by James Barlow
‘You’re so good,’ he said, ‘but so beautiful too. You must behave for the two of us.’
‘The three of us,’ she corrected.
He had changed his position slightly. His one hand was under her thighs, pulling her body across and into his embrace. She lay limp and soft and at ease in this position, knowing that he could take her physically and that apart from screams she would be powerless, but trusting him. Because of his kisses and crushing weight, she was moved farther and farther over the two seats. His hand trapped under a stockinged thigh touched flesh; she wriggled slightly so that he could free it, and moved into complete discomfort with the metal back of a seat jabbing into her. ‘Roy,’ she pleaded, laughing slightly. ‘I’m getting all tangled up and the seat’s hurting me.’
He stopped embracing her at once, freeing the hand as he lifted her to a sitting position. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I was quite carried away.’
She began to re-smudge her lips with lipstick, indicating without words that they should stop. ‘You certainly were,’ she said. ‘My stockings were torn across your gears.’
‘What a pity,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you some more. Size ten?’
‘Yes. But how did you know?’
‘You’re about as tall as Evelyn.’
‘You were touching my legs,’ Olwen said. ‘That was very naughty when I thought you were hugging me … A good job I didn’t have the other two sherries.’
‘Darling,’ Roy said, ‘how absurd and charming you are. It was the way you collapsed across me.’
Olwen didn’t allow him to drive her all the way to the Edwardian house. ‘Listen, Roy,’ she explained. I’m only a working girl and my rooms aren’t in a very nice quarter.’
‘As if I mind,’ he protested.
‘I know you don’t, but I’d still prefer that you didn’t see them. Let’s pretend that I’m Cinderella.’
‘Just as you wish,’ Roy said.
He stopped the car at the same corner as they had started from. They clung together inside the car for over five minutes before they could bear to separate. This time his emotions were held in restraint; she felt he understood their need to be tender, not passionate, if they were to be loyal to Evelyn at all.
It was after eleven o’clock when Olwen entered her room. Hazel, in pyjamas, was listening to the small radio set they shared. She snapped it off in excitement and begged Olwen to tell her all about the afternoon and evening.
‘I’m so excited I must talk to someone,’ Olwen said. ‘Oh, Hazel, he’s nice and he loves me. I love him too. If you could only see him.’
‘I did see him.’
‘What?’ said Olwen. ‘Where?’
‘I saw you both in the cinema.’
‘Why didn’t you speak?’
‘What for?’ Hazel said. ‘You didn’t seem short of conversation.’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘He’s a good-looker,’ said Hazel. ‘He seems well provided for. I should grab him if you can.’
‘He’s terribly intense.’
‘Intense?’
‘You know – emotional. I thought he was going to get a bit hot.’
‘Would you have let him?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Olwen. ‘He’s not like that any more than I am, so the question doesn’t arise.’
‘Perhaps it will.’
‘Oh, you and your mind, Hazel! He’s been to Oxford and he was an officer. He’s done the most exciting things, but he’s glad to settle down now.’
‘Sounds as though he mentioned marriage.’
‘He’s already married.’
‘What?’ cried Hazel.
‘It’s terrible for him,’ said Olwen. ‘His wife was involved in an accident and she’s been insane for a long time.’
‘Then he’ll have to get a divorce,’ said Hazel. ‘It sounds quite romantic’
‘No,’ said Olwen. ‘It’s not at all. She’s very ill and will die. He feels extremely guilty coming with me at all. But what can he do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hazel. ‘I should wait and see what he wants to do.’
Chapter Five
Some Extracts from Olwen Hughes’s Diary
Thursday, March 17th.
Something extraordinary happened today. I met R. He is a traveller who called when Mrs H. was out this morning. After some conversation, he persuaded me to accompany him to lunch at the Dragon along Almond Vale Road. I didn’t altogether wish to go, although I believe his invitation was spontaneous and him to be as embarrassed as myself. We both kept admitting this, although I don’t think either of us regret the meeting, and we intend to meet again next Tuesday to sort of discuss it. The thing is, he’s married. That would normally stop any association as far as I’m concerned, but R.’s wife was in an accident some time ago and is now not only insane, but fatally ill. (Ugly in every way, he said.) He did not explain about the accident, and I did not ask, assuming that in some way he was involved too – perhaps in his car. His explaining about it at all indicated that he is as serious about loyalties as I am. He was very polite and in control of himself; I would call him a gentleman if the word didn’t seem to date back to the Ark.
Tuesday, March 22nd.
A quiet morning at work. Met R. at one o’clock and he again drove me to the Dragon in his little red car. Afterwards R. called at Birrell’s and obtained an order for a hundred and fifty gross – no wonder with that smile. It was raining, so we went to the flicks. (Hazel saw us there. She likes the look of R.) Then R. took me to tea at the Priory place. I’d never been there before because it’s snobby and expensive. R. was one of the pilots who dropped mines in the Kiel Canal on some famous raid, and was a spy in the next year. We discussed whether we should meet again, but it is obvious that we must. In the evening R. drove all over the place, ending at a small inn in Brownhill. I had a lot of sherry – too much, perhaps, I became so sleepy – and another lovely meal. In the car later R. became tender, even beyond tender. He admires me and told me so. I could see even in darkness that he does. He was very emotional. I think he must have been very unhappy during the last two years and found love quite strange and exciting in this renewal. He was quite lost in his eagerness; I had to explain to him that while we are as we are it is important that we do not venture beyond tenderness. He’s terribly intense. I don’t know what would happen if I let myself go – I’d be lost with him, I suppose.
Tuesday, March 29th.
I thought about it all the week, not really believing that everything would be the same. R. took me to another place, the Queen’s in the city. I had some more sherry – I am becoming quite blasé about sherry. No more beer with the nurses, although that was happiness of a sort at the time. R. bought me two pairs of nylons. One to replace those torn in his car the last time (his own fault – I was kicking a bit when I lost balance) and the other for what he called an un-birthday present. Have a feeling I shall receive several of those, but he really needn’t. I love him already; there’s no need for presents or persuasion for that very reason. This time, after tea, we went dancing. I haven’t danced for ages; in fact I’ve led a very vegetable existence for years! I remember now that evening when I met Joe. How tender we both were. This was different. R. is a marvellous dancer, far better than I. He was tender again in the car and would have become passionate if I hadn’t slowed things down a bit.
Haven’t told Mama even now, because she wouldn’t understand a bit about his being married. I will explain it all when I have my next holiday. I know it’s all right, but I can see how it would appear to the village. I don’t like to think of E. dying, and yet, as R. has said at least twice, if he hadn’t spoken to me, but had waited for that, then by the time it had happened I might have gone away. (He meant married someone else, I think.)
>
Tuesday, April 5th.
Tuesday is now definitely the most – in fact, the only wonderful day of each week. It was fine this afternoon, and we drove miles. The buds are beginning to burst and colours to show. Dear God, I thank You for the spring. To be in love in the spring! I go about sighing and smiling to myself; I have to lower my gaze in buses and pretend to take an interest in hair-styles for fat ladies. But all the time I think of him. Oh, I remember Leslie and Joe and Stephen, but I recall them with pity. There was a note of unhappiness all the time with these others – someone always going away. R. isn’t going away – he’s come to stay. And he’s not a boy; he’s a man; we’re both grown-up and know our obligations and limitations as well as our perfections. It will be wonderful if I can ever take R. to Wales. I know he’s been to several distant parts of the world; he’s complicated and intelligent, but I’d like to show him the simplicity and value of silence and trees and the sea. I believe that in many things – certainly in love and courage and religion – simplicity, not complicatedness, is the heart. Too much dashing about, either physically or mentally, leads to frustration or quarrels: a degree of apathy towards everything. R. is most tender, but almost vibrates with intensity. He even talks poetry. Tonight we went to the city to the theatre. R. got seats in the circle – he does everything like that, and I can’t help liking it. Don’t know why I’ve always been suspicious of the people with money – it must have been ignorance or jealousy. I should not think of marriage, I know, or I may be hurt and disappointed, but I do. He makes it so obvious that marriage is his intention. R. says he has a house, but lives in rooms while E. is ill. Perhaps we wouldn’t live in that house because the memories of her would be too strong. I envy and pity her all in one breath! I wouldn’t mind how or where we lived so long as we did.
Tuesday, April 12th.
We had another day that belongs to us alone. Days like today are perfect because they can be relived in every detail: one can enjoy them twice or thirty times: no wonder old people live on their memories. And yet, now I wish to put it down on paper, what am I to write so that in years to come I may be reminded of every detail? What happened? We went to the Dragon, for a drive, to tea, a dance and then another short drive for a drink. (Have a suspicion that R. likes to drink, but he’s not one of those men who soak themselves in beer. It’s the glitter of the places and the conversations that he seems to enjoy. And sherry does make me chatter, too.)
It’s the words I remember, and I laugh when I think of tonight. I had to slap R.’s face! Hazel was almost right – his passion overcame him. There’s no doubt that we’ve moved slightly beyond the bounds of tenderness. We can’t help it because I love him as personally as he loves me; it’s so hard to keep love distant, impersonal. In the confined space of the car we cling close together. He starts in tenderness as I do, but in a quarter of an hour we’re locked in an embrace so tight that every knot and bit of metal in my clothing is leaving an imprint on my body. It’s as if he can’t be near enough to me. I suppose, without realizing it, he longs to possess me, but, controlling himself, hugs me tightly instead. He only wanted to touch my skin, and I was in such a state that I nearly let him. I’m almost twenty-six and sometimes I’ve thought about physical love; I’ve thought about it with him in mind and wanted him to go on where dear Joe left off. How can I help it? I shall wait, of course, but I’m a woman and healthy, and once or twice when I’ve stopped men I’ve wondered what would have happened if I’d let them do the things they wished to my body. And loving R. so much, my woman’s body has its own arguments with my mind and I become my own enemy. But my beliefs control me. Nurses used to ask me, ‘Why do you believe in God?’ and my answers never convinced them. They wanted practical, physical, almost scientific explanations of every little difficulty, when if ever there was a thing that belonged to the heart … R. knows my feelings about my faith; he respects them, although not sharing them; he also respects himself and me, and that emotion we share … Dear R. I know he intended to be good. His love for me burst beyond its confines a little, that’s all, and he tried to touch my skin, wanting to know my arms and shoulders and breasts. He was very tender, I’ll admit, and I longed to allow him. ‘I am touching your skin,’ he said, ‘when I stroke your face, shake hands or kiss; but you do not say that is a sin.’ I tried again to explain my beliefs, but he said something about how the war and Evelyn’s illness had finished all his. (I will try to do something about that.) So I said, ‘You see, you’re in need of that kind of love and you’re just making me a substitute for your wife.’ He was quite upset. ‘I couldn’t help wanting to know you,’ he said, ‘and, knowing you, I couldn’t help wishing to love you.’
Tuesday, April 19th.
R.’s car was out of order today, so we took a train to Almond Vale. We were like a couple of kids on the train – I think R. has forgotten what a simple thing like travelling on a train can be like. Almond Vale is a perfect little town. Its name is appropriate, for in the main street – not the shopping centre, but the one by the grass lawns and the river – the almond trees were so pink that it seemed like an illustration from a child’s hook. We had late lunch at an olde worlde place and then went on the river. R. rowed two or three miles; I watched his arms in their movement. How strong he is! … He talked about the future and more or less said he wanted to marry me. (First time he’s really said it so definitely.)
He bought a bottle of sherry, and as we had the compartment to ourselves coming back we both got slightly merry. (A first-class compartment – I think he did it on purpose, the rogue!) R. was very tender again, despite being merry, and I couldn’t keep him off altogether. He pleaded so hard to touch and rather ignored my words of reply. In his fervour, he refused to accept them and it almost seemed as if he used his superior physical strength. At any rate, I had the feeling that I would have had to quarrel to stop him. Once he did touch me he became very gentle, and it was I who felt slightly sick with ecstasy. Even without standing, I could feel my legs trembling; I became like liquid, only able to move downwards; and when his cool hand reached my breasts I knew how terribly much a woman and a desiring human I am. Oh, God, how strange You are to make us as we are – sin and creation in the same urge, all a question of degree and who’s with whom. I looked in the mirror at home and saw what a woman I am. All the same, I’m glad I managed to limit him to the touches, for in the excitement of the moment he wanted to go beyond. (There would have been time and we were in a non-corridor train. It’s a marvel I wasn’t scared, but, then, despite his eagerness, I trust him.)
Sunday, April 24th.
I went to church in the morning despite the flawless weather. Have been a little conscience-stricken since Tuesday. There’s such a long time to wait and already we’re in danger of losing our integrity and control. In the afternoon R. met me for an hour before going to visit his wife at the hospital. (What a terrifying experience that must be.) He tried to be naughty again in the car, but I became a bit mad … After all, on a Sunday. He apologized and then brought out a small basket of strawberries from the rear of the car. He was most tender when we separated.
Tuesday, April 26th.
R. had to go to Bristol today, so I was unable to see him. Hazel was on duty in the afternoon, so there was nothing to do and nobody to talk to. I went to the pictures because of the rain. It was a bitterly sad film, quite unreal actually, but I wept. I think it did me good! I’ve been too happy lately. Oh, I missed R. very much, but it gave me time to think. The trouble is that now I’ve thought I’m so undecided. I’d had the thought recently that I shouldn’t see R. until the twelve months were past; we are drifting towards a happiness in which we shall be too selfish to care about others. And then I’m worried because he longs to possess me and is even showing slight impatience at my arguments. We have reached the stage in which he is allowed to touch me. I don’t think I can stop him doing that a second and a third time; it is going to
be hard to stop him possessing me further; and to possess me further means to possess me altogether. It’s not as if I was impartial myself; I love him and my body trembles for him; since that day on the train I have become liquid in my thoughts and dreams …
Tuesday, May 3rd.
Just before I left for work, Mrs W. handed me a letter, and it was from him. It was a beautiful letter and I shall carry it everywhere with me. There was no address – R. is funny – he makes me used typed addressed envelopes because his landlady would open any handwritten letters and if she found that one was from a girl would be delighted to make trouble. (Who with, since the wife is mad?) Don’t know why he doesn’t leave, because money seems no object. Anyway, the letter wasn’t about that. It was to tell me that he would be late, but would bring a picnic basket at two-thirty. There was some naughty poetry in the letter, something about ‘Your breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue. A pair of maiden worlds unconquered.’
It was hard to resist the poetry, because R. makes love seem something beautiful, not nasty or shocking. When he wrote the letter he meant that, despite what had taken place on the train, I am still innocent. Oh, I wish I could still claim that, but I can’t. I wish it and yet would hardly take back today for all the universe. A thing so lovely can’t be wrong (which is what R. said), and yet now, hours later, the nerves and body quietened, my mind tells me coldly and logically that it is. My mind explains to me that it is not lovely, but exciting; that I was aware before it happened that it was exciting; that it’s all a thudding desire of the flesh and little to do with the heart at all. And yet the heart must be a part of it, for I wouldn’t have loved in that way with anyone unless I loved that person the way I love R. and had my love returned in the patient, sensitive way that R. has always given it. (I have known him about six weeks, but it seems right to talk about always.)
