Gone by Martin Roper Read Free Book Online Page A

goin’?
    â€”You’re sweet. Ursula is lucky to have such a sweetie.
    I invite her into the house and we sit by the fire and talk. I don’t know her well and don’t particularly like her. She is too certain of life. After a cup of tea and a bit of chat about the delights of having a home, she tells me why she is here. She is lonely. She misses being a single woman. We look at each other both of us thinking the same thing, thinking about Brefini, her husband. She knows by my eyes that it’s the wrong thing to say to me. I am sad for her, and feel I am getting old, learning to know that sharing such intimacy is not intimacy, it’s nothing but a slide into collusion. I am learning slowly. She asks for my advice about a man her sister is interested in and I tell her I don’t know. I don’t know how to get a rawl plug in a hole without bending it, how would I know about this man her sister wants. She thanks me for my advice, warms herself a moment longer by the fireside, rubbing her hands on her thighs, lingering to dispel the awkwardness between us, and then she leaves. She has no idea that she has offended me. It is nothing to do with Brefini; it is my own frail ego. Why should she think that a lighthearted comment about macho—or the lack of it—would be hurtful? Why would she think that calling me skinny or boyish or sweet could ever be construed as offensive?
    For a woman to say she is envious of a man’s skinniness is like complimenting an obese woman for her jolly nature. I get the message—it translates from compliment to insult in a finger click. To be called boyish translates as hormonally undeveloped. To be sweet is the trickiest one of all to handle because it seems innocuous. Here’s the rub: women tell me men are not sweet. Women tell me men are bastards. So, somehow, even though sweetness is a virtue, one is less of a man for possessing it. My head begins to ache as if cold air is being forced through the healing wound. It was stupid to start working so soon.
    This time Ursula agrees we should sell. I am worried for our safety. I want to protect her and know I can’t. Besides, the truth is she is not the one in danger. If someone is going to be hurt it is going to be me. There is enough decency in this scum not to hurt a woman. We agree to work extra hard on the house to get it finished and put it on the market quickly. My attitude changes overnight. We had taken care to do everything as expertly as possible, staining the skirting boards four times, varnishing them four times. Now I take short cuts. She doesn’t. She is still attached to the house; it has become her love. I grit my teeth when I hear her still sanding the downstairs skirting boards, the obsession with smoothness of door frames and windows and walls. I tell her again and again to hurry and not worry about the fine details. We have finished everything except the papering and painting. The paint tins sit in the kitchen waiting to release their colours. I open them and stir them into life. Yellow, pink, blue, green. Happy colours. I size the walls in the living room and watch the paste dry in. I plumb the wall over the fireplace.
    â€”What are you doing?
    She is standing in the doorway, wiping dust off her face.
    â€”Lining the walls.
    â€”They’re not ready.
    Her anger takes precedence over expertise.
    â€”If you think they’re not ready you can do it—you can do all of it. Wouldn’t that be fun?
    â€”Fine.
    â€”It’s not fine. You want to help? Stop being a know-all expert and just get it done. Now fuck off.
    â€”Fuck off you.
    â€”I should never have married a woman who couldn’t say fuck off properly.
    â€”And I should never have married a man who couldn’t fuck properly.
    â€”Maybe if there was someone worth fucking.
    â€”She left your father a long time ago.
    I climb the ladder, hold the roll of paper to the ceiling, let it drop until the