Margery used to say, If you scratch at it, itll never get better, but shes dead and so I scratch and I scratch and I scratch until I draw blood. Diffuse eczema aggravated by stress. The itching started the night before the funeral as I was lying in what had been our bed drinking warm whisky from the bottle, sirens and buses making the room vibrate; the 388, the 8, the N26. The curtains were open letting in the dark, and the window was open, letting in the cold. <\/p>\n
I was propped up on her pillow and my pillow and trying to pick a book to readId covered half the bed with her books, a pile of all of her favourites lying where she should have been. <\/p>\n
Wellthey could have been her favourites. <\/p>\n
You never listen, she used to say, why wont you ever just fucking listen! Shed been dead five days at that point so I just lay and drank and flipped pages, and tried to remember what her favourite book was, and scratched every joint, the tips of my fingers, the top of my head, the backs of my hands. I couldnt remember what her favourite book was, who her favourite poet was. Im pretty sure it was a woman. There were too many books, hardbacks and paperbacks, fresh white pages and hepatic old paper in loose bindings. I dont read. She reads; she read. She wrote. <\/p>\n
Two slim volumes of poetry, her name embossed on their spines. They sat in the living room, far away, underneath a blue notebook of her newer work. I lay in bed surrounded by books I would never read and scratched until the sheets were speckled with blood. She used to have eczema. She said it was the London air, the miasmic fug of other people. I told her she was being ridiculous. Now it was me who itched, me who scratched. I miss watching her scratch. I miss so many things, her teeth, her eyes, her laugh, the way she would get so angry at waiters, the way she <\/p>\n
Stop fucking listing things! she would say. <\/p>\n
There were only five people at the cemetery that I knew: her brother, myself, Margery (in the coffin), her editor Janet, and the priest. There were others, but I didnt know them except as names in exaggerated stories. Afterwards we all went back to Janets flat in Dalston and drank tepid tea. <\/p>\n
You made her so happy, said Janet, her grey teeth like tombstones, and I just stared at her. When she and Margerys brother were talking and the other people were being other people I slipped off to the bathroom. I locked the door and took off all my clothes and had a good scratch and stared at the strange face reflected back at me and then took some cream from a tub that looked expensive and smoothed it liberally across my skin. I dressed and when I went back downstairs they all stared at me, but I checked in the mirror in the hallway and I had no cream on my face. People can be so rude. <\/p>\n
Shes been dead a month now and I scratch and scratch and flip the pages of her books. Ive tried cream; Ive tried every cream she owned. It still itches, a constant bloody hurting on every joint, on the tips of my fingers, the top of my head, the backs of my hands, and the top of my feet. Im beginning to think I should have had more sympathy for her when she complained about this. Not the skin-flaky kind of eczema. The constant needling pain kind of eczema. I found her copy of Jane Eyre and thought for a moment I had succeeded, that I had found her favourite book, before I remembered that she hated Jane Eyre. I cant remember what books she actually liked. I started to read her poetry over and overthe paper is very thin and the production values seem quite low, but I have little else to do. <\/p>\n
Bill at work said to take as long as I needed, and there is pizza in the freezer, and there is beer in the fridge, and there is a new bottle of whisky sitting unopened by the bathtubOcado on speed-dial, JustEat app on my phone. There is a funk to the house, a stench of unwashed feet and carbohydrates. Outside London is London, a reassuring indifferent stream of life. She hated that. She wanted to move to a small pond where she would be a bigger fish, but I insisted. Anyway, I would say, Isnt it good for your poetry? To live somewhere that makes you feel uncomfortable? <\/p>\n
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Read more: Margery used to say, If you scratch at it, itll never get better, but shes dead and so I scratch and I scratch and I scratch until I draw blood. Diffuse eczema aggravated by stress. The itching started the night before the funeral as I was lying in what had been our bed drinking warm whisky from the bottle, sirens and buses making the room vibrate; the 388, the 8, the N26. Continue reading
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