Cricks Crocodile

 

I closed the front door very slowly, quietly and scurried towards my car, holding my scarf up over my mouth, my throbbing lower lip. I could taste the iron in my blood. I don’t think Martin had meant for my keys to hit me of course, he’d simply thrown them in anger and they’re pretty heavy when they come at you with force.

 

This was the third weekend in a row that we’d fought and although it was likely my own fault again, I couldn’t help noticing that his violent outbursts were becoming more extreme and more frequent. He'd gone from hitting the wall or breaking something to throwing objects in my direction or yanking my hair so hard that my head was forced backwards but he did at least apologise for the hair pulling. Martin loved my long hair and wouldn’t hear of me ever having it cut.

 

I had started to think about leaving but every time I pictured it, I felt all my strength leave my body as I wondered what my parents, his mother and all those we knew would think and say. Martin was so well known in our town, he was loud, funny, a show off and quite a character. We’d invested so much in us, our lovely home, the horses and all those years of gruelly fertility treatment. I think that’s what pushed our fighting into the realm of abusiveness. 

 

It seemed, at least to me, as if life was so unfair and consequently I wasn’t always fun to be around. Martin said I was either moody or just sad, he got sick of me and resentful, it’s no wonder he lashed out. Even his mother said no other man would put up with all that fertility nonsense and it was only because Martin was such a caring soul that he’d stayed with me. She warned me, I should be careful not to take advantage of him.

 

I always hoped that a miracle would happen. A baby would change everything for us and I had been quite sure it would stop his outbursts. After turning forty seven, I had become resigned to childlessness and for the first time I had begun to think about leaving Martin.

 

I loved where we lived and my escapism was my horses and also visiting all the local cafes and antique shops. This was my time and I knew Martin wouldn’t follow me there because he would never attack me while other people were around, either verbally or physically. That’s what we’d argued about that Saturday, I told him, I was off shopping. He wasn’t happy, he took my keys so I threatened to call my friend, Tracy so she could pick me up and we could go together. He hurled the bunch of keys in my direction and walked out of the room. He didn’t like me seeing my friends during the weekend.

 

Cricks was my favourite antique shop, it was messy and chaotic, a former abattoir, complete with the meat hooks, uneven stairs and changes in level, a bit of a death trap for humans as well as livestock. There were other more upmarket places which were beautiful to visit, like museums but completely unaffordable. Cricks was more of an antiques market, there was always something new to see and I usually returned with a little plate or something, junk, Martin called it.

 

I greeted the jovial lady on the till and did a quick once around of the furniture downstairs. A grotesque display of old dolls awaited me in one of the upstairs rooms, their eyes following me as I walked on to the old teddies, all waiting for new homes. They made me feel sad, once loved so much by children that they’d lost all their fluff and had to huddle together in order to keep warm; that old abattoir was drafty. I wished I could take them all home but that would have caused world war three..

 

The fifth floor always caught me out. I was in the habit of thinking that once I’d completed a sweep of the fourth floor that I was done but the little winding staircase caught my eye, flanked by a hand-written sign, More Upstairs. I’d never had much luck up there but I still had to have a look.

 

I trod the steep wooden stairs and passed through a short corridor which consisted of two large Venetian mirrors facing each on opposite walls. Instantly I felt the wind coming through the rafters, crossing the room, licking the plethora of disparate vases, plates, spoons and other paraphernalia associated with dining. It somehow appeared to be all on a miniature scale though, a tiny butter dish and tiny sherry glasses, almost as if the Victorians and those who inhabited England even before that were all half sized people with diminutive hands.

 

A grotesque face caught my eye, it was half concealed in some shabby red and white striped fabric, a long curved chin and nose, absurdly rosy cheeks and mad blue eyes. I soon realised it was Mr Punch and not far behind him, stuffed away in the fabric pelmet was Judy, exhibiting almost identical DNA as Punch but with long painted eyelashes belying her gender. She had a long crack in her forehead and was a bit of a sorry sight.

 

I recalled the shows I used to watch on the beach as a child, sitting cross-legged next to other children who were strange to me, hoping they didn’t invade my space too much. Occasionally I would glance around to make sure my parents were still waiting with the other parents at the back and it wasn’t some trick to trap children in one place and then desert them forever. It was difficult being an only child, I was a worrier and missed out on the reassurance of a sibling.

 

For a moment I was lost in my own thoughts, transformed back to my childhood but heavy footsteps on the stairs jolted me back to reality. It was the woman from the till, she carefully placed a cat shaped teapot on one of the shelves.

 

‘The Punch and Judy set is reduced to thirty pounds,’ she said grinning and panting, ‘the kids will love it.’

 

‘Oh I don’t have any children,’ I said quickly, ‘although it is a good price,’ I lifted Punch up but the shiny finish on his face felt sticky so I put him down again and wiped my fingers down my coat.

 

‘Judy’s cracked but you could paint over that or even put make-up on it, and the crocodile’s missing but I think you could make another one easily enough,’ she said, huffing and puffing, ‘get the kids to help you,’ she continued as she stomped back downstairs.

 

‘What about the baby?’ I called out.

 

‘I don’t think they had one, Love,’

 

How did she not pick up on the bit about me not having any children. Obtuse woman, I thought to myself. I was being over-sensitive and on reflection, I had turned my face away from her to conceal my bloody lip so maybe she hadn’t really heard or understood.

 

I was just having a final look at the price tag on a beautiful cranberry glass bowl when I heard a voice which made me jump out of my skin and almost drop it. ‘It’s behind you!’

 

I gasped and spun around and immediately questioned whether I was hallucinating. Lying across the floor, staring at me was a scaly green crocodile, not the enormous salt water variety, nor the neat slender, Cayman type but something in between and five feet long. I shut my eyes for a few seconds but when I reopened them it was still there. Placing the glass bowl down I took a deep breath. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’

 

The crocodile smiled at me, flashing its yellow eyes. ‘Out of the portal,’ it said in a female voice.

 

I glanced around and realised it was lying beneath the two mirrors which faced each other. I remembered Tracy telling me that two mirrors facing each other created a portal. She also used to give me crystals and potions to help me conceive, they didn’t work but she meant well.

 

It opened its huge mouth, displaying rows of teeth and then snapped it shut again. ‘Am I going mad?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps I’m dreaming.’

 

‘Does it feel like a bad dream?’ said the crocodile.

 

‘No, yes…I don’t think so. It’s better than earlier today anyway.’ 

 

The crocodile blinked and nodded as if it knew everything about me.

 

‘Are you with them?’ I asked, pointing towards Punch and Judy.

 

‘Yes and no. Judy…she’s dead.’

 

‘Oh I’m sorry,’ I said, stupidly.

 

‘Punch went too far, that’s what happens in the stories, he cannot change and then me, I come back to avenge her death and to punish him. I become the villain and everyone roots for Punch and warns him about me because he’s a strong character and everyone loves a character don’t they.’

 

‘But what about what he did to Judy?’

 

‘They forget all about her because she’s depicted as a miserable moaning nag.’

 

‘I thought they had a baby?’

 

‘They did…but Punch throws it out of the window, remember?’

 

‘Oh..yes,’ I stared at the crocodile and considered stepping over it and rushing downstairs to tell the lady what was happening because nobody would ever believe me but I felt sort of loyal to it. Suddenly it lunged at me, snapping its wide mouth open and shut. ‘No!’ I said, stepping backwards and knocking the cat teapot off one of the cabinets so it smashed on the floor.

 

The crocodile smiled and slithered back to a safe distance. ‘So you would retreat from danger then, from the danger of my jaws?’

 

‘Of course,’ I said, sighing with relief.

 

‘Judy always went back for more. That was her story, it just went round and round.’ 

 

‘Sad that she couldn’t have a better outcome,’ I said, ‘away from her husband.’

 

‘She could have had a wonderful life but she felt trapped in the theatre and with everybody watching, I suppose she worried about letting the audience down. But none of them really cared too much about the story, they soon forgot about the show and moved onto the next thing in their own lives.’

 

Now I felt as if the crocodile was holding a mirror up to me in regard to my marriage to Martin, his violent outbursts and me, always worrying about what people think. I saw myself in a theatre of sorts, surrounded by characters with a part to play but what would be my ending, if I stayed in that theatre? Would it be the same as Judy’s? We didn’t have a baby and that was the cause of great sadness to me but it was also a source of freedom. I was only tied to Martin by a document. I could leave him for good, and his mother.

 

‘What are you thinking?’ said the crocodile.

 

‘That…’ I took a deep breath, ‘that my life is just a show on repeat and I’m not really happy or even safe.’

 

The crocodile nodded and blinked and right before my eyes it slithered through the glass and disappeared into the mirror. I stood there for a while, shell-shocked, staring at the broken pieces of teapot on the floor. Then I went over to the puppet theatre, exposed Judy and stroked her hair which was actually just shiny yellow paint. I took her out of the red and white fabric and carried her downstairs, placing her among the teddies, tucked away out of sight.

 

 

I felt guilty about the teapot so I went back upstairs, staring at the mirrors for a few seconds before carefully collecting the larger pieces of the teapot. Downstairs at the till, I approached the lady. ‘I’m really sorry but I broke this,’ I said.

 

‘Oh don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I know you, you’ve bought plenty of things from me and it was already chipped on the lid.’

 

‘Oh thank you,’ I said.

 

‘Hey, do you know, you’ve got blood on your lip?’

 

‘Yes,’ I nodded, embarrassed, ‘Don’t worry. I’m going to sort it out.’