7 Martha

 

Martha

béchamel never ceases to amaze her

she knows she’s made this sauce a thousand times, every time she cuts that first knob of butter, she’s convinced it won’t work  

the yellow wedge spreads across the steel like melting gold, sprinkles flour haphazardly, dusting the hob as she goes, flour wraps around the butter, calms the gentle sizzle  

a pale creature emerges

a baby albino mouse

she chases it around the pan  

anxiety takes the front seat

her heart thumping like a bass drum  

this pale blob could never become the glossy sauce, it’ll never slither across lasagne sheets finding crevices lapping at the sides of the dish, it’ll perish in the pan, its tiny form splattered against the steel  

adds the milk, it lifts the mess sending it spinning, tumbling in the tide  

her spoon swishes droplets of white leaping towards her, wetting her chin in the frenzy  

the whisk enters, a hero to the piece, its curved might bringing it all together  

stops looks again marvels at the everyday miracle  

a bubble slurps its way upwards winking at her as she peers in  

it’s happened again  

the sauce lies there luxuriating in its own warmth  

 

she can see why people buy the jars though  

this is fucking exhausting  

 

looks down into the pan gives it an idle stir, pride feels small but warm inside her, a sigh escapes taking the last tingles of fear with it  

cigarette

magically appears at her fingertips

she takes her new friend, up the steps from her basement flat to street level

sets fire to its head

sucks the smoke from within  

the last of the day’s sun prickles her cheeks, sweat readying beneath her skin, sits heavily on the garden wall curling into a comfy slump, the béchamel has taken its toll  

pulls hard on the tiny cigarette, trying to recharge herself with the smoke, each lungful allows her to breathe fully out,thinks that she could probably breathe all the way out without filling her lungs with carcinogens, oh well  

looks up at the building she lives in  

it’s huge  

always has to count the floors but today she can’t be bothered  

six maybe  

her flat, down at the bottom, holding the whole place up, straining down below  

the tiny front garden is really just steps and a couple of flower beds  

shrubs sag away from the road, tired of living here, steps lead up to the main road

it’s on a giant hill that starts at the seafront,

climbs

through the edge of town

up to the crazy junction with seven roads

a tiny roundabout  

it makes her feel sick just to look at it  

a truck trundles by the wall vibrating slightly tickling her arse  

 

she lost the whole day today  

it flew by and they barely exchanged a word  

things happened stuff was done, she’s almost certain  

if she looks into her memory there are scenes, people, tasks flung together by an unreliable editor, pockets of time swirl around her head, feels like she’s forgotten something, that it’ll catch her out in the most horrific way  

before direct debits she was perpetually crying over bills  

now she forgets smaller things like

phoning her mum

buying toothpaste  

some days she forgives herself, other days she clenches her teeth knowing she won’t be much better tomorrow  

remembers things in the wrong order, that’s the issue

makes it seem like she’s forgetting them, annoying but she’s used to it  

her friends help her  

her daughter helps her  

feels quite silly a lot of the time  

 

cigarette is almost done, she doesn’t want to go in yet, the sun is still with her, the sadness that sits under her skin feels dormant, resting, waiting

she’d like to swim around in this moment, do lengths until her body aches with relief  

these droplets of respite appear from nowhere

popping their smiley heads out to greet her just when she needs them

wants to savour them, bank the feeling for another day  

some days she ends up sucking them dry, not allowing peace to sit gently within  

 

people ask her if she’s always been sad, no she says the other day I was fine for a few hours  

they look at her, like she’s a fucking idiot, didn’t understand the question  

no, they say, I mean always like all your  life  

like they want a moment a starting point

Ready 

Steady 

Sad  

there wasn’t a particular day where she woke up and something suddenly overwhelmed her 

or she invited misery to lie with her  

or was there  

maybe  

they want to pin the sadness on something

or more likely someone  

that way it won’t be her fault

right?

she’ll be forgiven for her melancholy

they can tell each other how terrible it’s all been for her

no wonder she’s like this the poor lamb she never stood a chance  

 

she never folds under their questions  

she won’t give them a body  

 

crushes her smoke on the wall, she flicks the butt behind the shrub that must have ten thousand others behind it, closes the front door

immediately the blackness hits her  

the air is thick

edible  

head slumps forward, trudges across the front room to the kitchen  

picks up the pan closes her eyes, doesn’t want to look inside, knows what’s in there  

puts it down on the drainer, hand gripping the handle tight,

trying to push it through the countertop

to another dimension 

where it’s not full of black sauce

opens her eyes, moves the whisk through the crime scene  

about a third of the sauce comes with it, underneath is the black hole  

wants to cry  

doesn’t  

picks up a bottle of gin, drinks from it, anticipates a tsunami of booze filling her with its special joy, barely a single shot dribbles onto her tongue, puts the bottle down looks again 

into the sad pan  

looks up sees the smoke detector

its battery-free guts hanging out  

needs to fix that  

it’s been weeks  

it’s not safe  

it’s just batteries  

they’re in all the shops  

 

the meaty bit of the lasagne is already made, could just use it as bolognese with some spag

no, fuck it

she promised Sash a lasagne and that beautiful lunatic child of hers will get a fucking lasagne  

lasagne was too ambitious for a weeknight  

wanted to make something special  

it isn’t terribly tricky but it takes time  

concentration too  

you definitely shouldn’t go for a cigarette, muse on the nature of sadness while the poor white sauce blackens itself out of existence  

should’ve bought a pizza like a normal person  

 

yet she persists  

she resists  

 

this means venturing out to the shops  

goes to the bathroom looks in the mirror, thinks she was crying after all  

hair looks ridiculous, probably looked like this all day, even in Aldi on the way to school this morning  

wishes hats suited her, they do not  

looks harder into her own face  

such a weird thing to do, always surprises her  

on good days she thinks she looks cute, that her eyes aren’t wonky

like Andy Barnes once told her

her mouth pleases her to look at  

she has a stupid nose  

it’s kinda big and small at once depending on the angle  

below, the chin goes to a sharp point that makes her look harsher than she is  

would change that if she could, make it gentler, plumper even  

she doesn’t feel cute today, eyes are slits in her mottled skin, red from coughing the acrid smoke in the kitchen  

nose is still stupid, chin could still open a can of beans, tilts her head either side to see if she has a good side today  

nah  

looks like shit  

 

to the corner shop she must go  

fuck the hair  

gin and white sauce  

 

scurries along the streets hoping she won’t see anyone familiar  

not like she knows loads of people around here but it’d be her exact luck to bump into an ex-boyfriend or a potential new boyfriend while looking like she’s escaped from somewhere  

stays in the shadows lengthening at her feet  

turns into the next road sees the glowing beacon of the corner shop

it cuts through the early evening

drawing a glowing rectangle across the pavement  

steps into the light narrows her eyes, pushes open the door, squints at the bottles behind the counter, tries to pick out the familiar red label of the very cheapest gin on earth  

the man behind the counter puts his hand out points at the bottle she’s almost looking at  

nods,  he puts it on the counter in front of her  

they’ve played this game a hundred times before  

wonders what he thinks about her continually waltzing into his shop

hair bedraggled buying cheap gin flitting off into the night  

wonders if he thinks of her at all  

wonders if anyone does  

 

smiles as she hands over the ten-pound note, folded into a tiny square in the palm of her hand  

£9.99 for gin is the best price in town  

she knows she’s checked, not buying the white sauce here though, did once and it tasted of old pennies, Sash wouldn’t talk to her for the rest of the evening  

sauce needs to be Waitrose, the cathedral of grocery retail  

not a natural Waitrose shopper  

if she goes there it’s out of necessity like tonight or because she’s found a £20 note in a long-discarded pair of jeans  

 

Waitrose is lit more sympathetically  

aisles radiate a calm the corner shop could never hope to achieve, lingers by the salad section, tomatoes look so good she almost wants to swallow one whole  

stops herself,moves on to the aisle that she actually needs to be in  

Jesus

£2.85 for a jar of posh sauce  

carries the jar to the checkout, fiddles in her pocket for change  

the woman at the till smiles sweetly as she carefully counts the change into her hand

like she’s 84 instead of 36  

woman notices the bottle of cheap gin tucked under her arm, her smile dissolves almost instantly  

tempted to crack it open take a giant slug just to see her reaction  

instead she smiles sweetly flounces off into the night with her glass containers  

as she turns out of the shop she catches her reflection in the window  

turns away quickly grips the bottle of gin tightly 

 

gets back to the flat and it still smells of burnt sauce, opens more windows,waves a tea towel about, pours herself a drink  

£9.99 gin is almost impossible to get properly drunk on  

the bottle of tonic that’s been sitting on the side for days has a friendless bubble that bobs around before flying away to a better place  

finishes putting the rest of the lasagne together, layering it sloppily, hoping the sauce will make it look lovely anyway, puts it in the oven

she can smile now  

tried to fuck this up, failed to, result  

sets an alarm on her phone so she can’t fall asleep, burn the whole dish, have to start over

a sense of security rushes through her, feels impermeable, free in this moment  

if it were always like this wouldn’t it be great  

this doesn’t feel sad this feels nice  

is this how other people feel  

she knows it is still there waiting to pounce  

the fucker  

 

she’ll take these clearings in the woods when they present themselves  

 

checks the lasagne 

her phone beeps as she’s looking at it  

 

19:23: Dad made spag bol lush miss you see you tomorrow xx  

 

had forgotten that Sash was staying at her dad’s tonight  

glances around the kitchen, sink overflowing with pots

three cupboards hang open like flapping mouths, silently questioning her  

turns the oven off with a way too violent flick of the wrist  

 

£2.85 for posh sauce  

idiot