Slow Poison - Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-six

Even the rainbow has a body made of drizzling rain

And is an architecture of glistening atoms built up,

built up

Yet you can’t lay your hand on it

Nay, nor even your mind

D.H.Lawrence

It was at the beginning of September that Becky became a forgotten face; the whispered hisses of recognition no longer surrounding her. The unborn child hung heavy before her as she passed the Cross and headed toward Gloucester Cathedral. The day was cool and overcast with a slight breeze that billowed her organdie dress around her calves.

“MUMMY! MUMMY!”

A bright sound for a grey day. There was a small paved square, hidden from the main street behind high shrubs, in the shadow of the Cathedral. Sarah had seen Becky first, almost unbalancing her in her eagerness. Sarah’s hands and face were sticky from a lardy cake she had almost finished. Becky looked over at the far bench, clean, new and unblemished. There he sat. Alan. Meeting him now almost always took her breath away. She glided toward him, Sarah babbling beside her, caught up in the foaming folds of her hem. A few feet away from him Sarah broke away and threw herself into his arms, her arms circling his neck. He grinned past her, his pale eyes sparkling.

“Hello, love, did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yes, but the shops are too crowded. I’m so weary.”

“Come and sit down then.”

His hand closed around hers and there was nothing more to say.”

“We went to see the mice and the rabbits. There were hundreds. And look!”

Sarah thrust her hand into Alan’s shirt pocket. She pulled out a bundle of tissue paper.

“Careful you don’t drop it.” He said.

Sarah tore at the tissue paper and held up the porcelain figure. Becky took it from her and turned it over in her hand, a habit. ‘Beatrix Potter’s Hunca Munca copyright 1951’ it read in tiny brown print on the underside. The piece portrayed a mouse in a blue frock nursing a baby, and beside her, peeping out from a wicker cot, four more baby mice

“Alan says it’s me and you and the babies.”

“Well, I think there’s only going to be one.” Said Becky.

“There might be four, then we can have a great big pram and I can push it. We could share.”

And suddenly Sarah was an aeroplane, arms outstretched, roaring around the Cathedral Close. Becky handed the ornament back to Alan. He wrapped it carefully in the paper once more. He helped Becky to her feet and they followed Sarah through to an opening that led to the Cathedral porch. They walked slowly toward the entrance, watching Sarah wheel and swoop in between the daisies on the cropped grass. Suddenly the air was filled with the pure tones of a well-trained choir.

“Can we go in? It sounds so lovely.” Becky asked.

Alan gathered Sarah into his arms and when she was quiet they walked into the musty Cathedral. The singing stopped, interrupted by a nasal Canadian accent barking out sharp commands that bounced off the fan vaulting and the massive stone pillars. Then the music began again; The Sanctus from Mozart’s Requiem. All at once the sun broke through the cloud and filled the dusty Cathedral with shafts of coloured light that shone through the medieval glass.

The music held them entranced. Sarah was quiet, watching the choristers and thinking about heaven, the dark rings around her eyes betraying the countless nightmare nights.

There were some pews set aside for the public and Becky was happy to rest her swollen ankles. When they had listened for ten minutes or so, Alan nudged Becky. Sarah had almost fallen asleep against his shoulder.

“Shouldn’t we be making tracks? I could do with some lunch.”

Becky was rested, refreshed by the mass. When they walked through the heavy outer door it was to meet a very different day. The sky was now a deep kingfisher blue, and the sun beat down upon the old ladies picnicking on the grass in front of the steep limestone walls of the Cathedral. Sarah was at once awake and alert.

“Can I show Mummy the mice and the rabbits

“If Mummy’s not too tired.”

“No, I’m fine.” She said.

It was just a short walk to the Tailor of Gloucester’s house. It was a narrow, twisted building filled with books and ornaments and posters, fronted by a pebble glass bow window. On the first floor, a small sign announced “The Beatrix Potter Museum”.

“Let’s just look in the window.” Said Becky.

“It looks like a bit of a squeeze in there. I feel a bit bulbous today.

“You look just perfect.”

He placed his hand upon her stomach and gently massaged the organdie.

“I love you.” He whispered.

“I love you too.” She replied.

“Can I have an ice cream? I’m ever so hot.” Sarah whined. She tugged at Alan’s sleeve, pulling him behind her toward the kiosk sheltering in the shadow of the ancient rhododendron. He looked back at Becky, swaying along behind them and he grinned broadly

“Will you marry me?” he shouted.

The old women threw them disapproving looks and Becky flushed.

“Go on, Mummy, say yes.”

“You two are terrible.” She said, catching them up. She accepted a choc-ice from Alan, licking the already melting chocolate from the back of her hand. The sun sparkled on the broad gold band upon her finger. She hoped the old ladies could see.

“One more trick like that and I’ll file for divorce.”

The child inside her kicked at the wall of her womb in protest.

Becky looked up at a small movement fluttering like gauze in a shaft of sunlight. A fading Purple Emperor spiralled downward and lighted on Sarah’s hair. It paused for a second and flew drunkenly onto Sarah’s knee. Becky smiled and snuggled closer to Alan. Sarah started as the butterfly tickled her skin. Her eyes narrowed and deadened as she quietly crushed the insect with the flat of her hand, smearing the blood and innards across her skin. A drizzle of spittle formed at the corner of her thin tight lips. The Sanctus finished, leaving the last note hanging in the cold cathedral air.