Free The Private Parts of Women by Lesley Glaister

begins to sing. When her voice comes out strong and clear she knows she is forgiven, that she is healed and whole, that God is hearing her, she sings:
    Jesus, save me through and through ,
    Save me from self-mending:
    Self-salvation will not do ,
    Pass me through the cleansing ,
    which makes her think of washing-machines, and a soul as pure and blameless as a Persil-white tea-towel pegged out in the sun.
    She sings for an hour until her strength gives out and when she finishes, the silence is dreadful. She strains her ears for the sound of Inis next door but she is so quiet, ideal of course to have a quiet neighbour but there seems something almost sneaky about such complete silence all the same. What sort of person goes without a television in this day and age? Just for a moment she catches herself missing the sound of the butcher shouting at his wife or the dreadful so-called music of their children.
    But, as she divests herself of her Salvation Army uniform and struggles back into her crimplene dress and buttons her cardigan she banishes the ungrateful thought. Inis is good, kind and helpful. Beggars can’t be choosers when all’s said and done. Blowski’s forever blethering on about the Social Services, home-helps, guardian angels (ha), but Trixie is not having that sort of carry on, not in her house, not nosing strangers. She could afford the most luxurious nursing-home there is, satin sheets no doubt and whirlpools and black-pudding and champagne for breakfast every day (that is, if she drank) but no. None of that razzmatazz is for her. Here she’ll stay until she goes out feet first, her money secure in the bank and in stocks and bonds and goodness knows what else, all safely bequeathed to the Salvation Army, because there was nothing in her father’s will to stipulate the recipient of the money after her death. He never thought of that.

ROOKS
    I fetched Trixie’s shopping – eggs, yoghurt, plasters, Germolene – but I did not stay and talk. She was all right, recovered, she’d been singing, I’d heard her. I’d worked in the darkroom most of the rest of that day, exposing trees and holes in the road. When I’d finished I was dazzled and despondent. They didn’t add up to anything. Every print shouted, so what?
    And there were the blown-up faces of Robin and Billie, and Richard’s dark eyes shining innocence of what was about to happen. I thought, what if I go back, now, I could , I could just go back. There is nothing here I would not leave like that, a snap of the fingers, without a backward glance. Standing among the glossy familiar faces, I allowed myself a day-dream. I could be back in a few hours. I imagined walking in. The gasps of surprise, the children’s delight. Robin running to me, jumping up, his legs round me, hard shoes, wet kisses on my cheek. An open baby smile from Billie who might say ‘Mama’ for the first time, seeing me, remembering me. My face buried in her velvet fragrant skin. Richard’s more measured relief, his firm lips against mine, his dark eyes promising, later … Precious infant bodies in the bath, clean pyjamas, kisses, stories. Then Richard would cook something, no, no, we’d get a takeaway, he’d fetch a bottle of my favourite Cabernet Sauvignon from the off-licence, and pick up flowers from the garage on the way home. He would understand. He would not be angry. After dinner we’d … But there it all dissolved because I cannot open up. I do not want to make love. That is gone. I can’t remember how it feels to want it, that ramming, sticky closeness, that ridiculous expenditure of energy. Richard panting in my ear, thrusting over and over. Him taking my groans of discomfort, or simply the air being banged audibly from my lungs as sounds of pleasure. And anyway it might not be like that. What if I got back and the children looked at me without recognition? What if Richard was out with