by The Adventures Of Una Perrson (and Catherinr Cornelius) (v1. 0)
'Oh, nothing. It wasn't really a row . . .'
'Didn't she want you to go out?'
'No. It's all right.' Catherine didn't want to make Rebecca feel as guilty as she had felt. 'If you still want to go to the pictures I thought that Gary Grant would be nice.'
'Well, let's think about it,' said Rebecca. She seemed distracted.
'Are you okay, Rebecca? There's nothing wrong?'
'No!' Rebecca patted her knee. 'No, I've just woken up, that's all.'
'D'you want to try the suit on, before you get dressed? You said you wanted to, remember?'
'That's a good idea.' The record finished. Rebecca went to the gramophone and removed the big twelve-inch disc. 'Is there anything you'd like to hear?'
'Whatever you want.'
'I won't put anything else on for the moment.'
'Right-ho.' Catherine reached out to take Rebecca's hand. 'Gome here and give me a proper kiss. Oh, I've missed you such a lot!' Rebecca fell onto the bed beside her and Catherine hugged her, kissing her on the mouth. 'Oh, Rebecca.' They had become lovers almost as soon as they had met. Catherine had seduced Rebecca here after they had got drunk one night at a club, when two airmen had tried to pick them. up. As Rebecca had said, a little self-consciously, the following morning, at least you could be fairly certain that if you fell in love with a girl you weren't likely to worry about her being called up.
'I love you very much,' Rebecca said. 'I always will, Catherine.' Her big eyes were full of tears. Her face was intensely serious. They kissed again. 'It's wonderful. It never for a moment felt strange. It happened so naturally.' Catherine smiled and stroked her friend's cheek. The words were familiar but she always relished hearing them. 'Shall we just stay in, then, this afternoon?' she suggested.
'I'd like to go to bed,' said Rebecca, 'and have a cosy day together.'
'I'd like that, too.' Catherine lay back on the divan and pushed her shoes off her feet. 'That's better!'
'The marvellous thing is,' said Rebecca, 'that we'll always be friends, no matter what happens to us.'
'Yes,' agreed Catherine. She unbuttoned her jacket and began to fiddle with the hooks and eyes of her skirt. She clambered out of the suit. 'That's better.' In underclothes, stockings and suspenders, she padded across the floor to put the suit on a chair. 'There you are, when you want to try it.' She undid her suspenders and carefully rolled her stocking down her legs. She took off her girdle. Thew! I'm putting on weight, I think.'
‘I like you a little bit dumpy,' said Rebecca. ‘It makes me feel better. That lovely pink skin. I'm jealous. We're like Snow White and Rose Red, one as dark as dark can be and the other the fairest of the fair!'
Wearing her slip, Catherine came back to the bed. She got into it with a sigh. This is the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in.'
Rebecca drew the heavy red curtuins. 'It's foggy outside now. Was it foggy on your way here?'
'No. There's no point in going to the West End. We'd never get home.'
Rebecca took off her housecoat. She had large, pendulous breasts. They were the only thing about her that Catherine didn't like; she had always preferred small, rounded breasts, like her own. 'Move over,' said Rebecca. 'You're on my side.'
Catherine shifted towards the wall.
'You're not too cold, are you?' Rebecca asked. 'The radiators went off in the night.' She had a delicious, musty smell to her.
'Oh, no. Warm as toast. I'm just a bit tired. Tireder than I realized. To tell you truth, I'm a bit nervy. It must have been Mum.'
'What did she say?'
Catherine did not want to mention Christmas. 'Just the usual stuff. She started off by telling me I ought to get married. I told her this wasn't exactly the right time to be thinking of the future, something like that. Then I said I was seeing you and she asked a lot of questions.'
'You think . . . ?'
'Nothing like that. She just wanted to know what you did and who your parents were. She got very interested when I said you were half Jewish and half Polish.'
Rebecca was amused. 'Why? Is she anti-semitic?'
'No. There's more than a drop of Jewish blood in our family, anyway. Mum's not like that. But she hasn't much to occupy her mind, so she takes an interest in other people's business. You know the sort of thing.'
Rebecca nodded. 'And that was all?'
'Yes, really.'
'Why don't you turn over and let me massage your back for a bit. It'll help you relax.'
'Would you mind? I'd love that.'
‘Turn over, then.'
Catherine pulled away her cushions and settled herself with her arms at the sides of her head. Rebecca began to stroke her body. 'Is that nice?'
'Perfect.'
Rebecca massaged her shoulder blades.
'Are you sure that job at the pub's right for you?'
It's all there is, apart from helping with the war effort.'
'It's not so much the work as the people you have to deal with. That must be a strain.'
'It's not too bad. Last night there was a bit of trouble. An old bloke took a shine to me. I'd been ever so nice to him. I thought he was harmless. Just before closing time I was on the other side of the bar and he made a grab for me. Hands everywhere. You know. Without thinking I gave him one where it hurts most.'
Rebecca said: 'You poor thing. But that's what I meant, really.'
'That's the only time it's happened. Oh! Smashing! Ah!' Her muscles seemed to be expanding under Rebecca's hands. Rebecca moved her body closer so that her vagina was resting gently against Catherine's hip. The massage continued.
'I wish there was something you wanted to do,' said Rebecca. 'I'm not trained for anything. I left school at fourteen.'
'You ought to go to art school, or apply for RAD A or something. You've got plenty of talent for anything.'
'You're not the first to tell me that. Only I can't paint, I can't act, I can't write. My talent seems to be for making people think I've got talent. My brother Frank's got a talent for making money. My brother Jerry's got a talent for causing trouble . . . '
'Is Jerry the one you . . . '
'Yes.'
The pressure of Rebecca's vagina on her thigh became a touch harder. Catherine turned her head so that she could see her friend. 'That excites you, doesn't it? The idea of me and my brother.'
Rebecca nodded.
'It's only the idea that makes it any different,' said Catherine. Once you get used to it, it's no different at all. Like everything else. Except maybe more friendly.'
'Like us.'
Catherine didn't reply. 'As I was saying—all our family are thought to be talented, but we haven't a real success amongst us. No education for one thing, of course. No will to improve ourselves, I suppose. Frank's an artist when it comes to thinking up shady deals. Jerry's quite a good guitar player. Jazz and that, though. I don't know what we'd have been good at, if things had been a bit easier for mum.'
‘Your dad went off?'
'My mum must be the most deserted woman in the world. She's got a talent for losing husbands!'
‘That was Cornelius.'
That's what he called himself. Apparently he used the name "Brown", too. Maybe that was why mum was so interested in you. My dad was supposed to be Russian, or half-Russian. I can't remember. She's got a lot of different stories—probably all from him! Oh, that feels so good.' She fell silent as Rebecca massaged her just below the ribs.
Rebecca began to kiss her head and ears.
'Just a minute,' said Catherine. I'll take my slip off.'
When she had removed the last of her clothes, she lay on her back while Rebecca kissed her body. The kisses were delicate, fluttering against her skin and arousing her only very slowly. She knew that Rebecca was already very much aroused and this also had the effect of increasing her desire, but she was enjoying the sense of anticipation and happily could have spent the best part of the afternoon in quiet loveplay if she had not been aware that she had to be back at
work in just over two hours. She glanced at her watch. It was almost three o'clock. She decided to concentrate on helping Rebecca reach orgasm, stroking her, whispering to her, scratching her lightly, then reaching down past Rebecca's bottom and touching her at the base of her vagina. Rebecca began to push herself against Catherine's thigh, moving rapidly up and down and from side to side, gasping, her wet mouth against Catherine's ear and cheek, calling out as she came.
Rebecca's orgasm had aroused Catherine more than she had anticipated. Kissing her friend, she rolled again onto her stomach and began to masturbate. In a moment, Rebecca started to stroke her again. The orgasm was short and intense; it left her feeling edgy. She turned on her side and they embraced. That was terrific,' said Rebecca. 'Are you okay?'
'Oh, yes. Fine.'
'You're not, though, are you?'
'It can't work every time.'
'Is there anything . . . ?'
'No. Maybe another massage if I don't relax. I'm sorry.'
'It wasn't anything I was doing wrong?'
'Don't be daft. My mum really got me worked up. I'm sure that's it.'
'Are you sure she doesn't think anything?'
'No. She was a bit disappointed when I told her I'd be spending Christmas here.'
'Oh.' Rebecca seemed startled.
'You asked me to. If ... '
'I want to spend Christmas with you, Cathy. I couldn't want anything more. But there's a chance I won't be here now. So if it means a nasty scene with your mum . . . '
Catherine could not understand. 'You didn't say anything about going away.'
'I hadn't made up my mind, then.'
'You were so keen on us being together over Christmas.'
'I know. I still am.'
'What hadn't you made up your mind about?'
'I didn't tell you. I didn't want to be talked out of it. And you would have talked me out of it. I knew you would. It's silly. It's all mixed up with Robert and self-denial, and guilt about his being killed, but it seemed the right thing to do.'
'Do what?'
'I applied to join the WAAFs.' Rebecca began to cry. 'I got my letter yesterday. I've been accepted.'
'Oh, Christ!'
'So I don't know where I'll be at Christmas, you see. But if they let me come home, of course, I want to be with you.'
'Oh, fuck!'
'If it wasn't for the war . . . '
At this rate, thought Catherine, just before depression engulfed her, people are going to start handing me white feathers.
It seemed that everybody she knew was marching off to war.
THIRTEEN
In which Captain Una Persson considers questions of comfort
It was not uncommon for Una Persson to experience the sensation of deja vu; but here, in the ruins of Oxford, with a discoloured mist rising from the damp ground, it overwhelmed her; she felt it as another might feel vertigo. She became dizzy, her identity began to fall away from her; she panicked. The ruins re-adjusted themselves, shifting their proportions: a building which had been almost whole now vanished, another was partially resurrected. Then they were stable again. Una thought she felt her clothes writhing on her body as they, too, were re-arranged.
'Some sod's up to something.' She spoke aloud. The sound of her voice brought her back to sanity. 'But then,' she added, 'some sod's always up to something.' She took deep, regular breaths to slow down her heart-rate. She leaned heavily against the balustrade of the broken bridge where she had been standing studying the river. The river had scarcely altered: thick green weed grew in it. There was slime; a strong stench of stagnation.
The bomb which had taken out Magdalen College had also destroyed a fair amount of the bridge's superstructure, but it still functioned. Una looked at one of her watches, wondering if she had actually agreed to meet someone here. She could not remember making the arrangement or with whom she had made it. She turned up the collar of her black trench coat and put her bare, cold-reddened hands into her pockets which were filled with pieces of paper, rags and unspent cartridges. From curiosity she removed one of the pieces of paper. It was folded several times, was grey with dirt and tattered. She opened it. The letter was written in Cyrillic and at first she assumed it was from a Russian, then she realized that the letter was in Greek. It was headed Hydra, Monday, and referred to recent disastrous events in Athens. Substantially it was a love-letter but the signature had been on a subsequent page. She searched through her pockets for the missing page without success. A dreased visiting card from Naomi Jacobsen, 77 Blvde St Michel, Paris, rang a bell. She turned the card over. Something had been written on it in pencil and was now almost completely obscured save for the words 'Cornelius' and 'relationship'. She pushed the stuff back into her pocket.
She began to wonder about the date. The ruins were not new; they could be up to a hundred years old. She considered the possibility of an overshoot, which would also explain the sensation she had first felt upon arrival. She decided to wait no more than five minutes longer. She strode to the other side of the bridge, noticing how silent everything was, how still, as if all life had ceased to exist in the area.
It had begun to rain. The drizzle either stank as forcefully as the river or it brought out more of the existing smell. She wished that she had a hat. She heard a footfall. A man came out of some trees by the river bank and climbed carefully towards the bridge, slipping in the wet moss and grass. He reached the bridge, tested a piece of stone before using it to lever himself up and stand coughing into a large white handkerchief. He wore grey flannels, a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows; a dark green polo-neck sweater, a woollen scarf. His hair was turning grey. He also wore hornrimmed glasses. Una suspected the outfit. It was too typical of a don, she thought, to be anything other than a disguise. He stopped coughing. 'Miss Persson, of course?' His voice was without vibrancy: English middle-class. 'Or should I say Captain?' He seemed friendly. 'I'm Chapman. We have met, actually, but you probably don't remember.'
'Munich?'
He laughed. 'Hardly! It was just after the last war. In Geneva.'
Una did not remember. She was not sure, at that point, where Geneva was. She nodded, offering her hand.
He hesitated, now, before taking it, but more from surprise, she guessed, than reluctance. The shake was hearty, unspontaneous, like an Englishman trying the flamenco. She began to dislike him. 'Well, Mr Chapman.' She rubbed her hands together. 'Where to now?'
'The child's in my rooms, of course. I left her there for safety. Did you bring any transport of your own?'
'None.'
'Wise, really. But it will take a little while to arrange from our end. You'll stay to lunch, I hope.'
‘Thank you.'
'Good. You were dropped in, yes?'
She ignored the question. 'What sort of transport can you offer?'
'We've still got a couple of autogyros that are airworthy. One of those should get you to London.'
'Fine.' She now knew her destination, but was still unclear about her mission. Chapman seemed to sense this.
'They did brief you all right?'
'There wasn't much time. If you could outline the basic stuff again I'd be grateful.'
'Of course. We go this way.' He pointed through the dark, unhealthy trees in the direction from which he had come. 'You'd better let me be first. We can't afford to do anything about improving the roads. Oxford is supposed to be completely deserted, so we're a bit nervous of advertising.'
They slid down the slimy bank. He led her along a squelching path through trees and bushes. 'We're lucky that the School's still operating in any way. Makes you value learning a bit more, eh? When I look back! Nothing more ludicrous, is there, than a middle-class Marxist English don.' He chuckled. 'Still, by and large we manage to keep ourselves pretty comfortable here. And there are a few traditions worth preserving.
'I never knew one,' murmured Una.
'What? Aha! Yes, of course.' He seemed nervous of her, anxious for her go
od opinion. What sort of authority was she representing?
A bramble snagged the skirt of her coat. She stopped to pull free. He waited for her, his breath steaming, his eyes shifting. His insecurity seemed to increase whenever they were in the open. He led her across a marshy lawn. The drizzle had almost stopped and in the distance she could see that two wings of a college were still intact, though surrounded by ruins. She thought she detected a dim light in one of the grease-papered windows. It was even more overcast than it had been when she arrived. She wondered if it were, after all, twilight. Then she remembered that Chapman had mentioned lunch.
'The cloud's very low,' she said.
'Yes,' he replied in some relief. 'Yes.' Blocks of rubble began to appear in the soft ground. They reached a plateau of broken brick; they climbed over fractured granite until they could look down at a door. Some of the wreckage had been cleared, enough to make it convenient to enter and leave the door. He slid down and knocked on the iron-bound oak. This was blown straight off its hinges,' he f said with pride, 'but was otherwise completely unharmed. Good wood, eh? It stood up to Cromwell, too.'
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman holding a candle. She had pleasant, frightened features. She darted a smile at Una before she had gone back into the shadows. Una wondered what sort of enemies induced such behaviour. She became melancholic.
‘This is Miss Moon,' said Chapman, closing the door behind them. 'Ah! Safe and sound again, Eunice.'
'Would you like a cup of tea?' asked Eunice Moon. She wore a crumpled tweed skirt, a grey cardigan and a darned maroon sweater. The strength of her features was obscured by folds of coarse skin as if she had been at one time much fatter. There were pronounced bags under her mild grey eyes.
'I'd love one,' said Una, anxious to respond as comfortingly as possible, at least until she had worked out what she was supposed to be doing here.
Eunice Moon held the candle above her head, leading the way up stone steps covered with threadbare coconut matting. They reached a gallery. She held the candle over the carved balustrade. 'That was the hall,' she said. 'We don't use it now. It's impossible to heat, for one thing.' Una thought she heard the movement of rats in the darkness below. They ascended another stairway. The flagstones of the next passage were also covered with worn carpeting. Eunice Moon stopped at the third door on her right and opened it. 'Here we are.'
