Read Online The Child Inside by Suzanne Bugler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Suzanne Bugler
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party one year, long ago. We are sitting at a table among the debris of empty glasses and streamers, and we are flushed from laughing. I am wearing a black strapless dress and my hair, which was longer then, is curling loosely around my shoulders. We have our heads together for the photo and Andrew has his arm around me, squeezing me tight. We look so young, we look so in love, and see – I definitely hadn’t lost my sparkle then.
These photos have been relegated to the spare room. In our old house they were on the landing, and before that, when we lived in our flat in Chiswick, they were in the hall. But gradually photos of Jono overtook their importance: photos of Jono as a baby, as a toddler, and of us with him, on holidays, in the garden, in the park. In these photos Andrew and I are merely the props, the supporting roles; we are smiling at him, we are holding him up, we are saying: look, here he is, our wonderful son.
We fill our home with photos of Jono. We cannot see enough of him. Photos of just the two of us don’t seem relevant any more. They seem out of date, embarrassing almost. Like a too-old woman in a miniskirt and high heels, they no longer seem to fit.
The spare room is where I do the ironing. That is the only reason, really, that I am ever in there for any length of time. And those faces look down at me from the wall then, like actors in a film. Sometimes I cannot meet their eyes. They are strangers to me now, those people. They are the salt, rubbed into the wounds.
Now, I walk into the spare room with my arms laden with various Christmas purchases, and I look at these photos. The house is quiet; it is the middle of the day in the middle of the week, and as usual I am alone. And for some reason the silence is all wrong, as if really there is noise there – many, many layers of busy, vibrating noise – but it has been snapped off, as if someone has flicked off the volume switch. Carefully, I place my purchases down on the trunk among all the other packages and gifts all waiting to be wrapped, and then I stand and I look at those photos. Really look, as I haven’t for a long time. And it is as if I am there again. I hear the noise from the boat; the sweet chink of the stays knocking against the mast and the ripple of the sail, the slap of sea against wood, and our voices, high-pitched, snatched out and away on the wind. I hear the sudden, feverish clamour of a thousand pigeons taking flight in St Mark’s Square simultaneously with the echoing clang of the bell in the clock tower, chiming out the hour, and to the side of me the orchestra outside Harry’s Bar striking up the violins to Verdi. And the voices, so many of them, in so many different languages: a group of French students singing the chorus of some unknown pop song; the vendors, selling corn for the pigeons and strips of postcards; the American guy taking our photo, saying, Okay, you look great now , and my own voice, then, squealing as I nearly lose my hat, and Andrew, laughing in my ear.
I hear all these sounds. I hear them all at once. As if they had been trapped all this time inside a locked glass box, but now the lid is off and out they all come, all of them, bursting out.
And that party – there was a live band playing blues music; they were brilliant, I remember. Andrew and I had only just sat down for a minute. See how flushed we are; I can hear our heartbeats pounding, the fast rush of our breath. I hear the music, I feel it, buzzing through my body. I hear the splash and the glug of glasses being refilled, of voices laughing, shouting to be heard.
And Andrew and me. Andrew and me.
I feel his hand on my skin, his body warm and sure next to mine.
Once, we had a terrible row. Before Jono was born. Before we were even married; we were living together, in our flat in Chiswick, and we were standing in our narrow hallway having this row. I cannot remember what it was about, just the fierceness of it, the danger of it in that tight,
These photos have been relegated to the spare room. In our old house they were on the landing, and before that, when we lived in our flat in Chiswick, they were in the hall. But gradually photos of Jono overtook their importance: photos of Jono as a baby, as a toddler, and of us with him, on holidays, in the garden, in the park. In these photos Andrew and I are merely the props, the supporting roles; we are smiling at him, we are holding him up, we are saying: look, here he is, our wonderful son.
We fill our home with photos of Jono. We cannot see enough of him. Photos of just the two of us don’t seem relevant any more. They seem out of date, embarrassing almost. Like a too-old woman in a miniskirt and high heels, they no longer seem to fit.
The spare room is where I do the ironing. That is the only reason, really, that I am ever in there for any length of time. And those faces look down at me from the wall then, like actors in a film. Sometimes I cannot meet their eyes. They are strangers to me now, those people. They are the salt, rubbed into the wounds.
Now, I walk into the spare room with my arms laden with various Christmas purchases, and I look at these photos. The house is quiet; it is the middle of the day in the middle of the week, and as usual I am alone. And for some reason the silence is all wrong, as if really there is noise there – many, many layers of busy, vibrating noise – but it has been snapped off, as if someone has flicked off the volume switch. Carefully, I place my purchases down on the trunk among all the other packages and gifts all waiting to be wrapped, and then I stand and I look at those photos. Really look, as I haven’t for a long time. And it is as if I am there again. I hear the noise from the boat; the sweet chink of the stays knocking against the mast and the ripple of the sail, the slap of sea against wood, and our voices, high-pitched, snatched out and away on the wind. I hear the sudden, feverish clamour of a thousand pigeons taking flight in St Mark’s Square simultaneously with the echoing clang of the bell in the clock tower, chiming out the hour, and to the side of me the orchestra outside Harry’s Bar striking up the violins to Verdi. And the voices, so many of them, in so many different languages: a group of French students singing the chorus of some unknown pop song; the vendors, selling corn for the pigeons and strips of postcards; the American guy taking our photo, saying, Okay, you look great now , and my own voice, then, squealing as I nearly lose my hat, and Andrew, laughing in my ear.
I hear all these sounds. I hear them all at once. As if they had been trapped all this time inside a locked glass box, but now the lid is off and out they all come, all of them, bursting out.
And that party – there was a live band playing blues music; they were brilliant, I remember. Andrew and I had only just sat down for a minute. See how flushed we are; I can hear our heartbeats pounding, the fast rush of our breath. I hear the music, I feel it, buzzing through my body. I hear the splash and the glug of glasses being refilled, of voices laughing, shouting to be heard.
And Andrew and me. Andrew and me.
I feel his hand on my skin, his body warm and sure next to mine.
Once, we had a terrible row. Before Jono was born. Before we were even married; we were living together, in our flat in Chiswick, and we were standing in our narrow hallway having this row. I cannot remember what it was about, just the fierceness of it, the danger of it in that tight,
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