and surrounded them. She had put herself between Brenna and the rising-snake-man. She could smell him: smoke, musk. How do you describe that background odour of male-imposing-upon-female? A smell of intent to intimidate. And there was the other vibration Fiona could feel. The odour of intimidation was different to the vibration of rage that seemed to be in the air and channelled from this man towards Brenna.
This is life and death, Fiona thought. I can’t withstand him. His fury is such that annihilation is all that consumes him, it is his strength and his purpose. But I must, will. I want to withstand him.
He did not expect it from the smaller one. The mouse, the nothing person. The one who should be scared and peeing her pants in the face of Him.
Fiona transferred the key to her right hand. She held it out in front of her.
One stride.
Her step forward was purposeful, and her eyes locked onto his, her left hand pulled back, palm facing forward, fingers pointing to the ground, the heel of her hand solid, ready to connect, thumb pointing out. A better-than-a-fist ready to strike, hard, without damaging her fingers.
Two strides.
Her right arm, firmly out in front, strong, shoulder height, as she continued to stride forward.
The unexpectedness made him falter, just a shade, at the feel of the key on his throat. He stepped back, gathered himself. Reached over, taking Fiona’s right wrist in his right hand. Squeezing it. Expecting collapse.
Again, the unexpected.
She kept coming forward, at the same time pushing her hand back into his, against his thumb, twisting her wrist round in a circular motion. He was unable to hold it despite his strength.
This was not strength against strength. It was survival wile against destructive rage.
Even more unexpectedly, the hand with the key was withdrawn, and he felt a blow to his Adam’s apple. The speed of the left hand flying out from the hip of this thing, moving forward as fast as the right hand moved back, stunning him to the point where his hands automatically flew to his throat and he stumbled. She backed away from him now, holding him in a stare.
Disdain. Disgust. They shared it about each other. Hate? Hate!
He spat on the ground, and she turned fast and strode towards the exit of the alley grabbing the arm of the other bitch, the one that was…he screamed. It was a soundless sound in the not-of-this-world space in the world. He launched himself at them. There was no plan on his part now. Fiona could feel waves again, not tempered by heavy oil this time but full on destruction.
Fiona knew she would not withstand his blow if it hit her directly. She turned sideways, stepped forward, shielding Brenna with her arms. It felt like she had been here an eternity, as if no one else populated the planet. Her focus was now so narrow, the rest of the world stopped existing even though it was just a few feet away, in sunshine.
Her turn and step had deflected the man, diverting his energy, but he was now behind her, grabbing her, his arms wrapping her in some obscene mockery of a hug. Too strong to break by pulling away. Too strong to fight. She stepped back, pushing off of her left leg, her right moving between his legs.
Again, unexpected.
She went limp. Unexpected.
Then, having made some small space with such a counterintuitive movement, her elbows came back, hard, into his stomach.
Ooooph.
She knew she’d winded him from that sound and the way his grasp slackened. Now she thrust her arms forward while at the same time stepping back into him again, this time driving with her right leg and swinging her left with forceful energy. She could now move her arms freely, breaking his grip on her. Her grip on her key tightened, she spun, ready to gouge his face with it, force it up his nose, into his eyes, anywhere so he could do nothing other than pull back.
He backed off, holding his hands up. “Only trying to be friendly,” he said. “Bitch,” he added.
She and Brenna walked out of the alley.
Someone turned the sunlight on again. The noise of people in the square, children, pigeons being fed, the unexpected fountain that caught passers-by off guard. A PCSO, blue band around his hat. He must have seen? But his eyes slid the other way. Two women, one tall — a man in drag? Coming out of the alley. He smirked at the tall one, wondering what might be beneath the clothes.
Fiona and Brenna looked at each other. Brenna put their hand on Fiona’s arm. They could feel the tension, knew that the fight adrenaline would soon drop.
“Bloody hell,” Brenna said, “Did that just happen?”
Fiona nodded, holding her breath. Then she started to shake. Bizarre, all these people just going about their business when what felt like days, months, years, had just gone past. Brenna led her to one of the benches. They were aware that a few eyes followed them. They sat Fiona down.
Fiona put her elbows on her knees and went to put her head in her hands, but found her key still poking out between the first and middle finger of her right hand. She just looked at it, then at Brenna. Then, unexpectedly, she started laughing, and crying. Brenna took the key and pushed the shank back into the housing of the fob. They put their arm around Fiona.
“Bloody hell!” They said again. They shook their head. “Bloody hell.”
There didn’t seem much else to say, so they stopped trying to speak. Just sat for a while longer, astonished that the world still seemed the same to others. Then, without any need to speak, the pair got up and started for the car park. Brenna’s arm remained around Fiona, as if she still needed a little guidance — and in reality, she did. They took the lift to the third floor of the car park where Fiona’s car was, just where she’d left it, as if nothing had changed.
“I’m coming back to yours with you,” Brenna said, and Fiona nodded, relieved.
She drove. She must have put the right change in the exit barrier. She must have driven okay. She must have safely backed the car into her parking space. They walked down the path, the flowers brushing against their legs but try as she might, Fiona couldn’t grip the key to the house. She got it into the lock, but it would not turn. She could not turn it. All her strength had gone.
Brenna unlocked the door, led her in. They sat her down. Made her tea, which then just sat on the table. They sat there side by side until the light started to fade.
“Tell me that was real,” Fiona eventually said. “Tell me that really happened.”
Brenna took her hand.
“Thank you,” they said.
“Did I really punch him?”
“Yes.”
“Did I really push him?”
“Yes.”
“Was he really out to kill you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does that happen to you a lot?”
“All the time.”
“I’m sorry Brenna, I never realised.”
What on earth is going on? What is ‘courage’ in our M/otherTongue?
There was a lot going on last month as I tried to find a route into this research project. I am probing boundaries around the legitimacy of this knowledge I am trying to find words for, this way to theorise the wisdom of mothers into our M/otherTongue so it is seen as ‘something’ rather than ‘nothing’. Which door do I want to push on? Where do I want to expend my energy? Which fights do I need to engage with? We are back to one vital part of tacit maternal knowing: holding dear the position of not knowing/letting go. There is still a lot going on this month too.
We/I am at the start of a project, and that means we/I am deluged with ideas. Different things impact me and at the moment are a jumble of pieces that may be part of the whole, but I am still learning if that is so (without being taught (Stadlen, 2020)). This is the reality of a Research project that is usually not made visible. It feels risky to expose the reality of not knowing what on earth is going on while a lot is going on.
But despite the manstream voices in my head telling me no one wants to see the messy early stages, I share my journey, hoping it speaks to your own research projects, whether they are Research in academia or research in clinical practice. If I am using motherhood as my framework for sense-making of the process, this is the equivalent of still being in my pyjamas at three in the afternoon because I’ve spent all day feeding and winding and nappy changing. I’ve done a lot, but it may not look like much (Stadlen, 2004).
But, like a new mother trying to get as far as a shower and getting dressed but eternally distracted by the immediacy of a new infant, I digress! I was trying to fill you in on how this extract from The Mad Man in the Attic engages with the heuristic question I’d set myself for NaNoWriMo, that month of high speed writing: to work out something of my struggles with masculinities.
In the jumble of things that are sparking my thinking at this early stage of this project were two articles in the Guardian. The first explored inequality and how this leads to conflicts. The other was about misogyny following reports of violence against women being at epidemic levels. The first made me mull over how maternal wisdom translates into the lived experiences of choosing to use one’s power in the service of the less powerful other. The second made me question where maternal wisdom was situated in the binary position of male and female.
Like Fiona (there, I’ve actually typed the name — maybe if I keep typing it, it will be less painful) and Brenna entering the dark null space between parts of the town, it is in the gaps between that big stuff happens, not the either/or of a binary state. How does the big stuff in the dark secret places (alleyways and attics) impact on the banal and daily repetitions in the light of day? Which of these are ‘real’ or ‘more real’? And is ‘real’ the same as ‘important’? Is personal ‘importance’ the same as communal ‘importance’? How do we make sense of these huge, I would say ontological, dilemmas?
Brenna is struggling with their sense of identity, their existence, as we saw in last month's fiction. Fiona feels she is nothing, that her valour and heroism in the dark alley, her unexpected and unthought physical capacity to protect someone who was vulnerable, ceases to exist in ordinary daylight. I struggle with having a character that shares a name with me — why? The theme that connects all these bits is refusing to sacrifice personal truth, albeit painful, for being normal (conforming to the manstream) and, therefore, acceptable. But being unacceptable has risk and seems to be telling me something about what ‘courage’ is in our M/otherTongue.
The courage Fiona shows is different to Val’s in Tiny individual acts of rebellion. Val decides to intervene in a fight between others. Fiona doesn’t decide, she reacts out of survival. The scene in the alley draws from incidents that have happened to me in real life; I suspect many women reading this will share similar stories. The problem is that not all men are violent, but how do you know when the violence may come? My lived experiences weren’t in dark alleys but in car parks and in open streets directly in the gaze of others, and, like the Val situation, I’ve witnessed male on female violence and seen others wondering if they should or shouldn’t do something. Male to female violence is real, but not universal. However, male to female violence and misogyny is embedded in our systems and laws and culture.
Even men who are not misogynistic are bathed in the sea of patriarchy and misogyny. They have male privilege (often alongside other privileges or prejudices depending on skin colour, class, accent, sexuality, and so on). When I share more of Gordon’s story in the coming months, I hope I can show how a kind and gentle man is himself positioned and pressured by patriarchal and misogynistic culture into an act of rape. The realisation of what he has done, on top of the horror of male to female violence he has seen in the war, breaks him. In this nuanced confusion, maleness is as much a victim of misogyny and patriarchy as femaleness is. He can only flee to the love of Marjorie as someone who is free to use her maternal in caring for him, as she doesn’t need to protect children (because they don’t have any). I have only just realised why the maternal characters in my fictions are not biological mothers. They are the ‘theory mothers’ that are enabling me to access this theorisation of tacit maternal knowing in the concept of M/otherTongue.
All the characters in the fiction this month are courageous as they seek to live their truth, rejecting what the white supremacist cisheterosexist capitalist patriarchy wants. They are not cowed by fear of how they would be judged, do not give into the fear of the dark alley, but that doesn’t mean they are fear-less in their living. I am not fear-less in this project. But I am thinking fear is probably part of the control mechanism that the white supremacist cisheterosexist capitalist patriarchy uses to make it more difficult, and more fear-full, to try to speak our M/otherTongue.
Courage in our M/otherTongue is being ready to go to the I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen, I don’t know if this man is safe or not safe. I don’t know if what I do matters, makes a difference, changes anyone’s world. But within me, I want to remain someone who cares. I don’t know about the motives of The Other, but I don’t want to judge them from my fear base. I don’t know what the outcome will be, but I will remain curious and continue to push at the edges of the mansteam to see what the shape, space, and energy of our M/otherTongue is as I try to move from unearthing tacit maternal knowing to a concept and/or theory. In doing this, mothers’ wisdoms can be made usable and accessible and acceptable as professional knowledge.
Courage in our M/otherTongue is to keep trying to be who we are to the best of our ability, and to enable others to be who they are to the best of their ability.
Courage in our M/otherTongue is about not allowing the creative act of birthing lose its connection to the arts. The lovely writers' hour, through its daily words of wisdom, came up trumps as I grappled and wrestled with this month's post to progress my Research project of operationalisting tacit maternal knowing. The full title of the Research submitted for ethics approval was Speaking in our M/otherTongue. We Do Know – A Heuristic Exploration of how to operationalise tacit maternal knowing in psychotherapeutic practice, in the education of therapists, the management of organisations with care at their heart, and in research practice. To birth that without losing touch with the arts, these wise words say:
“This is how it is done — how anything is done. One moment, then the next, then the next. This is how this book is being written: I type this word, then this one, then this one. The words build sentences. The sentences build a paragraph. A book is impossible, but a word and then another word is not. A lifetime of sobriety was impossible, but a moment of sobriety was not. I was doing it, and I was doing it, and I was doing it again.”
– Laura McKowen, We are the luckiest | Words of wisdom on 11th July 2024
“Write every day, line by line, page by page, hour by hour. Do this despite fear. For above all else, beyond imagination and skill, what the world asks of you is courage, courage to risk rejection, ridicule and failure. As you follow the quest for stories told with meaning and beauty, study thoughtfully but write boldly. Then, like the hero of the fable, your dance will dazzle the world.”
- Robert McKee, Story| Words of wisdom on 12th July 2024
“Write the tale that scares you, that makes you feel uncertain, that isn’t comfortable. I dare you. In a world that entices us to browse the lives of others to help us better determine how we feel about ourselves, and to, in turn, feel the need to be constantly visible — for visibility, these days, seems to somehow equate to success — do not be afraid to disappear. From it, from us, for a while. And see what comes to you in the silence.”
– Michaela Coel, Emmy speech | Words of wisdom on 30th July 2024
Courage in our M/otherTongue is to just keep going on, trusting that relationship is the seat of ontological security and so, the root of kindness and peace. Courage in our M/otherTongue is to trust that choosing to use one’s power in the service of the less powerful other is worth taking risks for, and can open the doors to allow that other to grow into being someone who also chooses to care for others. Courage in our M/otherTongue is to have faith that there are enough others out there who also mother to break the cycle of Othering. Tacit maternal knowing, our M/otherTongue, is about how we proactively use dependence/interdependence, not knowing/letting go, and faithfulness as the compass for our living — personal or professional.
It doesn’t stop this whole Research thing from being frightening.
Bibliography
Nelson, M. (2016). The argonauts. Melville House.
Phillips, A. (1998). On kissing, tickling, and being bored: Psychoanalytic essays on the examined life. Harvard University Press.
Stadlen, N. (2004). What mothers do: Especially when it looks like nothing. Piatkus.
Stadlen, N. (2015). How mothers love—And how relationships are born. Piatkus.
Stadlen, N. (2020). What mothers learn: Without being taught. Piatkus.
Bonus fiction: The Committee 4 — 2023 part 2
It kept playing out in Fiona’s head. She didn’t sleep because the imagery kept rolling. She’d stop it and replay it. Less sure each time what had really happened. The following day, Rowan brought round a cake. Sylvia called and asked how she was. Clare was silent. Fiona’s page remained blank during her discipline of daily writing, until she knew she just had to put down words, whether they made sense or not.
My name is like a knife each time I hear it.
Fi … the downwards slice.
Oh … the thrust.
Ner … worthless and pointless.
It is not me.
My name is like an outward breath that is nothing, a waste of space and breath.
A sideways turn that means the light makes me invisible.
My name is the rending of ages, the ragging of curtains of time.
My name flits me between oceans of story and meaning.
Like a tide coming in Fi -
Oh! it pauses at the turn,
Ner; it fades out again.
Coming and going.
Never still, I write, and the knife blunts somewhat, and the tide turns over.
***
Sometimes, Marjorie was just driven. It was like a craving that would not go, an itch that must be scratched until the skin came off. She went to the shed, put up the canvas. Like an out-of-body experience, these moments, the compulsion and the power of the image she saw behind her eyelids. She could probably, she thought, paint it with her eyes closed, the image was so strong, so compelling her to record it.
There was no thought or contemplation to mixing the colours. They dictated themselves to her. There was no wondering about how the canvas may be divided. The brush took over her hand and pulled her into the work, as if resistance would lead to her drowning. The intense centre of the canvas took her, like a staring match that she must win by creating a hole. An ocean wave rolled and formed, some foam on the top, pink, just so slightly that it may, or may not be so.
Who could tell? Were they hands, was that a head? Who could know, the crashing and breathless power of the water moved them and turned them before anyone could fix the meaning and work out what was there. Was that hair, or seaweed, or the anchor chain of a boat? Was that blue water, or grey like cold death? Or was this sun obscured by the greyest of skies, trying to break through but watered down to weak obscurity by the possible body dispersed within the entangling of the tide coming in, a silent pause at its turn and then a sigh of retreat.
Marjorie collapsed exhausted on the floor of her shed. It was as if the image had just spat her out. Done with her.
She looked at it, barely able to believe it had been her hand that had guided the brush over the canvas. She looked down at the palette, the mixing of paints, by her left hand. Had she been the person who had held it and worked it? She looked at her right hand, bemused, no idea where the brush might be. Her fingers smeared paint, blood. She looked up again at the image. She looked beyond the image. The light was on in the bathroom of the girl. She could see the outline of her, female shape, brushing her hair, she guessed — arms up, hair swirling, maybe like the image she’d painted. The girl whose neck was bruised by the hands of the gentle man she once knew, who now…a mad man in the attic.
It was two in the morning. She crawled back down the garden. The grass was wet with dew. She had no strength to walk, didn’t want to try to raise her head or be normal in her action. This was no longer a place of normalness. She didn’t want to sleep on a bed. Tonight, the hard floor would do. Tonight, she needed to feel the madness too. She knew he would be up there, in the attic. Flat on his back. Staring up. Not daring to shut his eyes because of what lived there on the back of his eyelids. He’d never told her, but she knew, not really knowing.
But days like today when the paint took her over and the image was more than she could ever have imagined…she didn’t know the ins and out, the thises and thats, but the rawness of some overwhelming violence seen or done or both, that she knew. She didn’t strip off with it and stand by the sea, she had her soul dragged up in a picture that she didn’t want to paint until there was nothing left of her, no strength, only a shameful crawl and a night spent in hardness.
***
Alice woke with a start. Her first thought was someone was breaking in. The smashing was real, not a dream. No one else seemed to move in the house. There were no further sounds. Should she stay in her bed? She couldn’t. She lowered her legs, feeling a coldness wrap around them. She pulled her dressing gown around her, made for her by her mother. She tied it a little tight, in the hope of a memory of a maternal hug. She crept down the stairs. She’d just reached the bottom when Marjorie's door swung open, a torch weaving and bobbing, catching Marjorie's face at times. She looked awful, but maybe it was the way the light fell upon her.
Marjorie shone the torch towards the front door. They both expected to see broken glass, a sign of someone trying to get in. But through the plain glass panel they could see one of the shelves of cacti had collapsed, terracotta pots smashing on the hard floor of the porch. Earth was spread around, spikes sadly staring up at them. Still malevolent, but no longer kept in their place.