With No Crying

by Celia Fremlin

  The joy of it was beyond belief; and while the magical springtime burgeoned towards summer, and branches heavy with may looped low above their giggling heads, they would whisper low to one another about the latest crop of wonders. How Gordon the cricket captain had been glimpsed putting his cycling-clips on and mounting his bicycle yesterday afternoon just by the school gate; or how Trevor (Miranda’s one) had almost collided with her as he raced down the steps of the Science Block, evidently late for something.

  Suppose they had actually collided, Miranda rapturously surmised, her eyes half-closed against the incredible blueness of the sky: suppose he had knocked her right to the bottom, and had then kneeled by her, white-faced with concern, his hand on her breast to make sure her heart was still beating…. And then again (for fair’s fair, and Sharon was entitled to her turn) suppose that, mounting his bicycle, Gordon Hargreaves had caught sight of Sharon, her newly-washed hair lapping almost to her waist, and had paused for a moment to wonder who she was, and why he’d never noticed her before? Leaning his bicycle carefully and deliberately against the fence, suppose he’d strolled towards her, with a look of growing wonder in his laughing blue eyes…

  Supposing … supposing …! It was no wonder that the actual experiences of the supposedly-luckier girls who had real-life, flesh-and-blood boy friends, seemed tame indeed in comparison, not to say depressing. Listening, on Monday mornings, to the variegated setbacks and traumas endured over the weekend by their ostensibly more fortunate classmates—the tales of telephone calls that never came; of dates that ended in tears and recriminations; of being kept waiting; of being stood-up; of being kissed “like that”, and of not being kissed “like that”; of unloving words and of uncouth behaviour; of being taller than him and looking like a pair of Charlies walking along together—listening to all this, Miranda and Sharon could hardly help, sometimes, giving way to a deep, secret conviction of their own superior good fortune.

  Because, of course, there was no way in which their loved ones could fail them in this sort of distressing fashion—or indeed in any fashion. Since neither Gordon the cricket captain nor Trevor the chess champion had ever spoken to either of the girls, or were even aware of their existence, there was absolutely no way in which they could let them down. No way in which they could slight them, neglect them, be unfaithful to them or even (God forbid!) bore them.

  *

  There is something in human nature which cannot leave well alone, which is somehow impelled to interfere, to provoke change, in no matter how blissful and ideal a situation. Thus it was with Miranda and Sharon, the precipitating factor in their case being the school dance, billed to take place at the end of May, on the last Friday before half-term.

  Naturally enough, the occasion seemed, in prospect, to present unprecedented opportunities to anyone in the throes of undeclared and unrequited love. For the dance was one of the few occasions in the school year when the normal barriers of hierarchy, age and status could be expected to break down, and it would actually become possible for a fourth-former to walk up to a top prefect and say—Well, say something, anyway …

  What they would say, when and how they would summon up the courage to say it, required quite a bit of advance planning, and in the end they settled for a scheme both simple and ingenious: each girl, at some time during the evening, was to walk boldly up to the other one’s beloved and offer to introduce him to “my friend”. The idea seemed to both of them a brilliant one, and very nearly foolproof, for this way each girl only risked a snub from the boy she wasn’t in love with, and so suicide would be unnecessary.

  Simple enough in conception, the plan proved by no means so easy of execution. The difficulties surged in upon them in a blast of noise and heat and colour the moment they set foot in the big hall where the dance was being held. Somehow they hadn’t quite envisaged all this crush… all this din. Even to find their unsuspecting prey would be a mammoth task; and as for waiting around for an appropriate moment—“Not while he’s talking to someone,” they’d promised each other beforehand, “and not if he looks busy… or preoccupied… or in a hurry”—such niceties would clearly have to go by the board. They’d be lucky if they even got a glimpse of their respective victims, either of them.

  Still, they weren’t the sort of girls to give up easily. Twice… thrice… they prowled the length and breadth of the dance hall, peering ferociously into the undergrowth of bright dresses and swaying bodies; and it was only when, after a few more turns, they decided to give themselves a breather out in the cool of the corridor, that suddenly it all happened. All at once the swing doors at the far end burst apart at the impact of a fresh band of revellers, and almost without warning Miranda found herself less than a yard from her friend’s beloved as he hurried past with an ice-cream cone in each hand.

  There was no escape. It had happened: and only now did Miranda realise how deeply she’d been counting on the probability that it wouldn’t. She felt her mouth go dry, and her knees shook, even though he wasn’t the one she was in love with.

  “Would you like to meet my friend, Sharon Whittaker?” she blurted out. He stopped at once, looking a bit surprised, but smiling down at her amiably enough.

  “Sorry, love—” he gestured apologetically with the near-side ice-cream, “Later on—d’you mind?” and with another vague gesture of distracted goodwill, he disappeared through the door into the crowded dance hall, and vanished from their sight.

  Well, at least he hadn’t snubbed her. He’d been nice enough, it hadn’t been a disaster; but on the other hand you couldn’t call it a success, either. Disappointing, especially for Sharon.

  Still, he might come back. His words had vaguely implied something of the kind, had they not? For a while, the two conspirators hung about in the doorway, their eyes darting this way and that among the crowd, bright and intent as blackbirds watching for worms.

  But he didn’t come; and presently, when they began to realise it was hopeless, it became necessary to apply their minds to the next item on the agenda—Trevor Marks. It was Sharon who must stick her neck out this time, and see if she could do better on Miranda’s behalf than Miranda had on hers.

  Systematically she set about her task, working her way back and forth across the packed dance floor, quartering the ground, with Miranda like a gun dog close on her heels.

  It didn’t take so long this time. Within a very few minutes they had their quarry cornered, and proceeded, with a fine display of averted eyes and calculated unconcern, to close in on him. It so happened that at this particular moment Trevor Marks was deeply engaged in conversation—but what of it? The conversation was only with another boy, and therefore didn’t count. Planting herself sturdily in the victim’s direct line of vision, Sharon boldly interrupted in mid-sentence whatever it was he was saying.

  “May I introduce my friend Mira—?” she was beginning—then took a step back in surprise as he immediately whirled round on her with a dazzling smile, beaming it first upon her and then swivelling it expertly towards Miranda.

  “Hi!” he greeted them collectively. “Can I get you both a drink?” Cider?—No, wait, I’ve a better idea. Stay here, don’t go away, there’s good girls, I’ll be back in a sec.—”

  But by the time he returned, a glass of foaming beer in each hand, Sharon had loyally (and according to plan) disappeared.

  “Where’s your friend?” he asked, glancing round enquiringly; and Miranda, opening her mouth to reply, found herself incapable of uttering a single word. It was as if she’d suffered a stroke, like an old woman of ninety, right there on the dance floor.

  Never mind about being witty and brilliant, as in her dreams; all she could pray for now was the strength to say something. Anything.

  “I don’t… that is… well, she was here a minute ago,” she managed at last, and tried to hide her burning cheeks by raising her glass and taking a gulp of beer. It tasted awful.

  “Oh.” He didn’t pursue the subject; and after a few more halti
ng exchanges (“What class are you in, then?” “Four A.” “You like it there?” “It’s O.K.”), the conversation ground to a halt.

  She was boring him, she knew, but there was nothing she could do about it. She was like the princess in the fairy story, only in her case it was not toads but monosyllables that leapt out every time she opened her mouth. Presently (and who could blame him?) he gave up, and stood lounging against the wall in silence, watching her drink her beer, waiting for her to finish.

  How she got it down she did not know, it was so bitter, and such a lot of it, but she could hardly abandon it unfinished with him standing watching her like that through half-closed eyes. But she came to the end of it at last, and no sooner had she set the glass down than her companion seemed suddenly to spring to life. Seizing her by the elbow, he proceeded to steer her swiftly and purposefully through the crowd in the direction of the main doors.

  “Let’s get out of here!” he mouthed into her ear—the din by this time was terrible—and then, as the crowds began to thin out a little as they neared the exit, he added softly, “Feel like a stroll outside?”

  CHAPTER III

  THE MOON WAS full, the air heavy with the scent of roses, but already, before he’d even kissed her, Miranda knew that it was over. She was in love no more. Somewhere during the course of this glittering long-awaited evening, between the moment when she’d entered the dance hall half faint with joy and this present moment of walking out under the moon arm in arm with the lover of her dreams—somewhere the glory had departed, and it would return no more.

  In the grey of the moonlight, with the wet grass soaking up through her flimsy sandals, Miranda shivered a little; and her companion’s arm tightened across her shoulders, just as it had done in so many a dream scenario.

  What had happened? Where was the sense of a miracle come true? On the day I die, she should have been saying to herself, this is the moment I shall remember. This is the moment for which I was born, the moment for which all the rest of my life has been but a prelude, a background of shadow. Where were these longed-for, long-anticipated feelings?

  If only it wasn’t actually happening—that was what was spoiling it all! With a sort of desperation, like pushing her fist through a plate glass window, Miranda tried to reach right through and past the reality of it and get to the dream again; to clutch at those last wisps of magic which must—surely they must?—still be floating somewhere, just beyond her grasp, in the silvery light of the moon? This is Trevor, she kept insisting to herself… Trevor Marks. Marks … Marks … the surname which only yesterday had set her heart thudding at the very sight of an L–R telephone directory? What had happened to the magic word? What ailed it? Why had it sickened thus in the pale light of the moon? With a gigantic effort of mental concentration, Miranda willed her heart to beat faster in the old wonderful way; but it would not.

  And now, in the black moon-shadow of some great tree or something, he was kissing her. Kissing her “like that” as they were wont to describe it in the Fourth Form, and his tongue tasted exactly as you would have expected a tongue to taste. Which was odd, when you came to think about it, because how could she have had any expectations, never having tasted another person’s tongue before? Once, in the childish times before they’d fallen in love, she and Sharon had discussed the matter at some length, and had decided—with some reluctance, indeed, but in the interests of research—to taste each other’s tongues; but when it came to the point, the sight of one another’s anxious faces looming nearer and nearer had reduced them to such a fit of giggling that the project had had to be abandoned.

  They were in the shrubbery now, with hazel twigs and great flat clusters of rhododendron meeting above their heads. There was no wind, but the whole place was a-rustle with night sounds, and in the darkness silvery streaks of moonlight came at them like spears through the black leaves: and by now there was no doubt in Miranda’s mind at all about what was going to happen. He was going to do “It”. This was another Fourth Form euphemism. His arms were like tight bands around her, and his voice was trembling.

  “On the Pill, are you?” he asked hoarsely; and, “Yes!” lied Miranda without a moment’s hesitation.

  Well, you could hardly walk with a boy’s arm around you all across a moonlit lawn and into a shrubbery, and then say “No”, could you? Not nowadays, anyway. If you ever could, come to that, at any place or time?

  Anyway, “Yes!” she answered stoutly—and then wondered, anxiously, what she was supposed to do next? Did the girl have to do anything, apart from saying “yes”, or was it all up to the boy from this point on? This was something they didn’t tell you in the sex lessons, and of course no one would dare to ask, because it would look as if they didn’t know.

  It seemed wrong, somehow, with most of their clothes still on like this, her pretty frothy skirt all bunched up around her waist and getting ruined. Somehow, she’d thought you were supposed to be naked; but Trevor had made no attempt to remove anything but his trousers, and of course he must know best. His weight was crushing, sharp twigs and spikey dead leaves left over from the winter were grinding into her shoulder-blades through the nylon, but she dared not ask him to shift his position. Maybe the man couldn’t, once he’d got started?—in which case it would be an awful request to make. Besides, she was supposed to be experiencing rapture, wasn’t she, not thinking about twigs and things…

  How long did it go on? That was another thing they didn’t tell you in the sex lessons, didn’t give you even the most approximate idea. Suppose it went on for an hour!

  And there was another anxiety growing upon her as the moments passed: were you supposed to talk while it was going on? To make conversation? It had been bad enough trying to think up something to say while drinking beer with him, but this was much, much worse. What could you talk about, for Heaven’s sake? Nice evening, isn’t it…? Do you do this often…?

  Was it possible for the man to be actually bored while doing “It”? Was this why he wasn’t saying anything, and had begun hurrying so…?

  And quite suddenly, it was over. It hadn’t lasted an hour or anything like it: more like a minute, really, or even less—and at first Miranda was uncertain whether it really was over? Suppose those little cries, this sudden collapse of movement, were a prelude to something further—something she ought to know about, that other girls knew about, and that he’d expect her to know? How did you know for certain when the man was finished…? Only when Trevor sat up, and began brushing twigs and leaves from his jacket, did she feel sure that the thing was really at an end, and ventured to sit up likewise.

  In the darkness, she could hear him scrabbling his trousers back on, and she needed no silver shaft of moonlight to show her that he was avoiding looking in her direction.

  Only when he was fully dressed and on his feet did he at last speak.

  “Better go back separately,” he muttered awkwardly. “I’ll clear out right away, but don’t you come… You wait here another couple of minutes…” and with a crash of undergrowth and snapping twigs he was gone.

  There wasn’t a reason in the world why they shouldn’t have walked back across the moonlit lawn together, and he must have known it. The gardens were alive with strolling couples, no one would have given them a second glance. Sadly, Miranda fancied that she could see right through him to his real motives; that she understood, with her woman’s intuition, the true nature of his reluctance.

  He was bored with her. He’d been bored with her on the dance floor, bored during the stroll in the moonlight, bored during the sex act. Why should he inflict on himself the further boredom of escorting her back indoors?

  “O.K.,” she mumbled, utterly humbled by failure, and with no other thought in her mind other than so to comport herself as not to make matters even worse, to pile further humiliations on top of those already endured.

  And never for one moment did it occur to her, either then or later, that he might be feeling just as bothered about the quality
of his performance as she was about hers.

  They had one thing in common, though, despite all these doubts and misunderstandings; and this was an urgent mutual need never to encounter one another again.

  CHAPTER IV

  “BUT, DARLING, IF you love each other there’s nothing to feel guilty about,” urged Norah Field, leaning forward in her high-backed chair and gazing earnestly into her daughter’s face. “Sex between young teenagers is the most natural thing…. I can understand exactly how it happened…”

  Understanding on this scale was only to be expected, of course, in a home like Miranda’s; sitting there at her mother’s feet, she felt it coming at her, wave after familiar wave.

  “And I’m so thankful, darling,” Mrs Field continued, bending to stroke the bright, drooping head, “that you’ve come to me with your troubles, and not kept them hidden away, … that you feel you can trust me… I’m so pleased about that—so very, very pleased…!”

  She sounded pleased, too. Tracing with her forefinger the muted, pinkish patterns of the drawing room carpet, Miranda could not repress the suspicion that her mother was thoroughly enjoying herself. And why not, indeed? The whole thing was right up her street, she’d have been wasted, in a manner of speaking, on a daughter who didn’t get pregnant while still in the Fourth Form.

  “There’s only just one thing, though, sweetheart”—Mrs Field was hurrying through this bit as quickly as she could, anxious to get back to being non-judgmental at top speed—“… just one thing I feel you’ve been a teeny bit naughty about. You should have told me, dear, as soon as—well, at the start of—I mean before the two of you actually… You see, if only I’d known, I could have had a word with the doctor, got him to fix you up with something…”

  “He wouldn’t have. I’m under age,” Miranda retorted, quite rudely; and for just a fraction of a second, Mrs Field looked quite stunned, as if she’d been slapped across the face.