by The Adventures Of Una Perrson (and Catherinr Cornelius) (v1. 0)
'Where did it go? Through the gap?'
‘Yes.'
‘Phew! I think it's going to be hotter than ever today, don't you?'
'Seems likely.'
'You picked a nice time, Una.'
'Thanks.'
Catherine sat down on the grass, pulling back the kimono to expose her legs. 'Can the boy scouts see us from here?'
'I haven't noticed a glint of field-glasses.'
'I rather like the idea . . .' Catherine peeled off the kimono to reveal her shoulders and breasts. 'I wonder what American boy scouts are like. Even primmer than the British ones, I'd guess . . .'
'Very probably. But there's always the odd black sheep,' said Una. 'Or is it wolf?' She frowned, adding: 'Boy scouts, indeed! You're bored too, by the sound of it.'
'How long have we been here now?' Catherine stretched herself out in an attitude of crucifixion. 'A month?'
'A bit longer.'
'We said a month, didn't we?'
'Or two, we thought.' Una tried to keep her tone neutral.
'Where was it we jumped from? Nineteen sixty—?'
'Nineteen seventy-five.'
'That was a heavy year. For me, anyway. I thought next time I'd go back a bit, to somewhere nice and early, where there's not quite so much happening on what you'd call an international scale. Fewer people, too. 1910 or sometime like that. It would be a good way of leading into a new cycle—starting with a fairly easy period, you know . . .'
'A bit too dull for me, 1910. I'm not sure why. It depends I suppose, on the place.' Una hoped that she wasn't manipulating Catherine. 'Russia might be all right.'
There should be brochures,' said Catherine. 'Come to Sunny Bali in 1925, and so on.' Her eyes were shut against the glare. I'd like to see my rotten old mum again, anyway.'
'It takes all tastes.' Catherine's mother terrified Una. Catherine, however, had never lost affection for her.
'And Frank. And Jerry.'
Una raised her eyebrows, returning her attention to the river.
She didn't have a lot of time for Catherine's family, though she suspected that this could be because she saw them as rivals. Catherine's boyfriends (those she had met, at any rate) did not arouse the slightest feelings of jealousy in her, merely dislike. She had once admitted to Catherine that she found her friend's taste in men bewildering.
The bundle in the river had disappeared.
'I've known some good, brave lads,' Catherine was saying, sentimentally.
'And a lot of cunts,' said Una, but she spoke affectionately.
'You're thinking what I'm thinking, aren't you?' Catherine sat up.
'What?'
Catherine laughed.
'Oh!' Una turned so that she could see their jetty, where the little white motor-launch was moored. 'Yes.' With a sigh she went and sat down beside Catherine. She stroked Catherine's hair, picking out one or two pieces of grass which had stuck there.
'Christ,' said Catherine. 'It seems a long while since I heard some good rock music. I suppose it's a craving, really. I tried that book you recommended, but I'm not much into books, as you know. I liked the title. The Amazing Marriage'
'There's no reason why you should enjoy it.' Una regretted what might have been taken for a note of condescension in her tone; she had meant exactly what she said. 'It would make a better film, probably. I'd love to play the part.' She was relieved and did not continue in this vein when Catherine seemed to accept the statement without interpretation. Catherine yawned; she shrugged off the kimono and rolled over to let the sun get at her back. Absently,
Una stroked her bottom. A little later she heard soft snores and realized that her friend was asleep again.
Una now felt much more relaxed. She rose and entered the cool of the living room, replacing Life, then moving from bookshelf to bookshelf, finding little but children's books and adventure stories and obscure humorous novels from the previous century (whose humour, like that in Life, seemed almost wholly based on the fact that the characters spoke in thick dialect and did not understand very much about North American society). A few unbroken records in the electric phonograph's cabinet had been played too often to be entertaining. She began to wish that it was lunch-time. She considered playing a practical joke on the boy scouts, but was unable to think of anything suitable.
She had become depressed. Perhaps she had been depressed all morning and had only now admitted it to herself; but then boredom easily led to depression. She wondered if her period was early.
She went upstairs and changed into a swimming costume. Instead of going immediately to the river she allowed herself to lie down on the unmade bed. She stared at the cracks in the ceiling, studying them as she might study the map of a familiar country. She chose part of the ceiling as a military objective and planned how best to move troops and artillery along the cracks and visualized her forces so well that when a cockroach walked slowly across the ceiling she was shocked, seeing it as a grotesque monster which threatened to crush her tiny army underfoot.
Her spirits much improved, she swung herself off the bed, ran down the stairs, through the living room, through the French windows, down the lawn (jumping over a still sleeping Catherine) and into the river.
Deliberately, she chose to swim against the strong current, so that she would not be carried too far down. Slowly, with a patient breast-stroke, she swam towards the far bank.
TWO
In which Catherine Cornelius and Una Persson receive a visitor and reach a decision
A young man in a soft brown hat was standing on the lawn at the side of the house when Una, having startled a party of paddling scouts, returned. The young man was quite good-looking, rather scrawny, dirty and shabby, and his red-rimmed eyes showed that he was either insane or hadn't had much sleep. He had not yet noticed Catherine, though he could now see Una as, dripping, she waded through weedy mud to the bank.
'Good morning,' said Una. The young man had some sort of haversack over his shoulder. 'Are you on the run?' she asked.
'Oh, no . . .' His grin of understanding was embarrassed. 'No, ma'am. The bum. I'm looking for work.'
'Work? Here?'
'What!' Catherine looked up suddenly. 'Ah!'
The young man saw her and he blushed. He lowered his head. 'Gee, I'm sorry. I'll be . . .'
'That's all right,' said Catherine. She stood up, tying the kimono round her body. 'I'm nearly burned as it is.'
'Oh, dear,' said the young man to himself and then, as he looked up, 'I can see I'm intruding. I'm not quite myself, you know. I forgot my manners. This house is the first I've seen all day and I hoped . . .'
'You're hungry?' Without thinking, Una put her hands on her hips. Catherine folded her arms under her breasts. They stared together at the young man.
'Hungry! You bet!' He sniggered. 'I'm on my way to California, to work for my uncle, I hope. I lost my job in New York about a month ago, so I decided that California was the place for me. Anyhow, I’ve been on the road a week . . .'
‘A week?’ Una calculated the distance.
'I’d gotten almost to Washington when I jumped a train which took me back to New York,' he explained. I guess I make a lousy hobo, don't I?’
‘A what?’ said Catherine.
‘A tramp,’ said Una.
‘A what?’ said the young man. He blushed again. 'Sorry.’
‘I’ll do you an omelette,' said Una. 'Will that be all right?’
That’ll be fine. I’ll work for my bread, though. You must have some odd jobs you need doing. Although I suppose your husbands fix most things.’
‘No,’ said Una. 'We do everything ourselves.’
'Oh.’
‘We haven’t any husbands,' said Catherine. She winked at Una who grinned back.
'Ah.’
The two women advanced up the lawn. The young man seemed to consider bolting, but a combination of hunger and good manners made him hold his ground.
'Through the door, there.' Catherine po
inted.
He went into the living room.
They followed. 'Sit down,' said Una.
He sat on a sofa covered in worn chintz. 'Oh, this is very comfortable,' he said. 'You have a nice home.'
‘What would you like to drink?' Una asked.
‘I’m not sure I—‘
‘With the omelette? Milk?’
'Milk! Oh, fine!’ His laugh was hollow and it pained them both.
'Please relax,' said Una. 'It won't take a minute.'
Catherine sat down in an easy chair on one side of the sofa. She stretched her legs in front of her; she stretched her arms over her head.
'What do you do, Mr—um?’
'Bannermann—William Bannermann—Billy . . .' He added 'Junior’ under his breath. 'I was working in this office—advertising agency. I wanted to be a copywriter. I'd been there four years, since I was fifteen. I was working my way up.'
'What happened?’
He laughed at a joke he had evidently told a number of times. 'I was working my way up to the top of a scrap-heap, as it turned out. The agency collapsed. We were all laid off. My uncle isn't doing bad. He's got a store in Berkeley there. I'm going to handle his publicity and displays—among other things. I've got plenty of ideas. And the weather's so good out there, isn't it?'
I've never been there,' Catherine told him. This is really my first time in America.'
‘Oh, it's great weather.'
Catherine was only half-aware of the effect she was having on Mr Bannermann. It had been so long since they had had visitors that she had become used to following her impulses. And while she had not set out to embarrass him, she couldn't help relishing his discomfort. He blushed as she crossed her legs.
"The weather's been very nice here,' she said.
'In New Jersey?'
‘In Pennsylvania, I think. I'm sure this is Pennsylvania.' She was pleased to be able to name the hills. 'And those are the Appalachians!'
'Well, you'd know where you live, eh?' He drew a deep breath and looked at the books in the shelves. I've been travelling a bit erratically . . .'
'So have I,' she said.
'You've been travelling?'
'Until recently.'
He lifted his hand to his head and realized that he still wore his hat. He snatched it off. This is your home?'
'Not really. I live in England most of the time.'
'You're English?'
'Yes.'
'I wouldn't have guessed.'
'Don't I look English?'
'Not what I think of as English.' His neck reddened still more. 'I mean—you don't seem typical. I mean, I always think of English ladies as—I mean, well, you know, English' He added, lamely, 'I like English people.'
'I like Americans. They're friendly. Easy-going.' She pushed her hair back from her cheek. 'Relaxed.'
'The English are very polite.' He struggled in the depths of the sofa, trying to sit closer to the edge.
'Thank you.'
'I used to read a lot of, you know, Jeeves.' He managed to get to the edge at last and sat there breathing heavily. 'In the Saturday Evening Post. Gee, I am tired.'
'What? Jeeves?'
'Right!'
Una came in with a tray. She had made a huge omelette and there was some salad left over from last night. She had put a glass of milk on the tray. As he reached for it he spilled it. He moaned helplessly while Catherine stifled a snort. Una put the tray on a table and went to get a cloth. Mr Bannermann took a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and began first to mop at the milk in his lap, then at the milk on the carpet.
'Don't worry about it,' said Catherine.
'Gee, I really am sorry. My reflexes aren't what they should be.'
‘You're tired.'
'Yes sirree.'
Catherine got up and took the tray over to him. 'Eat it while it's hot, Mr Bannermann.'
He wolfed the omelette.
Una came in and cleaned up the milk.
'Best omelette I've ever eaten, ma'am.' He spoke with his mouth full; his eyes held a feral glint.
Una smiled. 'It's because you're hungry. Thank you.'
She glanced at Catherine and then glanced away again, smirking. They were both staving off a giggling flt and neither wanted to make the young man any more uncomfortable than he was. Indeed, Catherine felt sorry for him and was sure that Una did as well.
Carefully, Billy Bannermann picked up the fresh glass of milk and sipped it. His caution was so exaggerated, his hand so shaky, that Catherine gave up her efforts and, spluttering, ran from the room. The young man looked up in surprise and for an instant stared full into Una's grey eyes. He coughed and put down the glass of milk. Una said gravely: 'Bladder trouble.' She sat down in Catherine's place and stretched languorously.
'Oh, yes?'
'Would you like to bathe?'
'If it isn't any trouble.'
'The bathroom's upstairs, along the landing, second door on the left. The water's only warm.'
'Oh, anything, anything!'
He fled.
Catherine returned. 'We shouldn't laugh,' she said. 'He's tired and hungry and dazed. Isn't he delicious, though?'
'I wonder what he makes of us.' Una lit a cigarette. 'Just imagine his fantasies!'
'Oo-hoo,' said Catherine and uttered something very close to a belly laugh.
Una lifted a recent copy of Vogue from the floor and began to turn the pages. 'We must seem pretty glamorous to him. You're right. I was thinking of leaving tomorrow.'
'So was I. For 1910?'
'Or thereabouts.' Una studied an advertisement for riding boots. I thought 1917. Would that suit you?'
‘Fine. If you could drop me off in London.'
'Of course.'
'Shall we ask Mr Bannermann to stay the night?'
'What do you mean?'
'Just to stay. Nothing else.'
'I suppose he could do with a rest and a bit of feeding up. All right. But I don't want to . . .'
'No. Neither do I.'
'I'm not sure it would do him any good.' Una grinned. 'You know how clinging lads like that can be.'
'Well, he couldn't very well follow us back to 1917.'
'You never know.'
'He's an antidote for boredom, anyway.'
'He wouldn't last very long.'
Catherine showed her teeth. 'Long enough.'
With pursed lips Una chuckled. 'We're being very childish, you know.'
'Why not?'
'Ah!' Una stretched once more. 'I feel so good all of a sudden.'
'Me too. Awake.'
Una was glad that her analysis seemed to have been correct. With the advent of Mr Bannermann and a break in what had become a monotonous routine her fears and her worries were gone, although she was still determined to leave, to get back into what she would have called 'real life'. It was dreadful, she thought, how one went round and round, experiencing the same succession of moods and never quite being able to do anything about them: did everyone have this almost schizoid cycle of intense activity followed by periods of equally intense lethargy? Most people, she supposed, were not free to experience the extremes: the more you had of what was called leisure, the more you were inclined to lose the centre. And was the centre worth holding? She had, in her time, made a virtue both of holding it and of leaving it behind. At this moment, however, she felt merely irresponsible—she would have used the word 'naughty' if it didn't have such awful associations with infantile sexual fantasy and the kind of role-playing whimsy she abhorred. And 'wicked' was far too strong. Irresponsible' would have to do. She winked at Catherine who appeared to be in an identical mood.
'It's silly really,' said Una. 'We're like a couple of excitable old maids, no matter how you look at it—no matter how innocent our intentions are.'
'I quite fancy him,' Catherine said, 'but he's not really my type. I prefer old foreigners, as you know.'
'You wouldn't have fancied him before we arrived here,' Una reminded her.
'You have to take what you're given,' said her friend.
'That's the sort of attitude which has got you into so much trouble,' said Una.
'You mean them knocking me about. Well, that could be my fault, couldn't it?'
'Don't let's go into that one. You blame yourself too much. Avoid people who make you feel guilty, that's my motto.'
'I seem to bring out the worst. . .'
'Stop it! You just happen to like childish, ego-bound, flashy little sods who always want more than anyone can give them. I'm not going to say it all again.'
'Don't,' said Catherine, 'because I might resent it, Una, at the moment. We all make mistakes.'
'True.' Una was anxious to avoid tension.
The two women fell silent, though it was a perfectly friendly silence, and when the spruced-up Mr Bannermann returned he found them both looking at him through sleepy, half-closed lids. Una thought he shivered so she said kindly: 'The shower's done you good.'
'It was very welcome.'
'We've a spare room, if you'd like to get some sleep.'
'Well. . .' The idea was attractive to him, but he was still nervous.
'Come on,' said Una rising, 'I'll show you where it is. Are there any sheets on the bed, Catherine?'
'I think so.'
Showing Mr Bannermann into the rather dark room on the opposite side of the landing to her own, Una resisted any further impulse to embarrass him. She looked in briefly, to make sure the bed was made. She smiled a neutral smile. 'There! Sleep as long as you like, Mr Bannermann. Sleep tight!'
'You're very kind . . .'
'These are bad times for everyone.' She found the conventional phrase useful now.
'Yes sirree!' He brightened at the familiar sound.
1 won't wake you, but if you should get up after we've gone to bed, help yourself to anything you find in the ice-box.'
'You're very kind . . .'
'We've all got to pull together nowadays.'
'Yes, sir!'
Glad to have given the young man the reassurance of this Depression dialogue, that most comforting of all ideas, the idea of the 'common struggle', Una hummed to herself as she descended the stairs and rejoined Catherine in the living room.
