The House of Silent Tears

Our house was a three-bedroom detached building on the Hales Park Estate, on the outskirts of Bewdley. Pale grey tiles slanted threateningly off the roof, and black guttering, empty of viscous mildew where Graham had run rubber-gloved hands along the insides just a few months ago, lined the top of the brickwork as though a brim on a hat. We’d often thought the front of the house was like a face; our double-glazed windows were like eyes, the blinds behind them like eyelids that closed at night; the porch, no wider than our door, protruded from the centre of the house with the grey-tiled roof like the bony bridge of a nose. Our front door was the colour of lips. Ivy tinted with red blooms wrapped itself around the windows either side of the door so that the house blushed. And it was all, to the finest detail, intentional.

        We pulled into the driveway in Autumn. Final rays of Summer heat were lingering, but a cold wind, the occasional dried and orange leaf hitching a lift, was circling around from the north. Our short driveway was flanked on one side by thirty-year-old birch trees, their bases homes for fungi in the spring. On the other, a rosebush had been planted in the centre of the lawn in a perfectly circular dirt-bed. In the shed behind the house were garden sheers and a lawnmower which either of us would use, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, to mow the lawn and trim the rosebush respectively. Often at the same time in matching green jumpsuits.

        How old were we? Well Graham was 35 and Jill was 33. We were at that in-between age of activity. That unspoken about age where we begin to become unattractive to anyone under 25. Probably older. Either way, that realisation was now dawning on Graham. In the event of divorce, he would no longer, realistically speaking, be able to fall back into the arms of some younger, untainted model. And same goes for Jill, she no longer turned heads everywhere she went.

        The car engine rumbled and died and seatbelts were clicked unlocked. As they zipped taught clipping our ears, we stared at each other and then kissed cordially. We left the car and crunched up the driveway.

        The house opposite ours, on the quiet road, was of colour and sound. The water-sprinkler was cascading reflected light onto two toddlers in nappies. Plastic red-and-yellow cars sat like discarded shopping trolleys awaiting use. Santa’s red face beamed from the front of the house, an expression fixed by long nails. A Skoda Octavia, metallic green, gleamed in front of the double-garage. We could have had an Octavia parked beside plastic red-and-yellow cars.         

        Graham flicked the key into the lock and turned. The latch clicked and he pushed the door open, stepping over the front door mat as he did so. Jill followed him inside, sliding the soles of her shoes along the welcome mat. “Shoes,” she said, and we both knew where that statement would end unless Graham systematically back-tracked to the mat, or removed said shoes. Now, this might seem like a little thing. And, as we would both agree, you'd be right. It was a very little thing.

We had no children and no desire for them. The other bedrooms in our house, and there were four in total, were guest bedrooms, used occasionally after get-togethers and by the few flailing remnants of our families – our parents now dead and our siblings busy with their own professional lives. None of the other bedrooms had its own en-suite, but they were lavishly suited; each bedecked with an all-in-one television, a double bed, soft lighting, shelves of empty picture frames and free-standing candles, and a hollow wardrobe that stood like a monument to our excessive spending spree; accessorise, accessorise, accessorise. One of the beds had never been slept in, and one wardrobe held dusty shoeboxes of childhood things like school reports and certificates, the corners of the box-lids tearing. They also used to hold photographs, but the good ones were taken out and used in lavish displays around the house, including the simple walled-frame approach, but also the more uncommon hanging mobile. Our puppy-fat faces spun in an endless merry-go-round of currents, faces and innocent smiles preset. One side of us thought this was self-worship, the other, well, she thought they were cute. The bad photographs were chucked. If only unwanted memories could be discarded so dismissively.

        Jill stood in front of the 3 foot mirror, bending over the sink in the en-suite bathroom. She waved a hair dryer about as though holding an invisible back-scratcher, and with her other hand she tousled her hair. Graham was in the shower, the door slightly ajar. Rivulets of water dripped to the laminate floor.

        “What have I told you about closing the door?” she said, swivelling around and pushing it closed. “We want this floor to last. It looks nice. And it goes with the ceiling.”

        “Ok, honey,” he said. The spray of hot water felt good on his face.

        “Ok, then. You never listen to me anyway so I don't know why I bother.” The reflection in the mirror, (which wasn't steamy, incidentally, because just yesterday Graham had smeared it with shaving foam and then washed it off again. This seemed to work.) The reflection in the mirror showed Jill, 31, with her hair long, and with breasts that would soon, but not yet, fail the pencil test. Her belly was flat and pink and rippled down to her Brazilian haircut.

        The reflection also showed Graham. He pressed the button on the shower and stepped out, his thinning hair dripping wet, over his eyes. Thin black hairs curled flat against his chest and ran along the hurdles of his stomach to his penis, (where shower-water eluded that he was peeing.)

        They stood side by side, drying themselves. After she was finished with the hair dryer, she placed it on the hook mounted to the wall beside the mirror, stepping on his toes accidentally.

        “Sorry,” she said, and sat down on the toilet.

        “I was flicking through the catalogue today.”        

        “Which one?” she interrupted.

        “Umm, Littlewoods, I think.”

        Urine trickled delicately into the bowl. “Yeah, and?”        

        “I marked it as usual. Page 355 or something. Thought it might be good. Go with our new curtains in the living room.”

        “What is it?”

        “A new standing lamp. Halogen, of course. But it's black and white, like a barber's pole, you know, red and white, like a sugar cane.”

        “Oh, that sounds nice.” She reached behind her and tore off some toilet paper. “Yeah, I like that.”

        “But you haven't even seen it yet.”

        Looking down between her crotch and wiping; “I don't need to, you know that. I can see it. Perhaps we could get a rug to go with it too, like black and white squares or something.” She discarded the toilet paper, getting up to flush the loo. “I'll take a look in the morning.”

        The water flushes down the pipes, causing gurgling sounds to emit from the sink-hole. She washes her hands under the golden taps and dries them on the heated hand towel. As she leaves, Graham says, “Jill?”

        “Yes?”

        “Tap.”

        “What? Oh right, silly me.” She grabs a sponge from under the sink and wipes it across the hot tap, getting rid of the soap that had remained from her hand. “There.”

Our bedroom was always modestly decorated. At least in our eyes. Of all the rooms, this one was our first baby. We took special care of it, nurturing it through phases as the outside world and all its fashions changed. But it was always our first attempt that we'll remember with greatest fondness. Back then it was a genie's lamp of trapped lust. It embodied us, tempered us. When we rubbed it, wishes were granted. On our four-poster bed, satin sheets, so deep they were almost purple, spread across the girth. The floorboards were stripped and stained, a varnish protected it and the soles of our ever-bare feet. Soft footsteps, so soft that only in the aftermath of love could they be heard, scuttled from bed to door, door to bed, as we tried to creep up on each other.

        Installed in the ceiling was a fan of wooden blades, the hub was a teak effect. When the lights were dimmed, or the many candles lit that would burn along with the lavender or honeysuckle incense on the shelves, we would stare in anticipation of ecstasy at the revolving shadows on the ceiling as cool air fell on us.

        Our brand new stereo, a 3-cd changer, oh how things have changed, oh how obsolete so much has become, was nestled in the corner on top of the dresser drawers; one speaker in the corner above the door, the other opposite. Music would play, orchestrating our symphony, usually on level 7 or 8. Not too loud as to disrupt concentration. In those days, perhaps Moby or a random chillout compilation.

        What were we? 22, 23 years old? Something like that. Something youthful but an age with a vague awareness of an impending mortality. Graham’s hair was short on the sides, long on the top, quiffed at the front. Jill’s was soft to touch and dangled in front of her eyes from sweat. It dangled over Graham as we – as was often the case back then – shared the bed in nudity. Her head bobbed and his turned from left to right, as though preparing to cross the road to orgasm. This had been a spontaneous moment. Jill came in to find him resting from work, and she slipped the dress from her back and unbuttoned her bra. She caressed the bare sheet with her hands as she pushed under the duvet, eventually meeting flesh, and caressing more, stirring Graham from sleep. She lifted the duvet over her head as she climbed onto the bed, simultaneously sliding her knickers to the floor. She kissed him. He kicked the duvet off. It landed silently on the floor.

        Music played softly in the background and the candles sent shivers of red and yellow light across the ceiling.

        The feelings Graham felt induced selfishness – that adulterating moment when inhibitions disappear and the mind and body become one in a joint conquest towards orgasm. His back arched, his pelvis thrust upwards, rhythmically, and heat spread from the lips of his lover. All else left his mind – the stress from work, the mess the cat had left on the doorstep – nothing was in his mind except the imagined scene of; Jill, her back shaped as though moulded from the inner side of a round Chinese bowl, and as porcelain white; her spine protrusive, sat between his splayed legs, hair dangling over his midriff. Her feet pressed beneath her trampolining buttocks. He could feel slow dribbles of saliva descending down between his legs, tickling. He could feel sweat on his palms as he seized the sheet. He could feel pressure forming in the warm vacuum around his penis. His buttocks lifted from the sheet, crevices slimy with sweat, as the pressure caused his eyes to tighten. Breath caught in his lungs and lingered in preparatory mode. And then he exhaled and ejaculated simultaneously, a deep, wobbly cry issuing from his throat. Silence ruled the room as Jill finished the job, her hair lifted away to reveal his erection, and then a new song kicked in.

        Feelings of contentment, thundering in his rib cage, beneath his lungs, slowly dispersed into embarrassment and self-consciousness; the reality of the ludicrous image now quivering on the bed burning at the forefront of his thoughts. A man, naked, starfished over damp sheets with candlelight rippling on his skin, an incongruous erect penis oozing globs of sperm. ‘I feel exposed and ridiculous. It’s pointing up like the living dead returning to life.’

        The residual feelings of orgasm now dissipating, he turned and kissed Jill. On the cheek.

A 48-inch LCD television stood proud, excessive in its mass but a poignant mast on the ship of our materialism, in the sail of our living room. Light blue, dark blue, purple, are all colours that have adorned the walls, sometimes with golden stencils of stars and the moon, or squares of green and red. At this time, it was of sky, orange flames heating the room from the black granite fireplace. And she was crying. Again.

        We were nearing 30. Our living room was 2 years old and we were beginning to grow tired of it. Instead of outgrowing us, we had outgrown it. The brown leather upon which we sat, though still shimmer-full, floundered without squeaks. It was worn and thin in places. Tears didn’t just slide off as they used to.

        Graham was thinking about the sofa as she cried. “I know what’ll cheer you up,” he said. “Let’s get a new sofa.” He was sitting back, arms crossed, staring into the fireplace. When she said nothing he placed a hand on her hunched shoulders. She was leaning forward with her head in her hands.

        “Yes? No?” he iterated.

        “I don’t know.” In her mind, as she liked to call it, not ‘The Brain’ like Graham would have corrected her, she was low. She was imbalanced. She felt depressed. She didn’t know why.

        “Come on. We’ll have fun. We always do. You have no reason to be crying, you know.”

        “I know.”

        “You know, you see. You always know.”

        “I can’t help it.”

        Briefly, Graham thought about getting some ice cream from the fridge. Maybe boost those sugar levels a bit.

        “Well, then, what do you want me to do?”

        “I don’t know.”

        “Let’s counteract those bad vibes with a new sofa.”

        Inside her brain, her mind, whatever it was, the physical was affected by the metaphysical. A chemical imbalance dampened any sweet whisper of high spirits. She knew that all she had in life, when added together, should equal, if not absolute happiness, then a lesser version. But not this. This dark, brooding, wet unhappiness. She was tired of crying. Was conscious of the lackadaisicalness, yet darkness pulled heavily on her eyelids and tears kept flowing for no reason whatsoever other than the seemingly drained vat of happiness.

        “I have no friends,” she said.

        “You have me.”

        She cried out, “It’s not the same!”

        “It should be everything!” Graham bent forward then to put his arms around her, knowing this would trigger a sudden outburst of tears bigger than before. A grey rug slid beneath his feet on the laminate flooring.

        “I can’t help it,” she sobbed.

        “So? Fuck it!”

        She sobbed some more.

        He grabbed her and turned her towards him. Her head wobbled and flopped atop his right shoulder. “Look at me.” Her head lifted slightly. “Fuck it. Repeat after me.”

        “No.”

        “Repeat after me. I – have – no – friends – but – fuck – it.”

        Exacerbating things, she cried louder still.

        “You gotta hit the wall sometime.” He kissed her forehead lightly. He chanted ‘Fuck it’ over and over. Wall after wall after wall.

        “I can’t,” she repeated, her nose dribbling, her face wet, two round smears now imprinted on the shoulder of his shirt. She snorted.

        Graham clapped his hands and light entered the room, casting out the gloom that had encroached from outside the window blinds. The extravagant lighting system was embedded in the ceiling and could be dimmed or brightened. Normal, you might think, but was it normal to have it controlled by remote as we did?

        “Fuck it!” he said.

        She squeezed him tight to her and convulsed with tears, wetting his shoulder thoroughly. An image of her throwing the shirt into the Hotpoint washing machine briefly flashed. Then the washing machine sprung open and hot salty water exploded over her body.

        “Fine then,” Graham held her head and stroked her hair. “I’ll go get you a drink, and then we’ll get you an appointment with the doctor so you can get some chemical-balancing pills.”

A fire started out in the garage. We weren’t sure how it started, but the fuse box was in there, and the fire investigators at first thought it could’ve originated there.

        We missed each other that morning; Jill was an early riser, since she was an early sleeper (Nytol-aided) and Graham liked to stay up late watching films or listening to music. He often slid into bed turning on the table lamp on his side to read quietly. Jill’s breathing was soft and sometimes guttural. He sometimes laid his head back against the headboard, closed his eyes and listened to her. If her face was towards him, he would watch her. Anyone watching him would see only a vacant stare.

        That stare was there now. Side by side, we stood, air between us. Neighbours stood behind us. We were separate silhouettes against orange flames and black smoke, so dark we were voids of light. Heat radiated out, touching us; it touched Jill where there was skin and made her hair stand on end. The heat flared like ripples on water throughout her body, stimulating an adrenaline rush. She crossed her arms and watched everything die.

        Heat touched Graham in waves; sometimes hot, sometimes cool. Blood rushed to his face and he felt nausea bubbling in his gut. As he watched, he removed his glasses. He had severe stigmatism. The painting before him was Monet-inspired; pale grey blotches of tiles slipped from the roof and fell and black scratches dripped from the top of the red brickwork. The house’s eyes were bleeding, shot through with strokes of red and orange, with lashes of yellow rising to the hemline. Tongues of red eclipsed the front door as it swung intermittently open and closed, with firefighters feeding the hose intravenously. The broken nose of the porch collapsed to the flowerbeds, crushing the gashes of purple and pink that were mere flashes of rainbow light on the canvas of dark, smudged out.

        Graham’s eyes began to water and the composition before him melted; everything became just shades of orange.

        He felt vacant air at his side and wiped his eyes. The dark shape of Jill was walking away from him. He replaced his glasses, and like trying on his first ever pair, he’d forgotten how clear the world could be.