The Row
It was the most appalling row I had ever been involved in. One of those times when every hurt, great or small, every remembered insult and rejection, is hurled back and forth between the yelling, shrieking participants.
I had walked in on them unexpectedly. Normally they would have had another two hours with me absent, but I had left work early, not feeling very well.
They were naked together. His head was between her legs and he was licking her cunt. I walked all unsuspecting into the bedroom, and they obviously had not heard me. I stood there paralysed as I took in the scene. My husband with Miriam, his own sister.
It was Miriam who saw me first. She tried desperately to both cover her nakedness and warn Clive. As she pushed him away from her groin he half-turned and caught sight of me. I saw the blood drain from his face and he knelt stock still with his face remaining half turned to me. It was like a snapshot taken unexpectedly, the people in the picture frozen in time. It is a scene I shall carry with me for all my life.
Nothing was said for at least thirty seconds, and I could see Clive's erection fading like a punished dog skulking away into a corner. I was the first to break the silence. "What the bloody hell do you two think you're doing?" I screamed.
At the sound of my voice Clive made a dive for his clothes and started to try to drag them on to cover his nude vulnerability. He was shaking so much that he fumbled, putting on items inside out, and making himself look ridiculous.
It was Miriam who made the first verbal response to my yelled question. She had obviously decided upon the brazen approach. "All right, so you've caught us, so what?"
All ready feeling unwell, my mouth was dry and I was shaking all over. I gasped out, "How long has this been going on?" Miriam, a note of hysteria rising in her voice, came in to the attack. "If you must know, you stupid cow, its been going on for years. Its been going on from before you got married, and if you're too deaf and blind not to have seen it, that's your problem."
Clive, now partially dressed, tried to stop her. "Miriam, don't…" Miriam cut across him, "You haven't got the guts to tell her so I had to. Its time it was out in the open, and if she doesn't like it, she knows what she can do."
She turned on me again. "You've put me down long enough with your patronising, high and mighty ways, you snooty bitch, well now you know that your loving husband prefers me to you, so why don't you just pack your things and piss off!"
Miriam had been widowed five hears after her marriage. That was nearly ten years ago and I had wondered why no other man had entered her life. She was good looking in a sensual sort of way but now I knew the answer to my "Why" question. She had been screwing my husband.
There now ensued an exchange of insults battered back and forth at the tops of our voices, while Clive made desperate efforts to stand between us. At one point, I struck out at him, leaving a red weal across his face and me thinking I had broken a couple of fingers.
Miriam began her own re-clothing process, and as she got naked off the bed, another snapshot impinged itself on my brain. Her body unmarked by child bearing, her breasts standing out firm and proud, unlike mine, which carried the faint marks of Jamie's birth.
Eventually I staggered out from the room, went into the toilet, and vomited. When I finally came out of the toilet and washed my face, Miriam had gone.
The Flight.
Clive, now left to face me on his own, started yammering and stammering out obsequious apologies and explanations. If I had not been so angry, distraught and confused, I might even have had pity on him in a contemptuous sort of way. As it was, I did not want his apologies or explanations.
The very last words I spoke to him as I threw some clothing into a bag, were, "You filthy, incestuous bastard. Don't you ever come near me again. Don't try to see me or speak to me."
With the few things I had packed, I rushed out of the house with Clive yelling out, "Where are you going?" I climbed into my car, and took off down the street. I made no conscious decision about where I was going, but at some point became aware that I was heading for the beach holiday shack 400 kilometres away.
I suppose I was going to a place where I would feel secure. A place where I might hide away in my misery, living over and over again the awful vision of those two as I walked in on them. I wanted to see and hear no one, and the beach shack was the very place, isolated as it was, and 40 kilometres from the nearest small town.
Of the drive to the shack, I have no memory, except continual flashbacks to the bedroom scene. I wept, and how I managed to drive through a constant blinding veil of tears, I do not know. I must have been a hazard to everyone else on the road.
I arrived at the shack well after it was dark. We normally only used the place during the warmer weather, but now, unseasonably, an icy wind was coming in off the sea.
We kept a small stock of tinned food, blankets and some items of clothing at the shack, so I would be all right for a few days at least. My main practical problems were money and what to do about my job. I had run off with only what was in my handbag, which amounted to a few dollars. How I was to get more I did not know. I could contact the company and ask them to forward what was owing to me, but that would not last long. In any case, there was no telephone at the shack, and the nearest post box was some 10 kilometres up the road where there was a small group of houses and a combined, post office, garage and shop.
These problems, however, where for later. On my arrival, I felt ill and exhausted. I had not eaten for hours, and although I was not really hungry, I opened a tin of beans and ate half of them. After that I got into bed and tried to sleep.
