Alligator Playground

by Alan Sillitoe

  ‘Norman? I suppose he did ask for it. But maybe it’s rather admirable, the way he lives like an open wound.’

  ‘Sewer, more like.’ His envy of Bakewell foxed her for a second, because she hated his misogynistic novels, and didn’t think him worth any talk at all. ‘How come you know Charlotte?’

  Such a laugh made it hard to know what he thought, as he leaned close and lowered his voice. ‘I like her. She’s one of the old sort, totally misguided. She can’t go to Russia since Perestroika because the planes don’t run on time, and she might get mugged. It was the only country she felt safe in, but now she sticks to this old rectory, though she hates the place. Complains all the time to poor old Henry, so that she can seem the calm and all wise earthy hostess to everyone else.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to be your wife.’ Yet she thought she might, for an hour or two.

  Even the overalls didn’t hide her figure, the lovely fruity breasts, body going in at the waist and coming out to delectable hips. ‘I’ll curb my tongue, but if you ask me whether I’d like to be married to you the answer’s yes, any time of the week.’

  ‘You sound like the perfect husband. I hope your wife thinks you are.’

  ‘In my experience, only the fatally flawed try to be perfect. I just saw you, and knew we had to talk.’

  It was the moment to move on to someone else, easy enough to do. She’d always told herself never to have any truck with a married man, but he had given her no reason to walk away, and she didn’t care to think of one. ‘I’d love to live in a house like this, on such a marvellous day at least.’

  ‘I’d die here,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong with London?’

  ‘Oh, not much, I agree. But I wake up in the morning plagued by pneumatic drills, or car alarms going off, or a burglar alarm, or a police car screaming to get to the station before the tea gets cold. Then there’s the awful smell, and the traffic.’

  Charlotte stood at the door. ‘Who’s going to volunteer for washing up? I only need two.’ She thought it educational to make her guests work after a meal. ‘When it’s done we can go on a nice long walk to the river.’

  Tom saw a way to imprison her in talk for the next half-hour. ‘Let’s do it.’

  She used cardboard plates at her flat, and squashed them in the bin afterwards, but was happy to say yes. They put their hands up, like children at school, she thought, then went into the house, applauded by the others.

  ‘Do you know how to get there?’ The thatched cottages and front gardens were so neat she imagined people trying for the best kept village of the year. Even the gravestones looked polished and scoured, surrounding the stark grey church whose sinister tower must be visible for miles.

  ‘We turn left along here.’ He put a hand on her naked elbow, as if she needed guiding. The others would be left behind, and she liked being near him, though neither could think of much to say after their chatter at the sink. Skylarks and swifts played Battle of Britain in the blue, and the heat wafted an odour of tall wheat from either side of the track.

  ‘I’ve done this walk quite a few times.’ She wondered who with as they turned down a lane of birch trees, treading over hardrimmed tractor ruts. ‘There’s a keeper’s cottage at the end, then nothing between there and the river.’

  Except a band of dark wood. The way opened onto sloping fields of yellow rape, which also patched the rising land across the valley. They stood a moment to enjoy the view. ‘I hear Elgar’s music when I get to this spot,’ he said.

  Poppies were worried by wasps of gold and black, and a small aeroplane lazied up from the coast. ‘I see what you mean.’

  He put an arm around her. ‘The “Introduction and Allegro”, what else?’ – and kissed her, a slow easing of the tongue into her mouth. Her body burned with the heat of the day, and there was sweat on her upper lip. The kiss was brief, could have lasted longer it was so delicious. She held his hand as they walked, breath quickened and not altogether from exertion. A rabbit zig-zagged out of their way. ‘I know a short cut through the wood.’

  Thistles and stubble slowed them down, then she detoured trying to avoid tall nettles, but they brushed her thin overalls and the vague tingle of stings came through, increasing her desire for him. ‘Won’t we be seen from the keeper’s cottage?’

  He waited for her to catch up. ‘I expect he’s too busy with Lady C. – if you see what I mean.’

  They clambered over a ruinous stile, Tom scuffing a chocolatelooking stag beetle from a beam before handing her across. Unnecessary, but it was fun to let him think he could help. The way down levelled under foliage of clustering elms, brambles and small bushes almost covering the track. He stopped at a clearing.

  Collared doves warbled, flapping at the disturbance. There was nothing to be said, hadn’t been since eyeing each other across the table, her hands as forward as his as she drew him down, seeing his glazed eyes and still lips, and sweat on him also. An aroma of damp undergrowth played around the cool wood as she undid the straps of her overalls, and pulled at the buttons of her shirt. The crack of a twig sounded from some animal, or a disturbed branch, and she hoped there’d be no unseen audience.

  She had never made love in a wood, while he obviously had, and she wondered at the unfamiliar air so cool to her nakedness. When he took off his shirt and trousers she could hardly bear to wait. The heat went back into her, and they seemed a thousand miles from the nearest human. He knew what he was doing, in ways she hadn’t thought of before, but passion took care of them in any case.

  Unexpectedly discovered love put them into a state of indolent stupefaction. She hoped there would be no wet patch on her overalls for the others to notice when they got to the river. His instinct was good, for he passed her a newly ironed handkerchief from his back pocket. ‘Use this.’

  ‘You came prepared.’

  ‘Be unforgivable if I didn’t.’ He never felt better than after a good long fuck, and hoped she did too, complimenting himself that it hadn’t been for want of plying the old skill if she didn’t. ‘The idea of sadness after sex must have been a liberal middle-class invention, like socialism or anti-smoking, or not eating meat. Anything to stop people enjoying life.’ Gratified at her laughter, he lit a cigarette. ‘This is the first weekend I’ve had off in months. I get up at six, and am never in bed before midnight.’

  ‘It certainly keeps you fit,’ she said languidly.

  He flicked his ash towards a butterfly. ‘I spend an hour at the gym every day. Otherwise, I’d seize up.’

  ‘You certainly didn’t get anywhere near it then.’ She wanted to sleep in a big white bed with him, but stood to smooth the aches in her hips.

  He straightened his collar. ‘We’d better go, I suppose, or they’ll wonder where we’ve got to.’

  He wasn’t there when she next went to Charlotte’s, and she had almost grovelled to get invited. She had to push aside foul Norman Bakewell, who ragged her all through a lunch that would only have been good if you were peasant-hungry. He taunted her at Tom’s absence, as if his wormy novelist’s mind guessed every detail of their encounter.

  Walking towards the wood made the distance seem twice as long. She was depressed and chilled in the damp glade, rain trickling from the foliage. The half-hour with Tom had been so perfect, she might have known it was too good to recall. Her mac was like wet muslin on getting back to the house. Luckily, Norman Bakewell was asleep in the lounge, though sending up vinous fumes and the stink of foul cigars.

  Home dead beat from work, she picked up the phone to hear Tom’s unmistakably nasal tone. ‘It’s been a long time, far too long, but can I come and see you?’

  A month had gone by, and while knowing his number she had waited rather than do him the honour. The stab of wishing they had never met came now and again, but their idyllic summer’s day would return in smell and touch, visual detail flooding in so that the innermost part of her belly yearned.

  ‘When?’ she asked.

  ‘Now.’

&n
bsp; He came out of the lift wearing Reeboks, jeans, and a Gap shirt. A copy of The Big Issue showed from one pocket of his blue cashmere overcoat, and a bottle of White Horse stuck its neck out of the other.

  ‘I’m serious.’ He sat by her on the couch, a drink cupped in his free hand. ‘I can’t ever forget you. I love you, and want to see you all I can. The trouble is, I’ve been rushing here there and everywhere these last weeks, and couldn’t find a minute to get in touch.’

  She was glad, having been too often on the point of ringing him. ‘Is your wife away tonight?’

  ‘Nothing like that. I’m working late. I always am.’

  She sipped whisky and Evian, and fought away laughter at noting that Evian backwards spelled ‘naive’. She felt mischievous. ‘Does she have a lover?’

  ‘She could, for all I know.’

  ‘Would you mind?’

  He laughed. ‘I’d kill him, maybe.’

  ‘Suppose he played squash as well? But would your wife kill you?’

  ‘I’d expect her to try, even if only to prove she loved me, or because I’d made the elementary mistake of letting her find out. It’s never an accident when someone does. There’s malice in it, you can bet. If you really care for each other – I mean, beyond love – you make sure the other never knows. Carelessness in that situation is sheer stupidity, maybe even hatred, or to get revenge.’

  Men are all the same, she thought, though she’d never had a lover with the wit to speak so openly, which threw her so much off balance that she could only join in, and give up wondering what he meant by caring for somebody beyond love. ‘What about those who have affairs by mutual agreement?’

  He followed her into the kitchen. ‘It ends in disaster, which must have been what they wanted.’

  She put two pizzas in the microwave. ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Starving,’ as befitted, she thought, someone who spoke in such a way. ‘You seem to have had plenty of experience.’

  ‘It’s all speculation. Or intelligent observation, if you like.’ He leaned across and kissed her. ‘Most of it comes from reading Norman Bakewell.’

  ‘I do hope not,’ she said into his ear.

  Her parents had sold their house in France two years ago, and bought a flat in Sevenoaks. Having too much furniture from that rambling old mill, they had given her a double bed, and because they or their guests had slept on it Diana was put off when sporting with her lovers. Another thing was it took up too much room: all right to stretch out on in summer, but hard to warm with her own heat in winter. With Tom as a lover she didn’t care who had humped on it before.

  A call of once a month was hardly sufficient to serve someone like her. She wanted to have an affair, and this was more like a treat from heaven whenever he cornered a spare hour. Time that dragged into a month had a ball and chain to its feet, though as soon as she heard the bell it was as if he had called only days ago. Out of chagrin she would greet him as if he were a stranger, forcing him into his most charming mode to get them back into high romantic style. Not until after the meal and bottle of wine, when she was lying naked on the bed, and he was leaning over in a very satisfactory state, did this feeling come about.

  After they had made love she said: ‘I’d like a phone number, in case there’s a need to get in touch with you.’

  ‘You have the office one already.’

  ‘The home number, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I’m hardly ever there. It would be a million to one if I were to answer it. And I shouldn’t like Angela to.’

  She wasn’t so stupid as to go on if anybody but he lifted the receiver.

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but I wouldn’t even want her to suspect – not one little bit.’

  He thought of everything.

  ‘It would be unforgivable if I didn’t.’

  ‘You like to keep everybody happy?’

  ‘It’s the best way of keeping myself happy.’

  He wondered why she laughed, unable to understand.

  Perhaps she was being unreasonable, and couldn’t think why, not especially wanting to call him at home. Nor, feeling his equal, did she need to test him, or put herself through such futile emotional hoops.

  He fastened his shirt almost to the neck, and she pointed out that the buttons were in the wrong place, perversely wishing she hadn’t told him.

  ‘Christ!’ He rapidly undid them, remembering how he had once got home and, while undressing, Angela noticed his pants back to front, though she was satisfied when he told her he had been playing squash and in a hurry to have a drink. He looked around at windows and doors, as if planning a quick escape, though there was no need. Probably instinct, and in any case it was three floors up. ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘My spare room.’

  ‘Full of junk, I suppose?’

  ‘It’s where I do my painting.’ Daddy had walked into Winsor & Newton’s, and bought a great box for her birthday.

  ‘Painting?’

  She laughed. ‘Therapy I call it.’

  ‘Look, Diana, I’m off to Rome next week. Can you sham illness at the Beeb, and get time off? I’d love to have you with me.’

  Nothing easier. She could see some wonderful paintings. ‘How long for?’

  ‘Three days, say.’

  ‘Could swing it. We’re between projects at the moment.’ Which was half a lie, but she didn’t want him to think she was doing any favours.

  ‘Marvellous. I’ll bell you.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘I’ll never stop loving you.’

  ‘I know, darling. Love you, too.’

  TWO

  ANGELA, BACK WITH a hundred quid’s worth of grub and cleaning stuff from Sainsbury’s, hadn’t realised she had left her natty little Japanese tape recorder on. It wasn’t in her to be so witless. But she hadn’t left it on: the cunning little devil started at the sound of a voice.

  Operating such technological gimmicks was complicated enough to give a feeling of achievement. The manuals were easier to memorise if you read them aloud and, noting each movement phase by phase, she set the timing mechanisms of the video if a programme on television needed taping while they were out. Tom was baffled by such mysterious gew-gaws, and thought it strange that a woman should be so competent.

  As a kid she had wanted to be an engineer and build bridges; he may have praised only to flatter, but it was pleasing to have her skill acknowledged, and flattery harmed no one, as long as you didn’t take it seriously. In any case, she flattered him, being as how he was so juvenile. She laughed at his failures, and said he couldn’t be a genius at his job and understand modern technology as well, a remark that soothed the abrasions of a seven-year marriage.

  ‘It’s just small enough to get into your handbag.’ He handed it over after his trip to Rome, and thought it useful as a notebook for dictating shopping lists into, or reminding her of something while driving the car.

  She sat on the bed, holding the unobtrusive recorder which usually lay in the hairpin basket by the bedroom telephone. The playback mechanism reproduced a door clicking, drifts of music from the kitchen, a police siren, or the roarpast of a souped up van along the normally quiet Holland Park street. When traffic was thick around Shepherds Bush a few rogue vehicles, or reps handy with the map, used it as a slip road.

  The black box was something of a miracle, and one day soon an invention would let you talk into a recorder and, at the touch of a switch, after attaching it to a word processor, a printer would bang the text neatly out. Bang also would go the secretary’s job, and if such a thing had been possible ten years ago she might not have been a rich man’s wife with a very des res in Holland Park.

  Whatever she was she had never stopped being herself, because if she hadn’t always been as much of herself as possible she wouldn’t have become Tom’s wife. She supposed the process began by the sudden revelation at school that she was of better quality than anybody around her, and that O Levels could be passed if she tried.

&
nbsp; She dropped a few pegs in her self esteem when no office in Wakefield would set her on. ‘You’ve got a long way to go before you’re any good to us,’ every smarmy personnel manager seemed to say. She was given work at a meat pie processing firm and, despite rock bottom wages, saved enough to buy a typewriter, and went to night classes to learn shorthand. It was hard to say whether the worst part of her year was being at home, or having to sweat with a row of foulmouths at the factory. The woman in charge of the conveyor belt was as much of a bully and even more dirty minded than her father, while the others were on the same mental level as her mother and sister. Maybe the combination had been invaluable in giving the energy to flee from both.

  Angela supposed she came from the sort of place in Yorkshire which journalists referred to as ‘a close-knit community’. The phrase made her want to throw up. Those who used it would never live in such a place, not in a million years, though she could see them shivering with almost sexual pleasure while tapping the phrase out. Even her father, getting it from television, had used it with pride before cursing her as a fool on hearing she was going to live in London.

  She couldn’t wait to get out of the village. London next stop, she said to herself, sniffing the odour of the carriage at Doncaster. They could stuff their close-knit community where a monkey stuffed its nuts.

  It wasn’t hard to land a job, and she was soon able to mimic posh talk because of splitting a flat with Debbie and Fiona in Putney. They thought her patois charming, but when she began to sound more or less like everyone else, found her less agreeable, so she rented a room in West Ken, happy to be on her own.

  Anyone who asked where she’d come from and deserved an answer was told Leicester, a safe bet, but a few months later she would mention Luton, and after a year she fobbed off whoever asked with the request that they mind their own business or, if they were trying to get at her, and if she was at a party and sufficient drink had put her into an awkward mood, she would revert to what she had once been and tell them – as she had from time to time fishwifed back as a girl to one or two collier slobs calling some funny business from the doorway of a chippy, or from the bus shelter on a windy night – to fuck off, which she was gratified to find worked marvels at a London party.