by Gee, Maurice
‘He’s gone, Stell. It was just the wire.’
Duncan unclenches her fingers and takes the golf ball from her hand. He puts it in the water and lets it sink. ‘In case he looks tomorrow. Listen Stell, that’s New Year.’
The men in the gum trees are yodelling and whistling. People on the lawns call out and bang things together and car horns toot from behind the house. Someone puts a loud record on.
‘Come on, we’ll walk to the bridge.’
She straightens up. Releases his hand, then grabs it again to steady herself.
‘That’s one time he didn’t win,’ Duncan says.
Halfway to the bridge she stops and kisses his cheek. ‘Happy New Year, Duncan.’
He smiles.
That makes two times tonight I’ve been kissed.
17
Norma was happy when she left the party but happiness subtracted in quanta as she put her car in the garage, walked up the path, let herself in, turned on the lights, saw kitchen and living-room and bedroom. ‘Here I am again.’ That chair, that bed, that dressing-table, that familiar House and Garden emptiness. It was tidy and comfortable, but had a squalor of insufficiency. The cat had followed her from the garage. It rubbed about her calves to be picked up, so she picked it up; then held it under its middle and dropped it on four feet; pushed with her toe. She was not going to have her closest touching with a cat.
How, she asked, did I get into this state? Was it the party? It had been successful as parties go. Lots of shiny good-fellowship; rather like a polished apple in fact, but little spots of black, little spots of nastiness here and there. She had enjoyed Duncan; but Duncan was insufficient too. He wanted only small things from her now, which she could give. Her main function was to watch him as a spectacle. Duncan’s life would fill him to the limits of his mind and with any luck there’d be an overflow into his feelings – she must hope – and possibly exteriors, face and body, would not count. But watching was not a role that could satisfy. Duncan passed like a jogger, gave a shout and wave, and loped away; not of her kind.
She washed her hands. She took a needle from her sewing box and tried to dig a gorse prickle from her palm. It would not come. Blood filled the hole she made and swamped the speck, so she put Vaseline on a bandaid and covered it. Thinking all the time, what is K. for?
‘Thanks. K.B.’: the note in the ice-cream container in her milk box. Fancy someone going to that trouble, returning a disposable container, the very next day. It was ludicrous. She was, though, excited by his B. instead of Birtles. She read in it a kind of ease their walk on the island had made grounds for; but had not been able to decide that a next move must come from her.
Next move, she thought. Good God, is it like that? I’m forty-five and I’m damned if I’ll play teenagers again. If I want a man to go to bed with me I’ll ask, that’s all.
Norma smiled. Now she’d had a triumph over herself; had brought it from its hiding place – go to bed. Appropriate phrase, for she wanted more than just sex; but less of course than a lasting relationship. Not perhaps even ongoing – dreadful word. Going on for a little while though – a week or two of close-touching would suit her fine. But no, no, definitely not just sex. She smiled in recollection of a friend – another town, another age – a nursing-sister who had made do with not very frequent one night stands: ‘There’s nothing like a good fuck to set a girl up for the winter.’ Norma had been shocked, but she understood now. Wanted, though, something more than just a four-letter act for herself.
I could have brought Tony home, she thought. Tony Hillman, known quantity, very safe. K. Birtles was a mystery. K. Birtles might be dangerous. He might even be the kind of man who would get into a fit of puritan rage. She did not think so. Knowledge of him might be discovered; it was only a matter of friendly invitation. He might say no to a New Year’s drink; or she could send him home after it; or anything.
Norma looked up his number and telephoned. He was probably at a party of his own.
‘Oh, Mr Birtles, it’s Norma Sangster. How are you?’
‘Hello. OK.’ She wanted to laugh at his surprise.
‘Thank you for returning my ice-cream carton.’
‘No trouble. I wasn’t sure you’d want it.’
‘No, I didn’t. Still, it’s the thought. Mr Birtles, I know it’s late, but I was wondering if you’d like to come over for a New Year’s drink.’
Now there’s a silence, Norma thought as it went on and on.
‘Are you still there?’
‘I’d never make it. It’s ten to twelve.’
‘Oh well, time doesn’t matter. What’s a few minutes either way?’
‘Have you got a party on?’
‘No, I’m all alone. Are you alone?’ She had not thought of that. Perhaps his wife was out of hospital.
‘Yeah, I am.’
‘Will you come then?’
Silence again. It wasn’t that her brain was quicker than his, just that she knew what was going on.
‘OK, I’ll come. I’ll bring a bottle, eh?’
‘No, I’ve got plenty. I’ll see you soon. Goodbye.’ Norma hung up. She was full of confidence, so why was she trembling? The thoughtful woman had a quick shower; but evidence of that might alarm him, and really she was clean enough. I want to give him signs I’m just like him, because I am, I’m nothing special, and we can surely have the odd bit of sweat from the day. In the bathroom she cleaned her make-up off, guessing he’d like her more that way. Then she checked that beer was in the fridge, though hoping he’d choose a more interesting drink. She spread a few crackers with pate and blue vein cheese. Put out olives? Yes, why not? Olives for me. If he doesn’t like them that’s too bad. Wondered if entertaining, feeding him, would turn out to be all she would want.
He took longer to arrive than she had expected. Cars went by but none stopped. Horns and hooters sounded in the town. It was New Year. He’s got cold feet, he’s chickened out. She ate an olive and poured herself a drink. All the while she knew that he would come.
‘Hallo, you made it. I didn’t hear a car.’
‘I rode Hayley’s bike. It hasn’t got a light so I had to hold a torch.’ Held it in his hand. ‘Those things are not easy to ride with one hand.’
‘I’m sure they’re not.’ He had not wanted to leave his car at her gate. There’s delicacy for you, she thought; but tried then to put that smart way of responding off. He did not thrill or even interest her. She admired the plainness of him, body, mind, and knew her instinct had been right, they would manage joining of an undemanding sort. Pleasant and plain. Oh do stop it Norma, she told herself.
‘I brought the bike in, round the back.’
‘It’s very thoughtful of you.’ Stop it, stop it.
‘Ten-speed bikes get pinched.’ He was hostile.
‘Come in here. Put your torch down. What will you drink?’
‘What have you got?’ He held his peaked cap – baseball cap? – in one hand and when he sat wore it on his knee. ‘Rum, eh? Rum and coke. You got any coke?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘Whisky and ginger ale then, that’ll do.’
When she handed it to him he pointed at her blouse. ‘That’s not boysenberry juice.’
She looked and found the spot. ‘No, it’s blood. I pricked my hand on a gorse bush.’ She showed him the bandaid. ‘I can’t get the prickle out.’
‘If there’s a prickle in there it’s not gorse.’ Such dogmatism. ‘Gorse doesn’t snap off. I know. I was always digging prickles out of the kids.’
‘Well, it might be a barberry. I think there was some barberry up there.’
‘Yeah, barberry’s a cow. I don’t know why you people let it in.’
‘Oh, we made hundreds of mistakes of that sort. Rabbits and possums and blackberry and old man’s beard. And gorse of course.’ Repeated it for the rhyme. Why are we talking like this? ‘Here’s to a Happy New Year.’
‘It’s got to be better than the last.’
They drank and looked at each other. She liked what she saw up to the point of finding him original. Beyond that were none of the things she looked for in a man. To put it simply, mind in a face. Mind, of course, was not always trustworthy and sometimes in the end had little weight – see Tony Hillman. But K. Birtles – Norma looked and saw – had his hard experience marked there, and that was something. Men usually managed to cover that sort of nakedness.
He had come in sneakers and jeans and windcheater. And baseball cap. Original, for this sort of assignation. Norma liked it.
‘What does K. stand for?’
‘Ken.’
‘That was my father’s name. I’m Norma, Ken.’
‘Gidday.’
First names were somehow a step back – deleting that bit of – what? – elemental strangeness from the situation. We’re in danger of getting social, we’re going to get embarrassed, and then he’ll go away.
‘I asked you round because I thought that we –’
He stopped her by opening his hand. ‘I know, I’m not dumb.’
‘I never thought you were. The last man I went to bed with, he was dumb. But not you.’ There, it’s out. He sat and watched her with an expression between – was it more of interest or distaste? ‘On the island, I liked you, and I thought that you liked me. And we’re both grown up. We can say what we like.’
‘I’ve got a wife, you know.’
‘I know. And I suppose that makes me a temptress.’ Wrong word. She hurried past it. ‘Please don’t do anything you can’t do. If it’s a betrayal, don’t do it then. If it hurts her, or hurts you.’
He looked away and took a big swallow of his drink. ‘As long as it’s not any big deal, eh?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Some big experience. Something we’ve got to get,’ fluttered his hand in the air, ‘way up here about.’
‘Sex has never been that way for me. But it’s not nothing either.’ Too much talk. ‘Ken.’ She went to him, knelt by his chair. ‘I think I’m only asking for one night.’ She took his hand. It made a jerk, involuntary, then closed hard on her own. ‘Jesus,’ he said. Began to shake. He lowered his head and let his forehead rest on hers. ‘Jesus, Norma.’
‘It’s all right.’ She kissed him softly, quickly, on the mouth.
‘I been working all day. I need a shower.’
She could smell him but it seemed new sweat, not old. ‘I don’t mind if you’re dirty.’
‘No. I need a shower. Where do I go?’
She led him to the bathroom and gave him a towel. He sat on the edge of the bath and undid his sneakers and seemed to want Norma to go away. She went to the bedroom and turned down the bed covers – that bed that was three-quarter, generous and discreet. Is it better to stay dressed or get undressed? She chose undressed, and wiped her damp armpits with a Snowtex. Took the clips out of her hair and let it down. Then turned off the light – did not like love-making in hard light, but wanted a shaded low-watt bulb somewhere near the bed. Tonight though, moonlight, what could be better? She pulled the curtains back and let in the glow; silver but buttery and dulcifying too. I’d better not use words like that with him – and gave a snicker; then felt she had betrayed him and herself.
Norma sat on the edge of the bed. She heard the shower running. She felt girlish, inexperienced in here, though it was a cool thing to strip off and wait on the bed. I’m not alone, she thought, I’ve got someone, and the thought of company, more than sex, made her heart jolt hard, it really thumped her.
He’ll get out of the shower and wonder what in God’s name he’s doing, he’ll want to go. She saw it would alarm him to find himself naked in her house, he’d wonder if he had made an awful mistake, the cops were coming; so she had better be there when he turned off the water and came out.
She went to the bathroom and saw him blurred behind the plastic curtain. He seemed to be washing his hair, and that was weird – was ominous: washing temptation, Norma Sangster, out?
He turned the water off and stepped on to the mat. She handed him his towel and he covered himself. ‘Sorry,’ he said, starting to blush.
‘How did you get like that, in the shower?’
‘Thinking, I guess.’
‘Stop thinking. Ken?’ She put her arms around him, his wet back, felt her breasts slide on his chest, and lower down the abrasive towel, and his hard penis denting her.
‘Come on, not here.’
They lay on the bed and his hair dripped on her.
‘Oh, that cat.’ She slipped away, grabbed the willing thing, and dropped it out of the window into the night. ‘No one can see. Don’t you like the moon?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Norma. I don’t know any fancy stuff.’
How foolish; how sad to have to say a thing like that. ‘I’m just a plain girl. Ken, I do like kissing.’
They made love. He was very plain, delighting her and making her feel she was with someone; as she had not in bed with Tony Hillman – despite his willingness and care – and other men. Some of those acts might as well have been solo for all the interchange in them. But Ken was present, oh he was present, working there like a man with a pick and shovel, involved in his job, practical, unfussy, strong and neat. He forgot his lack of fancy knowledge; had no need for anything like that. And Norma went with him, open wide and wrapped around, her hands clapped on his hard resistant back.
Remembering that night, it was not love-making she brought back but things he said that made her smile, whether they were funny or not. For example: ‘Since I got married I’ve never slept with anyone but my wife.’ And: ‘I guess I should have told you it’s safe, you know, for you. I had a vasectomy when Joanie got sick. Not that I needed to because we stopped doing anything.’ Twice he mentioned his wife, then not again.
She woke to hear him leaving the bed, finding the toilet, peeing, flushing it. When he came back he seemed hesitant, ashamed perhaps of that natural act, so she went too, though she had no need; and back in bed pulled him round to face her and found that he had been thinking again. She bossed him, speeded him then slowed him down, and would have got on top, except he might find that too fancy – another time – and it was less energetic, less of a lovely gallop than the first, but more pleasurable, and Ken Birtles somehow more full of being than before. His hands were abrasive, ridged and hard. All her life the hands of her bed-mates had been soft. This was the first time she had felt palm and fingerpad that had worked. She felt he would be making marks on her and liked the idea. She had made marks on his shoulder with her teeth.
Another thing she remembered: in the dawn he sat on the bed in his underpants and pulled the bandaid off her palm and tried to squeeze the prickle out. It would not come so she fetched a needle and he put the point on the embedded prickle and waggled it – that hurt a bit – and eased it out and laid it on her palm. ‘Barberry. I told you.’
‘Thank you, Ken. I’d never have got it out with my left hand.’
‘You people are bloody lazy. Look at this.’ He picked up one of his sneakers and unlaced it, then laced it again at, oh, high speed, using only his left hand. ‘Anyone can do it. All you got to do is practise. When I played cricket I used to bowl right-handed but I did a left-hand googly now and then. That really screwed them.’
He rode away in the dawn.
‘Will you come back.’
‘If you want me.’
‘Yes, I do. Listen to what you’re making me say.’
‘Hey, it’s equal. I want to come.’
Forgot his torch. He rode round in the twilight the second night.
She cooked for him once, thinking (grinning) of the vegetarian lover who eats roots and leaves. She cooked fillet steak seasoned with garlic and a lemon pudding, one of her mother’s, that she liked as much for its behaviour in the oven – the sauce and sponge changed places – as its taste. He told her Shelley’s letters from prison were OK, she was getting through it OK; said she might start running again when s
he came out.
‘It’ll be touch and go. It’ll be a kind of balance, I reckon.’ He was afraid.
‘A new country might make all the difference.’
‘Yeah, I hope.’
‘When does Hayley get back?’
‘On Saturday.’
‘I like Hayley.’
‘Yeah, Hayley’s good. She goes at things. I just hope she doesn’t go too hard.’ Afraid for both his daughters. She wanted not to pity or comfort him but stand by him and be his contact. That night, in bed, she showed him one or two fancy things, not too much – did not, after all, know much herself. Fancy wrapped round plain. She got on top, which, for a while, offended him. Then he enjoyed it.
‘You must have been around a bit.’
‘Oh, not that much.’ He did not mean to insult her. ‘It’s a matter of what feels good. And it was a nice change, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah, it was.’
‘No one’s boss.’
‘I guess not.’ But his man’s role seemed to stay in his mind for a moment later he said, ‘I’d like to take you out somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. The pictures. Dinner somewhere.’
‘We don’t need to do that, Ken.’
‘I just come here and …’
‘Go to bed?’
‘Yeah. I know we can’t risk it, being seen. But I don’t know, it seems –’ Was this his version of a puritan rage? She saw that it might be dangerous.
‘Well, get dressed. Take me for a walk in the park.’
‘What?’
‘I’d sooner have that than the pictures, Ken.’
‘It’s’ – he looked at the clock – ‘half past one.’
‘What does that matter? I’d like you to take me for a walk.’
They dressed and went across the clover slope and through the graves. She showed him her grandmother’s grave, traced the name ‘Anne’ with her finger. ‘It’s nice to have an ancestor close.’
