HAS A WHORE FOR A WIFE WHO SLEEPS AROUND.
It was really quite impossible to appreciate its full crudity in a moment. They sat for a while thinking about it, and Paul found his mind wandering and he began to read a child’s essay that was left open on the desk. It was by Jeremy Rutland, an epileptic. Paul remembered how disconcerted he had been when the boy had had a fit during an English lesson. The class had been bored and Jeremy provided an interesting distraction for them. He had been showered with conflicting advice on how to deal with the boy, who was spreadeagled on the floor, his eyes dilated and saliva, whipped to a foam, trickling from his mouth. Paul, who had definite instructions on how to treat him, ignored their comments, and after an active five minutes Jeremy was recovering. In about ten minutes he was the hero of the hour and spent some time telling Paul exactly how to treat his sudden paralysis.
‘Well?’ asked Storm, brutally invading his reminiscences and jerking him back to the undesirable present.
Paul shrugged his shoulders. ‘People are bloody,’ he said moderately.
‘But who on earth would do this?’ Storm seemed desperately anxious that he should throw some light on it. He also looked thoroughly frightened.
‘What about the cat? You seem to have forgotten that.’
‘Yes, but–that seemed more like a rather macabre trick–this–this is just dreadful,’ Storm finished ineffectually.
‘We’ve obviously got someone here, besides me of course, who is rather undesirable.’
‘Can you never consider anything without introducing yourself?’ Storm snapped.
‘I’m sorry,’ Paul replied mildly. Really, it was hardly worth arguing with Storm again. ‘I must confess that I never knew my wife slept around–that part is news to me–nor did I ever realise she was a whore.’
‘I trust you don’t believe it,’ Storm said pedantically.
‘Well, I’ve really no proof one way or the other, have I? You know the situation–she’d probably be a damn sight better off if she did. Anyway, let’s be quite straightforward, Storm. Your main concern isn’t whether I’m a queer, or rather archaically a drunk–nor is your concern particularly whether my wife is a whore or not. You’re concerned because it’s pretty obvious that whoever wrote that letter–and killed the cat in that rather unpleasant manner–is one of your little community here–am I right?’
‘You are bloody wrong as usual, Paul. Everything connected with this letter worries me–where it came from–who it mentions–’
‘Yes–but consideration number one I think should be–’
‘Don’t bother–you’re very predictable. Why do you behave like a bastard to everyone, Paul?’
‘I’m living up to expectations–I wouldn’t like to disappoint anyone.’
‘Your self-pity and your self-interest make me want to despise you, but it’s not worth the effort–besides I still like you.’
‘Good old Storm! Loyal to the last, eh?’
‘Perhaps you’d like to go away now.’
Paul sat where he was for a moment and then walked to the door. As he opened it, he said:
‘I am sorry about it, Storm–I don’t care what’s in it particularly–but I’m sorry it came to you and not to me–and I’m sorry about the school–I realise I’m being a bastard, but I’m trying to resolve something–and I’m selfish enough to want to work myself out before I think of anyone else.’
‘And what about Meg?’
‘I don’t know anything about Meg–I don’t care anything about her.’
‘Then what about me?’
‘I’m sorry for you–that’s all–just sorry for you.’ Paul opened the door as Storm made some reply which was drowned by the most almighty noise from the class he was meant to be taking. He turned in its direction.
Two days passed, during which the weather broke and it poured. There was no point in going out, and it was only Alexander and Adrian, accompanied by an unwilling Eric, who raced across the sodden sands to the cave. The boat, they reckoned, was almost seaworthy, and was ready for its coatings of pitch. Sunday afternoon–and the beach was deserted. It was cold and they sent Eric to search for dry wood to make a fire at the mouth of the cave–they would have to risk being observed from the school.
But it was practically impossible to find anything dry at all, although he searched diligently, fearful of Adrian’s anger. Meanwhile, the other two slapped on the pitch, companionably discussing this and that. Alexander found that despite the fact that he still disliked Adrian intensely, the spirit of the whole adventure was gradually forcing them into a kind of uncritical comradeship, superficial yet necessary to the game which he was almost beginning to enjoy, despite himself.
Eric paused in his fruitless search and watched the rain sheet into the sea, tearing open the boiling undulations of the waves as if the drops were tiny darts and the rollers the belly of some huge animal. It was very rough and the waves were breaking on the pebbles, sending billows of foam high in the air to meet the thrashing rain. He could smell the raw tang of the surf and he could feel the salt stiffen his face. Timid as he was, Eric loved these swollen days, when the leaden sky seemed to touch the wave crests far out to sea. Particularly he liked to stand on the cliffs and watch the breakers roll in from miles out; well-ordered battalions relentlessly crashing themselves against the chalk, undermining and eroding as they went. Huge portions of chalk crashed down each year and the erosion gradually gained ground.
He looked back towards the school which was almost obscured by a mist that was settling on it from the downs. Crowded against the rising ground, cocooned in a wet blanket of moisture, Exeter Court looked remote and lonely.
Meg could hardly see the beach from the bedroom window and she watched the clammy mist and rain with a growing dreariness. When she was going or what she was going to do with herself she had not the faintest idea. She had a brother in Yorkshire, Tim, who was something to do with a big chemical works. He had a wife, three children and a demanding job. There wouldn’t be room for her–she wasn’t going to try it. But where else? It had come, finally, by her own dictate. She had released herself and it was up to her to replan her life as best she could. But she wasn’t very good at this kind of thing–she had had very little experience of independence and her loneliness had only increased her lack of it.
The scene of a few days ago had only increased her despair. She tried to analyse whether or not she had any remaining love for Paul. His detached cruelty, his deliberation, his apathy and abject self-pity were consistently in front of her mind. He had behaved abominably and she could not muster up a spark of sympathy for him. She supposed that he had finally killed her love for him; besides, there was no doubt that he hated the sight of her. It was bad enough to have fallen out of love with her, but his active hate wounded her so much more–perhaps because she had got used to the other idea.
She thought back to the time when she had been with Storm and he had suddenly and surprisingly placed his hand on her breast. Could it simply have been a token of sympathy or more–she had never really thought about him very deeply. He certainly meant nothing to her. He had been a remote figure, she never felt he noticed her. She did her job efficiently and that satisfied him. She had got the job because she was his friend’s wife–and possibly because he was sorry for her. He was still sorry for her–probably more so now. Could it have been that that prompted his sudden intimacy? Suddenly she hoped it wasn’t.
Lethargically she made herself a cup of tea, clattering around the familiar kitchen, its loved utensils in place all round her. She wondered how on earth she and Paul were going to live together until the end of term. She sat down on the sofa. Two springs had gone and it sagged in the middle. It looked very uncomfortable. They’d had it for years–she remembered buying it in an auction before they were married. What would they do with the furniture anyway? Each bit of it lovingly bargained or saved for. Who was to have what? All kinds of mundane questions–heartbreaking realities that woul
d have to be decided upon–soon.
Meg cried for a while. She thought of all the things she had said–and he had said to her. She cried harder–the tears poured down her face. The kettle began to whistle and sniffing she went out to the kitchen. As Meg took the cup off she burnt her hand and noticed that there was a large damp patch on the ceiling. She looked round the flat as she came out with the tea. They had bought nothing new since they had been married–Meg saw the same suite of furniture that she had re-covered rather badly in a flowered print a few years ago. Her collection of Wedgwood, stacked neatly in two glass cabinets–too precious to use–and each dusting was an unbearably tense process. The rugs that had been her mother’s, frayed and worn, and the few pictures that they had been able to afford. There were Picasso lithographs–hurried preliminary sketches of a bullfight–a large poster paint abstract given by a friend, which really needed a room to itself, and two Sickert water-colours that had been passed down to her through the family. Everything was precious in the flat–but what would she do with it all?
The mist seemed to make the room as clammy as the outside and Meg switched on the electric fire. She stretched out on the sofa, stirred her tea, lit a cigarette and plunged fiercely into Woman’s Own. There was one escape that she knew was really effective–the most murky, sentimental piece of romantic fiction she could find. She would revel in the tribulations of younger sisters who come to London to find their glamorous older sister’s boy-friend irresistible, the frustrations of doctors and nurses, the inhibitions of young wives with busy husbands in dreary suburbs, lively secretaries’ hearts being broken and patched up by outwardly callous, secretly caring bosses and best of all the superior class of story where all seems lost to the tender-hearted naive young lovers until they are saved at the end by a miracle. She would wallow in sentimentality and happy endings, whilst she drank pots of strong tea and smoked too many cigarettes. This would blind her completely to her own thoughts which was exactly what she wanted. She was just in the middle of an interesting skirmish between a bachelor gay and a girl who was convinced she was on the shelf for good and all when a knock at the door brought her back to reality. Sighing she sipped at her still untouched tea and opened the door, to find Storm standing there looking rather irritable.
‘What have you been doing? I’ve been knocking for ages.’
‘Sorry–Didn’t hear–I was reading–Do you want some tea?’
‘Yes–thanks. What were you reading that was so engrossing?’
‘Only Woman’s Own stuff–you wouldn’t approve.’
‘Oh, I don’t know–I’m inclined to read Lettie’s copy in the bath–or the loo. I find it very relaxing. I’m sure there’s a formula for these stories–a sort of interchangeable plot and cast list. If I had more time I’d write them–’
‘You’ve got good material anyway.’
‘Ah–but it’s not romantic enough–they’d reject it out of hand.’
He sat down on the edge of the chair opposite her and looked uncomfortable. Small talk was not his strong point.
‘Paul’s rather a catalyst, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t want to talk about Paul. Besides, aren’t you being rather unfair?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Don’t let’s talk about him–I think too much about it myself so I’d welcome a change of subject.’
‘Let’s talk about you then–’
‘There’s nothing left to say–Why have you come?’
‘Shall I go then?’
‘No. I just want to know why you came.’
‘Impulse, I suppose. I didn’t think about it–I just came.’
He was still sitting on the edge of the chair–a big man, out of place in her rather feminine room. Paul never had any ideas about furniture, so it was all her choice.
‘Would you like some biscuits?’
‘Yes, please,’ he said and she went into the kitchen to get them. When she came back, he said:
‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’
‘I’ve been just trying to think–I haven’t really started sort of looking–I could get something anyway. Monday–I’ll start–to look around.’
‘What will Paul do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I shall miss you.’
‘You’ll miss Paul–I’ll be all right.’
‘I hope so.’
Suddenly she shouted at him: ‘Will you stop feeling so damn sorry for me–it makes me feel worse than anything.’ Why was it so easy to hurt him?
‘I’m not feeling sorry for you–it’s just that I like you enough to want to know what’s going to happen to you.’
He was not an attractive man, she thought. And at the same moment as she was feeling almost revolted by him she felt an immediate physical desire–something that happened inside her so quickly that she wanted to get up and leave him then. The impulse took her by surprise and she could hardly speak without her voice trembling. It was ridiculous yet horribly real. She unwillingly remembered the way he had placed his hand over her breast. The sensation had been forgotten, or overtaken by surprise, but now she remembered it and his touch had been sure and provoking. Meg tried to shrug it off but it was impossible not to feel the desire inside herself–impossible to speak normally with it tugging at her. I don’t want to–I don’t want this–She found she was almost sweating in her desperation to ignore its demanding existence. She looked at his lips again–and the hair on the backs of his hands. She wondered how much hair he had on his body. He was saying something–she must concentrate–she had to answer in a moment and whilst she searched for some reply the desire surged over her and locked her in immediate indecision. She managed to stumble out something or other and then hypnotically watched him talk. He had crossed his legs and his thighs spilled over, full and alluring in his loose trousers. What the hell was the matter with her? Was she so miserable that she desperately needed sex to stabilise her? As she questioned herself she realised that this might be sordidly true–and all her former repulsion returned coupled with an animal desire that she could hardly contain. She prayed for him to go, but he sat immovable, talking on whilst she desired him a little more each second.
They had been working for about three hours, all three of them, with the rain beating down outside the cave. The tar was drying quickly and they were applying the third coat. Adrian leaned back and said:
‘Break–five minutes.’
The other two seemed exhausted. Eric looked ready to drop and Alexander felt as if his back was breaking. He was surprised that Adrian seemed to have so much physical stamina.
‘Do you think she’ll float?’ asked Eric.
‘Of course she will, you idiot,’ snapped Adrian.
Eric subsided and picked his nose quietly. Alexander, who couldn’t stand watching him, kicked him. ‘Stop that filthy habit, you mucky little devil.’ Eric looked at him surprised and hurt–he wasn’t used to being kicked by his champion. Alexander avoided his mournful gaze and spoke to Adrian, who seemed deep in thought, his face covered in tar and sweat on his forehead. Alexander didn’t want to get too near him as he smelled revoltingly of stale perspiration every time he exerted himself.
‘When do we sail?’ he asked respectfully. How he wished Shirley were here to share this. Then he blushed in the half light as he realised that it was because of his sister that he was here. He was glad that the cave was too dim for the others to see his face.
‘I was just thinking–we’ll have a dummy run just to see if she’s O.K. Just us three–the others haven’t helped much.’
‘How many can we get inside?’
‘About eight I should think–as many as possible anyway.’
His small eyes stared out from behind the heavy lenses–they were excited and full of anticipation.
‘But when shall we have it–when shall we try her out?’ Alexander caught the contagious excitement and Eric began to bounce up and down, kicking up the sand so that it stuck to the st
icky sides of the boat. A sudden squall drove some rain down inside the cave but they didn’t notice.
‘We ought to christen her first–we’ll have them all here to do that. Then say–the day after Parents’ Day, in the evening just as it’s getting dark, then no one will see us.’
‘Supposing she sinks?’
‘We can all swim, can’t we? Anyway, we won’t take her too far out. But she won’t sink–she’s jolly seaworthy.’ And Adrian kicked the side of the boat, which gave off a reassuring dull thud. Eric began to kick it too but was quickly restrained by Adrian, who twisted his arm up behind his back until Eric began to cry loudly. Something suddenly happened to Alexander; he felt revolted at the deliberate sadism and sensed that he could condone it no longer. Recklessly he grabbed Adrian round the neck and threw him on the ground. He stood over him, wondering idly what he was going to say and what form his retribution would take. Adrian lay there for a moment, looking up at him blankly. Then his face hardened and he said: ‘You could have broken my glasses,’ and he got to his feet, polishing them fastidiously. The tone of his voice frightened Alexander considerably; he had definitely overstepped the mark, and he began to sweat when he thought of what Adrian could do to him. But nothing more was said and Adrian turned his back on them both as he began to slap on more pitch. Alexander looked across at Eric–he appeared terrified. Outside the rain began to fall more sporadically and seagulls wheeled across the wet sand as it was uncovered by the outgoing tide. Crabs scuttled out of the pools and ran across the sand whilst the oil drum quivered as its occupant found that the entrance had been blocked by a mound of seaweed. A huge crab was trapped within the rusty metal and would remain ensnared until it was released by the force of the tide. It threw itself against the sides of its prison but to no avail–after a while it crawled into a corner and waited.
‘Parents’ Day is going to be the worst ever this year, you know. I’m just not up to it.’
‘That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that.’
The Seahorse Page 17
