‘Exactly.’
They sat smoking for a bit and Jos was glad that he didn’t have to turf himself out into the cold night air. Meredith curled up beside him and put her arms round his neck.
‘You’re very affectionate,’ he said.
‘I want to talk.’
‘Oh no!’ Jos groaned.
‘Yes. I like you better than any man I’ve ever had and I’m getting bored with living with George. Maybe I will marry you. We don’t fight, we make love divinely and we get along.’
‘You must be pregnant,’ said Jos.
‘Yes.’
For the second time that night he turned a face to scrutinize. All George thought and felt had been on hers. He could see practically nothing in Meredith’s.
‘Meredith,’ he said, slowly, ‘there is no point at all in us getting married when I know nothing about you except things I don’t like.’
‘You sound like my father,’ she said.
‘Who was your father anyway? Where do you come from?’
‘Out of the ground. I’m a pixie. What the hell does it matter? I can’t stand all this family stuff. I haven’t seen mine for years and I don’t intend to. You take me as me.’
‘Who’s you?’
‘Don’t start airy-fairy rubbish like that. I don’t ask you what you are. I know you’re attractive, twenty-eight, a good musician, kind, conceited and good tempered.’
‘I don’t know that much about you.’
‘Do you have to, for God’s sake?’
‘Yes, for God’s sake, if we’re going to get married and have this kid.’
‘All right then, if there’s all this fuss we needn’t get married and the kid’s easily disposed of. It’s only minus seven months old.’
She folded her arms and put her feet up across his knees, then put her tongue out. He didn’t laugh. She decided the only good gift she’d got from her parents at birth was detachment. She really was detached. She looked at everything through an inverted glass and was proud that nothing touched her, except perhaps occasional love-making or playing her violin in some concertos, and even then she felt ashamed. Some people thought she was hard, others that she was just stupid. Jos thought she pretended. He sometimes tried to force her, at the climax of her love making, to admit that she loved him and cared about him and passionately wanted to know every detail of his life. She didn’t.
He was wrong if he thought the great clue to why she was like she was lay in her past. Her parents were ordinary – ordinary, dull, boring and endlessly caught up in petty speculation and worries. She’d manufactured her own identity, deliberately, not because she’d been hurt or anything so dramatic, but just because she had felt proud to think she could do it. She hadn’t stopped when she’d decided to have the baby and marry Jos either. It would be fun to have more things to be detached about She tried hard to be detached about Jos, but had to admit she did care just a bit what happened to him. She would definitely miss him if he went. Ought she, therefore, for that very reason, to give him up?
‘Is it the baby?’ said Jos.
‘What.’
‘That makes you decide you’ll marry me. You’ve always laughed at the very idea.’
‘Partly. I just feel like a change. But I’ve told you – you don’t have to. I can easily get rid of the baby. I’ve no tender feelings about it.’
‘I have,’ said Jos, gloomily. ‘I always knew I would have. I couldn’t let you destroy it.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Meredith, tartly. ‘I’ve destroyed two of yours already.’
Jos stared at her. ‘When?’
‘I’ve forgotten. You’ve made me pregnant twice and I’ve got rid of them, that’s all.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? Didn’t I have a right to know? Weren’t they my responsibility as well as yours?’ shouted Jos.
He felt furious – tricked and deprived. It was terrible to think his sons and daughters were dead and he never even knew about it. Meredith was laughing. He couldn’t understand how she’d done it all on her own, and desperately wanted to know the exact details of the murders.
‘You’re not killing this one,’ he said.
‘I will if I want,’ chanted Meredith.
‘I won’t let you.’
‘You can’t stop me.’
‘We’ll get married tomorrow.’
‘Fine.’
He hurled a cushion at her, in a rage because everything she did was so painstakingly drained of any feeling. He could imagine George in a similar situation, all tears and panic, and then ecstatic at the thought of marriage and motherhood. Meredith wasn’t worried, excited, disturbed in any way. He could have said yes, or no, or maybe, and got exactly the same response. He took hold of her shoulders and shook her hard. Her pretty dark head lolled backwards and forwards, smiling, and then she slapped his face and he slapped hers back and they started fighting in earnest, picking and punching and rolling from the sofa to the floor in an exhilarated huddle. Then they went to bed and Jos reflected that for as long as it lasted this was their natural destiny.
George was going to go home when she left Jos, but half-way there she thought better of it. It was always impossible to get into that house without Ted hearing and coming down and that was the last thing she wanted. There would be questions and scenes and she’d probably end up by being thrown out, or walking out again.
She always seemed to be rushing in tears from places, though each time she vowed that above all she would have self-control. It sounded such a little thing, but her tears came so suddenly and engulfed her before she had time to remember that this was supposed to be what she was putting a stop to. She’d spoiled a lovely evening, which was typical too. She’d thrown herself at Jos when he was only being kind and feeling sorry for her and she’d never be able to face him again. She’d have to move. She’d accept James’s revolting offer and see what good a course in masochism would do her.
At first, she thought she would walk all night, but she’d already walked a long way with Jos and she was tired. No one thought big, strapping girls might get tired, but she was. She hadn’t enough money for a bed and breakfast place, let alone an hotel, and anyway that would mean more explanations, more words. Uncertainly, she began walking back the way she had come until she found herself in the square again and outside her house. The light was out in the living room so Jos had probably gone. She tiptoed up and very softly opened the door, her heart thumping in case he was still there and she would have to endure the humiliation of running out all over again. He had gone. Sighing, she stopped tiptoeing and walked into the bedroom, where she snapped on the light.
‘Put that bloody light off,’ said Meredith.
Blindly, George groped for the switch and obeyed.
‘That’s better. Now get out.’
George stumbled out. She got herself outside the flat and down the first few stairs and felt the tears again but this time cursed herself and held on, dry-eyed. She knocked at Peg Feather’s door. She had to do it a few times before Peg emerged, swaddled in a tartan dressing gown bristling with curlers.
‘What’s the matter? Someone dead?’
Even at that time of night, she had to giggle, in spite of being cross and tired.
‘Nearly,’ said George. ‘Can you put me up for the rest of the night?’
‘I’ve only got my bed. Though it’s a double one.’
Wearily, George followed and nodded her head gratefully. Peg was asking the why’s and wherefore’s and she couldn’t be bothered to even answer. She took off her coat and skirt and jumper, and crawled in beside the mammoth winceyetted Peg and thankfully turned onto her side and slept.
Upstairs, Jos tried to work out the significance of George’s entry. The sight of them nude and asleep might have been a traumatic experience for her.
‘Meredith.’ He nudged her hard. ‘Hey, I’m worried about George. You don’t think she’ll do anything silly do you?’
‘No. Good night.’
‘She’s in an upset state.’
‘She’s always upset. Good night.’
‘No, but really – I happen to know that uncle James of hers asked her to be his mistress tonight.’
He waited, but Meredith was asleep. He thought bitterly that any other woman would have leapt out of bed at such a sensational piece of gossip about her best friend. So he slept too, and expected she was right. George had too much homely good sense to be silly and anyway she was a big strong girl who could take care of herself.
Chapter Three
IT WAS A vicious, wet Sunday. By eleven o’clock it hardly seemed light at all, and the grey thickness of the rain clawed imploringly at the window panes. The square was deathly quiet, no traffic, no passers by, it was sealed off. From one corner emerged Peg, with a pack-a-mac over her gaberdine and an umbrella held stiffly and vertically overhead. Like a smudge on a radar screen, she thumped across the square and up the steps to Number Seventeen.
Usually, Peg took a long time cleaning her shoes on the mat and generally employing delaying tactics, especially on Sundays. Church only took up a couple of hours, even though she didn’t go to the nearest one and always walked there and back. She left at ten, got back at twelve, made and ate her lunch at one and then the grim business of getting through to evensong began.
But today she had company. It would mean halving her chop down the middle which was an operation of such delicacy that she shuddered at the thought, but it was worth it to have a guest whom she hadn’t even invited.
She went into her room and squelched over to the bed still in her wellingtons and pack-a-mac.
‘I suppose you’ll want lunch?’ she said to the curled-up George. ‘Good job I always keep a lot of potatoes in to spin things out. What would you have done if I hadn’t kept spare potatoes?’
‘I hate to think,’ said George, fervently.
‘You’ll have to get up,’ said Peg.
George looked up at her swathed and swaddled figure, from whose tank-like sides the rain dripped reluctantly. Tightly fastened over Peg’s head was a rain-proof, pixie-hood affair, that strapped in her fat cheeks until her face looked like one large gumboil.
‘Good sermon?’ said George.
‘Don’t mock,’ said Peg, laughing and frowning. ‘It would do you a lot more good to go to church than lie here like this.’
‘Why?’ teased George.
‘Never you mind,’ said Peg. ‘It would.’
‘Aren’t you going to take your armour off?’ said George. ‘You’re wetting all your carpet.’
Peg looked down with interest at the splattering of rain drops round her wellingtons. There were two circles – one quite near coming from the bottom of her mac, and the other a good foot away, coming from her shoulders.
‘I’ve made a mess,’ she said.
‘You have that,’ said George, ‘go and take your mac off at once, do you hear?’
‘Yes, mummy,’ giggled Peg, and waddled happily off to do the necessary unveiling.
George went on lying there. The bed was uncompromisingly in the middle of the room. It had a head board and a foot board and Peg kept a large emerald-coloured eiderdown on the top throughout the day and night. She was the only person George knew who had a sideboard and a double wardrobe through choice. The sideboard had three lace mats on top – one in the middle and smaller ones on each of the slightly raised side bits. The wardrobe had a big mirror inset in the door. They were both a dull walnut. She shifted her gaze to the window, partially obscured by lace netting strung on a rod across the bottom half. The curtains were drawn almost to the middle and were a muddy brown colour. The only concession to the new Elizabethan age was a loudly checked easy chair with a vivid yellow cushion perched uncomfortably on one wooden-slatted arm.
The air of the room was heavy and quiet. George stirred in the bed, and the resulting creak ricocheted round the walls. Peg taking off her mac in the kitchen made regular crackling noises punctuated by the heavy breathing and sighs of effort, as her wellington heels stuck on her socks. Eventually, she emerged looking like an enormous caterpillar, and stood in the middle of the room swinging her short arms and giggled.
‘Get up,’ she said, and advanced menacingly. George felt apprehensive. The large, green clad body was bending over her and trying to tickle her. She rolled over and Peg slapped her bottom, laughing hysterically and clambering on to the bed.
‘Don’t Peg, please,’ said George, abruptly. Peg went on prodding her body with her podgy fingers, moving them up and down in what she imagined was a tickling action. Kicking desperately, George reached the end of the bed and catapulted over it on to the carpet. She got up quickly, but Peg was nearest her clothes.
‘Sling those across please,’ she begged.
‘Shan’t,’ said Peg. She’d somehow managed the amazing feat of sitting cross legged, so that to George she looked like some immensely threatening Buddha.
George knew she was only joking. It was a joke to tickle her, it meant nothing, but she was frightened, unreasonably. She didn’t want Peg to touch her so closely as though she were some kind of plaything, and she didn’t want Peg to see how she felt.
She walked towards the door in her pants and bra.
‘Where you going?’ said Peg.
‘Upstairs to get my clothes. Never mind about lunch.’
‘You can have them,’ said Peg anxiously. ‘Here.’ She thrust the skirt and sweater over in a bundle.
George caught them and slipped into them. ‘Thanks for having me,’ she said, ‘I’ll see you soon.’ She was out of the door before Peg’s face had crumbled.
She was inside the door of her flat before she remembered about Jos, and then it was too late because Meredith had heard her.
‘George – bring us some coffee.’
Automatically, George went into the kitchen and prepared the percolator. She stood over it while it bubbled, then set a tray with sugar and milk and two cups. When the coffee was almost ready, she made some toast, and carrying it all into the bedroom, put it down just inside the door and left.
‘I can’t bloody well reach from here,’ yelled Meredith. ‘Bring it to the bedside, you idiot.’
George stayed where she was in the kitchen. She heard Meredith swear and try to persuade Jos to get up. He appeared asleep. There was a thud as Meredith’s feet hit the floor. George waited for her to pick the tray up and curse again, but instead she heard a groan and as she got up she saw Meredith staggering into the bathroom. She reached her just as she vomited into the lavatory. The sound, wretched and painful, brought Jos to the door. They both stood anxiously watching as Meredith went on being sick.
Eventually, she stopped. Her slight body was bent double as though in worship and the thin strands of black hair on the nape of her neck clung in intricate patterns to the perspiration around it. George knelt beside her.
‘You look terrible,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ve never known you be sick.’
Meredith groaned with fury. ‘Will you shut up and stop gaping,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you do something useful?’
‘Like what?’ said Jos, helplessly.
‘Go away!’ yelled Meredith.
Unhappily, Jos wandered off, while George mopped up the mess, and then helped Meredith back into the bedroom. She gave her some coffee, and watched as the pallor faded.
‘You’d better see a doctor,’ said George, reprovingly, ‘unless it’s just because you got drunk last night.’
‘I am never sick after I’ve been drunk as you well know,’ said Meredith sharply, ‘and anyway I wasn’t drunk.’
‘Maybe you’ve got a bug,’ said George, helpfully.
Meredith smiled. ‘That’s a good name for it – the Bug.’ She sat up, and lit a cigarette. George became uncomfortably aware of Jos and the night before. She tried to concentrate on Meredith, who was looking perfectly normal again. She’d pulled on a white shift-like garment when she got up,
and looked like a small, pretty girl who’d just had her tonsils out.
‘I wonder what made you sick?’ said George, for something to say.
‘My dear child,’ said Meredith, ‘have you never heard of early morning sickness in pregnancy? Though God knows why I should get it. I just bloody well hope it doesn’t happen again or I won’t go through with the blasted business.’
George sat very still on the edge of the bed. Jos and Meredith both watched her closely.
‘What day is it?’ asked Meredith.
‘Sunday,’ said George, dully.
‘Can you get married on Sundays?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so. It maybe depends on whether you get married in church or a register office. If you were a Jew it would be a help.’
‘Are you a Jew?’ Meredith said to Jos.
‘No. Are you?’
‘I don’t think so. When shall we get married then? Tomorrow? No, not a Monday.’
‘I’ll have to get a licence,’ Jos said.
‘Why! I’m not a dog,’ said Meredith.
‘Where are we going to live?’ asked Jos.
‘Where do you think? Here of course.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Jos said, angrily, miserably aware that George had flushed crimson.
‘Well, where do you suggest? I’ve never been to wherever you live. Where do you live anyway? Can we go there?’
‘No,’ said Jos. ‘I live in a lousy bed-sitting room in Earls Court.’
‘My God,’ said Meredith. ‘And you turn your nose up at this. George’s flat is about the only nice one I know.’
‘Exactly,’ said Jos, ‘it’s George’s flat. Hasn’t it occurred to you that she definitely won’t want a married couple and baby sharing her two rooms k and b? Where do you expect her to sleep, you selfish bitch?’
‘On that extremely comfortable divan in the sitting room,’ said Meredith. ‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with it, is there George?’
‘Nothing at all,’ said George, quietly.
She wanted to ask Meredith why she wasn’t getting rid of this baby like all the others. As far as she knew, Meredith had disposed of four altogether, in spite of George’s passionate pleas for her not to. She only knew because the last twice Meredith had borrowed £20 from her. When George had tried to refuse, and force her to have the baby, Meredith had said that if she couldn’t get the money to have it done properly she’d get some dirty old woman to do it with a pair of knitting-needles. So George had given in, swearing it was the last time.
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