Russian Doll

Kathryn is the woman who manufactures stress.

Her dining room is faultless: All the ornaments have a polished shine, picture frames hang with precise balance, and six regimented plates are paired with freshly polished silverware. Kathryn lights the candles in the middle of the grand oak table. She is tempted to make a wish but she decides that she is too old, she can only make compromises. The sideboard that belonged to her Grandmother looks dusty; she hurries over and wipes her apron over the surface. The housekeeper will find her wages minus five pounds this week. Kathryn draws the curtains; she doesn’t want the glare of the harsh street lights shining into her room. It is nearly ready; the enticing smell of roast chicken has had her stomach groaning for the past hour.

“Dinner is ready,” she says, sticking her head around the living room door.

Her husband, David sits in his comfy leather armchair. He only ever ventures into the kitchen for a snack. Conversation ran out between the birth of Simon and Gareth. Kathryn can’t actually remember how they conceived Margaret but it happened. The only time they have sex is during her fantasy and then he usually has more hair, is more muscular and slightly taller. David was Kathryn’s first boyfriend but not the first person she slept with. She had sex with lots of people but David was the only one that took her on dates, was tender and gave her flowers. She guesses that’s what made her marry him. The early days were full of chatter, shared interests and laughter but expectations crept in. David asked her to be more like the boss’s wife. It was meant to help with the promotion but that was ten years ago. He’s still trying for the pay rise. Kathryn doesn’t know if she can put on this act for much longer. She’s not an actress.

David ignores her; his attention is on the television screen that hangs from the wall. She can’t remember the last time she watched the television. Kathryn overheard two old women in a supermarket saying that there was a new prime minister. They could be confused. There hasn’t even been a general election.

“Dinner,” she says more firmly.

David is still in his vegetative state. Kathryn picks up one of her specially made velvet cushions and throws it at him.

“What’s that for?”

Kathryn walks out, she smiles to herself. Her pearl necklace bashes against her neck, she always wears it. Martha gave it to her as a wedding gift. Her husband buys her jewellery but she prefers wearing this necklace. Her love for David used to blot out the pleading of love from Martha. Some days she misses Martha.

Simon slouches into the dining room. He doesn’t make eye contact. His hair is growing out of control; it looks like a black hedge. He taps the spoon on the plate. Kathryn ignores the noise. Parenthood is eighteen years, Simon is seventeen and potentially he could be gone in a year. A sense of happiness fills her. Gareth and Margaret silently sit down. They have been in their bedrooms since coming home from school. Kathryn prefers it that way. She gave the night off to the nanny and the twinges of regret are starting to creep through her body. She was meant to go back to work after the birth of Gareth but it never happened. She had Margaret and lost track of time. Her kids know more about computers nowadays than she does. She still uses her typewriter but only occasionally. It’s covered in a thick layer of dust. She probably couldn’t survive in the workplace.

David sits at the head of the table and glares at Kathryn. She decides to sit at the opposite end. They both stare at the empty sit next to him: his mother. Daphne has been staying for the past three months. She moves around the house like a ghost, always creeping, always muted, always listening. She sits in her bedroom all day as if she was a teenager. Kathryn thought Daphne hated her but she slowly stopped speaking to David. It might be time to send her to Cecilia, David’s sister before Kathryn starts wondering if her life will meander down the same route until life is so dull she won’t want to speak. This is the third time in a row she has had dinner with the family. Kathryn dishes up a roast dinner, everyone’s favourite. Simon is a vegetarian but kindly informed his mother that this dish didn’t count.

Gareth scrapes the peas away from this rest of his dinner as if they were going to infect his meat or potatoes.

“You need to eat those,” Kathryn says. She gives him a sharp look.

Gareth slowly eats one, and he immediately spits out the mush. As a way of keeping busy Kathryn has a notebook of what each child eats, she writes down their daily allowance each evening. Gareth will need to eat one more piece of fruit before bed time or his fruit allowance will be too low.

David badgers Gareth to be the miniature butler. He haphazardly pours champagne in the glasses, gives orange to his sister and to Kathryn’s resistance beer to his older brother.

“To my wife on her birthday,” David says with a flat tone half way through dessert.

Simon hands over a card that is from all three children. In big letters it says, ‘Lots of love to our Mum.’ Kathryn smiles but inside she cringes. She hates being one of society’s canned labels. She taught them to call her by her first name then Simon went to nursery, heard kids say ‘Mum’ and he started doing the same. Gareth and Margaret copied him.

David walks around the table and gives his wife a gift-bag. He kisses Kathryn on the forehead and lets his cold lips linger. He has given her a novel, he always does. She piles them by the bedside and regularly dusts them and moves the bookmark further along. She doesn’t have time to read but she has time to hoover, dust and iron. She likes timing herself. Kathryn once dusted the whole of the downstairs in four hours. It used to take her two hours but it’s taking longer to scrub for perfection. Her husband brought a pink jumper and cardigan twin set as a Valentines present. She can’t wear them when she’s bleaching the toilet.

The children decide to leave the dining room. Kathryn thanks David with a smile as he takes a plate of dinner up to his Mother. She sits and surveys the half empty plates, crushed food on the linen, dirty napkins and crumpled wrapping paper. One of the candles has melted to the wick. She can’t find the motivation to clean.

An out of breath Margaret comes running into the room.

“Do you want some help?” she asks as she twists her plaits around her finger.

Kathryn smiles, her daughter looks just like her when she was that age. She had given Margaret her teddy bear that she had from her childhood. It had been a present from her grandmother but Margaret didn’t see the significance. She left it in the garden and it came back with a worm crawling through its eye.

“If you start now then you’ll never escape,” she says as she pours herself a glass of champagne.

Margaret frowns.

The shrieking of her brother sends Margaret bustling out of the room.

Kathryn lets out a big sigh. She can hear the sound of car crashes being emanating from the television and the faint noise of children torturing each other. She frowns at the opposite wall. The flickering candle light makes the magnolia on the walls look like sick. Her mother was wrong, having a perfect home doesn’t mean you’ll have a perfect life. Tomorrow she will ring someone. Either the decorator or a divorce lawyer.

*

Kathy was the one who didn’t like being defined.

She rolled over and nearly fell out of the bed. It felt claustrophobic when she shared her single bed. Kathy leant over, brushed Martha’s long hair away from her face and softly kissed her cheek. Martha didn’t stir. Kathy pulled more of the duvet over her goosepimply body. Kathy needed the bathroom but her body felt crumpled like a piece of discarded paper, she wasn’t ready to move yet. She stared at the smooth ceiling.

Kathy had woken before the alarm, again. Normally its penetrating shriek set her body on edge but for the past week she had beaten it to the finishing line. David kept drifting into her dreams and he wasn’t budging from the landscape. He sat next to her on Tuesdays for the politics lecture and he always greeted her with his warm hazel eyes. They had long conversations about how great it was that England had a Woman Prime Minister. Kathy had only seen him once outside the class. She stood outside the student bar on a blustery day with leaflets for the feminist society. His fingers penetrated her with their warmth. It woke her up from the routine of shoving fliers in people’s faces and blank expressions.

Martha pulled the duvet back toward herself. Kathy didn’t resist, she let her bare leg feel the cold air of the morning. Martha rolled further away from Kathy. She needed her nightdress but it was tangled on the floor with Martha’s clothes.

Kathy hadn’t gone looking for Martha, she had been happy with drifting from one drunken sex buddy to the next. But that night, three months ago, Kathy had given a wine fuelled monologue that people shouldn’t have to be defined to a few members of the feminist society. Martha was the only one who was still properly listening. She was smoking, sipping whisky and slowly nodding her head. One arm was draped around some guy that Kathy had fucked in the first year. Martha was ignoring his little bird-pecking kisses on her cheek. Afterwards she bought Kathy a whisky and they shared a cigarette. That night they also shared Kathy’s first kiss with a woman. It was warm and tender.

It was a casual affair. Drifted rumours came back to Kathy about Martha’s conquests of first year boys, postgraduates and some married lecturer but the jealousy didn’t flicker. She didn’t want that label. On those nights Kathy stayed in her room, bashed out essays on her typewriter and smoked through whole packs of cigarettes. Sometimes Kathy cleaned the flat until it smelt of disinfectant because her Mother always said a perfect home was a perfect life.

Martha had arrived last night with smeared lipstick and dishevelled hair. She had thrust herself into Kathy’s arms and kissed her with urgency. She tasted like the blackcurrants of red wine. Kathy managed to get Martha into her bedroom before she stripped down to her underwear.

Kathy pulled her closer and felt her chest press against her body. She felt Martha’s racing heartbeat. Martha followed Kathy’s jawbone with a trail of kisses.

“I’ve not succeeded in changing you in the slightest,” Martha said. She sounded out of breath as if she had run all the way to the flat.

Kathy pulled away, frowned and moved her hand out of Martha’s hair. She had the growing feeling that she was become more like one of Martha’s acting projects. They were hanging out more with same sex couples, or she would recommend gay authors, singers and bars. She had the suspicion that Martha wanted to shape her into a mould of definition.

“I need to know who you are,” Martha said. She gently stroked Kathy’s arm. Kathy usually hated being tickled but this was soothing.

Kathy nodded. She lifted off her top and stood in her off-white bra. She was wearing mis-matched underwear, her mother would be disappointed. Martha kissed the dip between Kathy’s breasts.

“I need to know,” she repeated between kisses.

Kathy let her fingers become tangled in Martha’s hair.

Martha led Kathy to the bed.

“You know the answer,” Kathy said as she lay on the bed.

They had talked about it before, Martha knew the answer. Kathy didn’t like the word, the meaning, the commitment. She didn’t want a label as if she were a can of food in a supermarket. Martha sat on Kathy’s legs, pulled of her top and bit her lip. Kathy could feel her body being pushed even further into the mattress. It was uncomfortable. Martha kissed Kathy’s stomach. The feeling of surging butterflies rushed through her body.

“Then you are using me,” she said, kissing a bit too hard.

“No,” Kathy said, putting her hand on her stomach to stop Martha’s kisses turning into bites.

Martha sat up. Kathy lent on her elbows and she stroked Martha’s fringe.

“I’m Kathy.”

“But that’s not a sexuality is it?”

Martha lent over the edge of the bed, she pulled out a small bottle of whisky from her handbag and she took a swig.

Kathy stroked Martha’s hair. It wasn’t even windy but it was knotty. She kissed Martha’s whisky lips. She tasted of old, rich men.

“Because I love you,” Martha whispered as she laid her head on Kathy’s shoulder.

Kathy didn’t reply. She gingerly caressed Martha’s back. Kathy couldn’t imagine been in a relationship with Martha, she behaved most of the time like a drunken child. And Kathy didn’t like children. She wanted to be touched, not loved. She stroked Martha’s hair until they both fell asleep.

Kathy climbed out of bed but immediately wanted to climb back under the duvet. She untangled the mess of clothes, separated her top from Martha’s jumper. She pulled on her jeans and a baggy t-shirt. She neatly folded Martha’s clothes into an orderly pile.

Kathy cleared a space between discarded make-up, crumpled cigarette packs, over-due library books and she sat on top of the desk. This was not a perfect home. She didn’t have a perfect life.

She would have to start taking the pill if she dated David.

*

Kate was the girl at school whose name was known but her face forgotten. She was a blur on people’s radar not even her Mother remembered she was around.

The groans of her Mother’s orgasm could be heard through the bedroom wall. She sounded like a trapped cow. At first it was embarrassing, especially when Kate saw her Stepfather, John who wanted to be called Johnny after Johnny Cash, came out of her Mother’s bedroom in his underwear. Now it was annoying especially because it was, or felt like, a twice daily occurrence. Kate didn’t understand how her Mother could have sex with a man who wore tiger print underwear and a gold chain. It was a thought that could almost turn you off men.

The good thing about her the new marriage was that her Mother was more laid back. Her Mantra of ‘Perfect home, perfect life’ had evaporated. Sometimes they had dinner on their laps in the living room, Kate was allowed to wear trousers for school and her Mother left her cigarettes lying around the house. Before, Kate’s Father didn’t let her smoke inside and the evidence had to be hidden but nowadays all dirty habits were on display.

Kate had started stealing the cigarettes, first to get the attention of the sixth form boys and then for herself. They were impressed that a girl in the first year of Secondary school could smoke properly but none of them wanted to take her out on a date. They just wanted to borrow her lighters or take her cigarettes. They don’t say much but who said that romance needed to be chatty.

Kate had a stash of her Mother’s cigarettes in her wardrobe. They hid under a bear that she used to carry everywhere as a shield against her parents fighting. Her mother hasn’t discovered the stockpile. Also the typewriter that her Father bought her for a thirteenth birthday present sat in a box. He promised a practical gift; Kate thought he meant a bike but she ended up with a monstrous typing machine.

Her bedroom window was opened. She peered out, Darren her Stepbrother was lounging across the flat roof that was only accessible from her window. Her Mother wanted to turn it into a balcony and then swap bedrooms but Kate was resisting. It was her private space. Darren seemed to think since returning from America that he could take liberties and just come into her room as he pleased. Kate admired him for his confidence. She grabbed her blanket, climbed out of her bedroom window and onto the flat roof. Darren gave her an inviting smile as she sat next to him.

“They’re doing it again,” Darren chuckled as he took a drag.

“Maybe someone should take out their batteries,” Kate said.

Darren smirked.

Kate felt witty, she never felt like that around the boys at school. Maybe that was why they didn’t want to take her out on a date. But Darren was better than the boys at school; he had entertaining stories about America. He even brought back some flares for Kate because all the celebrities wore them in LA.

He passed the cigarette to Kate, she took a drag. The warmness consumed her. He leant over and kissed her cheek. He left a wet print of his lips. She moved closer, he put his arm around her and kissed her fully on the lips. He tasted like cigarette butts. Kate always wanted her first kiss to be slightly clichéd: starry night, roses, a date and not verging on the cusp of incest. His hand edged up her skirt, she pushed his fingers away. Darren shrugged, took another drag and smirked. He had a cruel laugh.

*

Kat was the little girl who had long pig-tails, wore frilly pink dresses and always smiled for the adults. She loved being named after her most wanted animal.

But she didn’t have a pet and Kat didn’t think it would want to live with her Mummy and Daddy, it would probably run away. Kat wanted to escape but she could only hide. She huddled in the wardrobe, again. They shouted so loud that Kat could hear them through the floorboards.

“I found lipstick on your vest,” Mummy screamed.

Kat didn’t understand what they were saying but the high pitched tone made it clear that she wasn’t asking Daddy for a pet.

“Red wine, red fucking wine, you bitch,” Daddy boomed back.

Kat knew he had just used naughty words. She once run up and down the garden shouting the ‘f’ word and then Mummy took away her dolls for the afternoon. Kat doesn’t want to grow up to be like Mummy or Daddy.

Kat didn’t like pretending to smile like the actors on television, she wanted to cry. Kat hugged her teddy bear even tighter. His fur tickled her nose. Grandma gave him to her as a present. Kat was named after her; she wished she lived with her.

“You know I wanted another baby,” Mummy shouted.

Kat’s boy dolls and girl dolls never shouted at each other. They all peacefully sat on the shelf. Everything in the bedroom had its place. Whenever Mummy tidied her bedroom she would say, “perfect home, perfect life.” All the cushions were still on the bed, picture frames still stood on the window sill, curtains pulled opened – unlike her parent’s bedroom after an argument. But Kat didn’t want to play out in her bedroom, her wardrobe was safe. She wanted it to stay perfect.

Words: Jessica Patient