The Water Cure(15)

In the morning I pace the corridors outside our three bedrooms as if to set a boundary. We used to say that any yellow patches on the carpet are made of fire; if you stepped on them you would burn to death. I step carefully all the way to the window that looks out on the forest, lean my forearms on the sill. The air where it comes in is a sweet and clean thing, but some of the trees are going brown, dying. Vigilance, I whisper to myself. I press my ear to each of my sisters’ doors so I can check their breathing and am just about satisfied.

From the top of the staircase I can hear distant piano music. I expect to find Mother clearing her mind, but when I enter the ballroom it is Llew, facing away from me. The bulk of his shoulders, hair shorn from his neck. It’s a shock, like seeing a snake dart into the scrub of the forest. His hands fumble the notes as he turns, and I realize he is scared of me too, or at least who I could be in this moment. Mother with the pistol. Vengeful women coming to catch him off-guard. He and the piano are perfectly placed in a hot rectangle of sunlight.

‘It’s you,’ he says. ‘The one who gave us the water.’

I nod.

‘Did I wake you?’ he asks. I shake my head. ‘Good.’ He indicates the piano. ‘Can you play?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Why not?’ he asks.

I shrug.

‘It’s out of tune anyway,’ he says. ‘That’ll be the sea air.’ He cocks his head to one side. ‘I don’t bite, you know. Come over here.’

Mother discussed with us the importance of examining every action of our bodies. Step always with caution. The body is the purest sort of alarm. If something feels wrong, it probably is. My body does not pulse with fear, though my hands shake a little. I am curious, that’s all. The man smiles at me as I start to walk.

Llew makes room for me on the stool. Even through his clothes he is warmer than a woman would be. Like my father, he is made of meat. It’s not so terrible, to be close to him. I put a finger to the keys, pick one at random. He takes my lead and chooses a key near mine, makes a harmony, and then picks another.

‘Anyone can learn piano,’ he tells me. ‘Babies can learn it. Old people. It’s not too late for you.’

I have never learned it because I am clumsy and uninterested, because the sound of the notes puts my teeth on edge, creates a hard ball of sorrow in my chest. I don’t need that, I could tell him, I am sad enough already without it. But I let him teach me a very simple tune that I manage to remember. I play it once, then twice, faster each time. He congratulates me, but it’s only fifteen notes, it’s no great achievement. He sucks air in between his teeth, which are a lot whiter than mine. ‘See?’ he says.

When the door opens again, it is Mother; I can tell without even seeing. I stand up right away, but Llew does not move.

‘Good morning!’ Llew greets her. Mother ignores him.

‘It’s breakfast time,’ she says instead, fixing her eyes on me. ‘Everyone else is awake now.’

Llew puts the lid of the piano down without comment, pushes the stool back. There is a fluidity to his movements, despite his size, that tells me he has never had to justify his existence, has never had to fold himself into a hidden thing, and I wonder what that must be like, to know that your body is irreproachable. I try to follow him out of the room, but Mother grabs my wrist as I walk past her. She says nothing but gives me a look, her eyes narrowed almost shut.

For a second, I hate her. I want to lock my fingers around her throat. Then I remember as I always do that I am supposed to love her, so I look back into her eyes and think of an orb of pink light, my obedient heart.

Over breakfast, Mother lays out the new rules. She has been up all night recalibrating, fighting with the world around us. She implies that we should feel guilty about this. We test our mother’s spirit, hurt her without even realizing. Daughters are always thankless, we know by now. You could cut yourself on the sharpness of our disregard. We’re vain, senseless, arrogant. This morning I’ll admit I did pull the skin around my eyes to test the elasticity, I did put on the whitest dress – vinegar-bleached, eyelets at the hem.

‘No daughter to be alone with a man,’ she reads from her notebook. ‘No men to go near the daughters’ rooms. No men to touch the daughters, unless sanctioned by me.’

What would be enough to sanction touch? I wonder, I feel my sisters wonder. If we were drowning, maybe. If there was a wad of bread, a fishbone, lodged in our tender throats. I imagine formulas and workings-out scrawled in the margins, calculating how much our bodies can take before unspeakable damage would be done to us. I worry at a scab on the back of my right hand, a wound I don’t remember. In the new light streaming through the windows, a light there’s no hiding from, I can see the lines at James’s eyes more clearly, the fading plumpness of Gwil’s face. Llew’s arms are folded as he leans back against his chair. When I look at his body properly I feel sick, but also exultant. I realize that if I have to stand up in front of him I will fall and give myself away.

Mother draws out King’s pistol from underneath the table, and places it on the tablecloth.

‘If you touch the girls, I’ll have to kill you,’ Mother says. She is relishing it, unapologetic.

‘Right,’ says James. ‘We understand.’ He puts one hand on Gwil’s shoulder and looks at Llew.