The Protagonists

by James Barlow

Olwen was very red in the face, but too tremulous and near to sickness to be angry. She walked quickly past the cubicles, said ‘Goodbye’ with difficulty to the two faces that stared out in curiosity, and almost at once found herself on the kerb, not knowing what to do. Calming down, she laughed dryly, feeling free. She had been at the shop several years and had always worked hard – harder than Mrs Harper herself. Now she was dumped without references or reward. But there had been one reward Mrs Harper had not known about. A desire came to Olwen to settle everything; not to wait until one o’clock, but to telephone Roy now and tell him about the baby. The branch office of a travel agency mocked her with advertisements of holidays in Corsica, ten days at the Riviera, boat trips to Norway. Idle, half naked women sprawled in isolated selfishness on burning sand: no mention of children or of work or of God: the handsome men waited in the background, bronzed, alone, equally without responsibility: happiness was possible if you didn’t care and if you could pay. Olwen stared at it, not seeing the insult, untouched by that sort of envy, and thought: If he despises me I’ll buy a ticket there and go home today. I could catch the three o’clock train. She had a depressing apprehension of failure: it was a bad day all right.

  In a telephone booth Olwen looked for the number of the Perfecta Soap Company (the name had been spoken to her once, but she had remembered it in love all these months), but when she dialled it a female voice announced, ‘Rejuvenated Oil.’

  ‘Is that Central 9999?’

  ‘Rejuvenated Oil at your service.’

  ‘I wanted Perfecta Soap.’ (I sound unwashed, she thought.) ‘I must have dialled –’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said the voice. There were clicking noises and then another female voice said, ‘Are you calling?’

  ‘Put this through to 172,’ the first voice said.

  There was complete silence, during which Olwen, looking up, encountered with a shock her own anxious face in a mirror. The silence ended and a deep male voice, so important that one could almost smell the cigar smoke and see the pot belly, said, ‘Bushell here.’

  ‘Is that Perfecta Soap?’

  ‘Yes. Bushell here.’

  ‘I want to speak to Mr Harrison.’

  ‘We have several Mr Harrisons, madam.’

  ‘He’s a traveller.’

  ‘The travellers only come in on Fridays, madam. Harrison’s in Sheffield.’

  ‘But he can’t be. I’m going to –’ Olwen, sweating suddenly, chopped her sentence in half and said instead, ‘Oh, I didn’t think …’

  ‘Did you wish to place an order?’

  ‘I just wanted – to ask him something.’

  ‘That’s not Mrs Harrison?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Olwen said. ‘She’s ill – in hospital. I thought you knew –’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ said the deep voice. ‘Very sorry. But she never was strong. Are you a friend of the family?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Give her my regards,’ instructed the deep voice. ‘I’m so busy these days – the name’s Bushell. Which hospital is she in?’

  ‘I don’t – I’ve forgotten. I must ring off. Goodbye.’

  Olwen put the receiver down immediately. I nearly got Roy into trouble then, she thought. How naughty of him not to go to Sheffield so that he can see me! I wonder why that man asked if I was a friend of the family? A family sort of implies children. Perhaps he meant Roy’s parents. I’m incapable of thought today. I feel like a stewed prune. I’ll have a drink of coffee.

  She entered a restaurant and lingered there for a quarter of an hour. Afterwards she wandered vaguely along the main road. She passed the gates of a small, dry, dusty park and then turned back, deciding to enter. Purchasing a newspaper, Olwen sat on a park seat for what seemed a very long time. She scanned the newspaper, although the words were meaningless and her thoughts insisted on intrusion. Occasionally, feeling conspicuous, she glanced up to see if anyone was watching her. But the old men on another seat were deep in talk among themselves; the children afar off carried on playing shrilly; the few mothers who passed wheeling prams did not look at her. There was nothing in the park to gaze at in respect: just a few quarrelling sparrows splashing dust; dry, baked grass, some feeble trees, a small splash of colour from the flowers, the ornate green gentlemen’s lavatory and the ladies’ wrapped more respectfully in rhododendron bushes. It was a very small park.

  When she concluded it must be nearly one o’clock Olwen hurried out, back on to the main road. But the clock above the model liner and the sepia nudes informed her that it was only twelve-fifteen. Not believing it, she walked quickly towards the place of appointment, but another clock pointed at twelve-twenty and she slowed down to an amble.

  In the window of a chemist’s shop stood a collection of cameras. Olwen would have walked on, but her attention was caught by one priced at four pounds. An idea entered her mind, and, once there, could not be resisted. She would take a photograph of Roy before she told him about the baby. Then, if he despised her, and the whole happiness ended in bitterness and separation, then at least she would possess a photograph to remind her that it had existed at all. Alone and sneered at, she would be able to read through her diary and capture events which might otherwise have been forgotten, and the photograph would be there as a confirmation, a kind of proof. Olwen entered the shop and inquired about the particular camera.

  ‘Not a bad job,’ said the old man behind the counter. ‘Useful. Good on views especially.’

  ‘Doesn’t it take a portrait?’

  ‘No.’ The old man laughed at Olwen’s ignorance. ‘You’d want the Mark IX model for that. It’s twelve guineas.’ He considered Olwen: perhaps she had twelve guineas. ‘Mind you, it’s worth the money.’

  ‘I haven’t got twelve guineas,’ Olwen admitted. ‘Can’t I get people at all with this one?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but you said portraits …’

  ‘Well, I meant –’

  ‘Listen,’ the man said. ‘Give ‘em about twelve feet, put ’em in the viewfinder nice and square, with plenty of margin for error, and you’ll have a picture as clear as sunshine. It’ll blow up a treat.’

  ‘Blow up?’

  ‘Enlarge.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Olwen decided. ‘Will you put a film in, please?’

  The man did this. ‘How about a case?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps it will go in my handbag.’

  ‘Shouldn’t put it in there,’ said the man. ‘Might get scratched.’ He bent down, searched among tins and cardboard boxes, and brought out a cloth satchel. ‘Shop-soiled, five bob. How about it?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Olwen. ‘I haven’t much money on me.’

  A bell rang as another customer entered the shop. ‘Here you are,’ the man said quickly. I’ll give you the case.’

  ‘That is nice of you,’ said Olwen. The day is improving, she thought. ‘Thank you very much.’

  It was by now twelve-forty and she walked towards the crossroads where Roy was to meet her. He arrived at twelve-fifty. Olwen ran across the road and climbed into the car, all the minor troubles of the day disappearing. Roy seemed so much himself: happiness returned to her. ‘Oh, darling, I am glad to see you.’

  ‘Well,’ said Roy slowly, looking at her, ‘that does sound nice.’

  ‘I’ve had a horrible morning,’ Olwen said. Roy started to drive. ‘It’s over now,’ he said, and then, as a quick after thought, ‘Anything happened?’

  ‘I more or less had the sack.’

  ‘The sack! What had you done?’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly the sack,’ Olwen explained. ‘I gave notice and Mrs Harper became unpleasant.’

  ‘You gave notice!’ said Roy.

  ‘Yes,’ said Olwen. She longed to tell him; he seemed so safe compared with Mrs Harper
; but she remembered her desire to take a picture before his expression could be altered into unhappiness or disappointment or disgust … ‘Roy, I’m going back to Wales to wait for you. We’re having too much happiness.’

  He took it with considerable calm, with unexpected, even disappointing reasonableness. ‘Olwen, perhaps you’re right. You always did the behaving for both of us. I don’t want you to go, but we’ve months to wait . A pause and then he asked, ‘Do your parents know about us?’

  ‘No,’ Olwen said. ‘It’s all so difficult, you see, because they’re part of the village, and the village wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘You’re going to tell them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Yes, Roy, everything.’

  ‘And I’ll come to see them.’

  She was delighted. ‘Roy, Roy, that would be marvellous. Then they’d understand …’

  ‘We shall be able to write,’ Roy said. ‘It will be a new kind of love.’

  ‘Part of the same one,’ Olwen said. ‘I don’t want it damaged.’

  They had turned into the car park of the Dragon. There was no one about; the few other cars in the park were empty. Roy kissed Olwen fiercely, bending her backwards on to the seats of his car. ‘Is today our last day?’ he asked.

  ‘It will have to be. I’ve no money except my train fare home.’

  Another kiss, prolonged and probing into her mouth. Roy’s hand pulled open her green blouse roughly and explored quickly inside, despite Olwen’s protests. She could not sit up and was forced to endure his hand. ‘And this afternoon?’ Roy said. ‘The last time?’

  ‘No,’ Olwen said, almost angry. ‘Let me sit up, Roy.’ He did so, sensing the anger. ‘We mustn’t do anything again,’ Olwen said. ‘There are reasons. It would only make the separation harder.’

  Roy said nothing further about it. There was constraint between them at lunch, not lessened when Olwen pleaded with Roy. Afterwards, sitting in the car in the sunshine, Olwen in a burst of affection put her hand on his on the steering-wheel. I’m sorry, Roy.’

  He smiled at once and became his old, charming self. I must get the picture, she thought, before I have to resist him again with the real reasons, and destroy the original us.

  They left the Dragon at about two-fifteen and were in Almond Vale well before three. Roy parked the car at the back of a cinema – this was a technique of his to avoid the payments demanded at official car parks.

  It was warm and quiet. Great slabs of cumulus clouds moved across the sky, but even in the shadow it was warm. The hazy, distant horizons were illuminated in patches by wide bars of gold. ‘It will rain tomorrow,’ Olwen said, ‘but we shall be left alone today.’

  They strolled along the river bank. Not many people were about and those who passed did so at wide distances. The only person to speak to them was a boatman, a young man dressed in a vaguely maritime costume and peaked hat who stared rudely at Olwen’s legs and breasts as she approached. ‘Want a boat, mister?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you?’ Roy asked.

  ‘No,’ Olwen said. ‘I’d prefer to walk.’

  The man spat and sat down on an oil-drum as Olwen and Roy walked on. About a mile farther away from the town the path along the river bank ended. ‘Let’s just go a bit farther,’ said Roy, and Olwen knew with misgiving why he said it. They stepped over alder branches and on to the hard, caked earth which for most of the year was the mud of the river’s edge. It was absolutely quiet now and they had not seen anyone, even at a distance, for nearly half an hour.

  Roy found a hollow and examined it; it was surrounded by bushes and the grass was hot to sit upon. Very suitable. ‘It’s quite dry,’ he said. ‘No ants to bite you,’ he added, smiling. He sat down.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ commanded Olwen.

  ‘Good heavens!’ said Roy. ‘Is that thing a camera? I thought it was food.’

  ‘How far away am I?’

  ‘About fifteen feet.’

  Olwen advanced a few steps. ‘Now smile,’ she said.

  He already was smiling, and she pressed the lever. ‘Now I wind on,’ she said, doing so.

  Roy stood up and approached her. ‘Now let me take one of you,’ he said. ‘In the appropriate position,’ he added, bending her body backwards so that he might kiss her. Olwen lost balance and, despite clutching his arms, fell slowly to the grass. ‘Perfect,’ said Roy. He had his memories, too, which he wanted on bromide paper, and they were as much of the legs as the rounded face and the auburn hair. ‘Stay just as you are.’

  ‘What do you think I am?’ Olwen said. She sat with her legs tucked under her and smiled. ‘Now take one.’

  Reluctantly, he did so. Then, collapsing on the grass beside her, he said, ‘Now you’ve had your way, let me have mine.’ The second kiss was fiercer than the first and he unfolded Olwen’s body backwards. ‘Be gentle, my dear,’ Olwen pleaded. ‘You must be gentle. No naughtiness today. I mean it.’ She thought quite tenderly of the life within her. For answer, Roy bit deeply into her throat. His hands, ignoring her pleas, were exploring inside her clothes. She could see the vein throbbing at the side of his head. The look in his eyes was the same as it had been before lunch when he had pinioned her down in the car. She knew with shock that he was not proposing to stop for words of hers. Her own body began to sweat in fright, despite the cool air on her thighs. ‘Roy, Roy,’ she cried. ‘When are we going to be married?’

  ‘Another year,’ he said.

  ‘But you said –’

  ‘What difference does it make?’ In his frenzy he was curt. There was only one way to stop him, although she knew it would mean a quarrel; he never was very tender until exhausted. She touched his bare arm. ‘Roy, dearest, I’m going to have a baby.’

  It stopped him. He looked at her angrily. ‘You bloody little fool!’

  Olwen said desperately, ‘Please don’t be cross. I couldn’t bear it if you were cross. You’re part of it too, you know. I don’t mind, Roy, I don’t mind. It’s part of what should –’

  ‘You don’t mind!’ he sneered – she winced before the sneer: he had never sneered at her before. ‘Are you stupid or something? My God, what a sentimental fool you must be.’

  ‘But we shall have a baby eventually,’ Olwen said. ‘Why –’

  ‘Who said we’d have a baby?’

  ‘Everyone does when they get married,’ Olwen said. ‘Don’t be so worried, Roy. I can go away to my parents. I can wait. Nobody here will know.’

  ‘I don’t want babies,’ he said. ‘We had one and it died, thank goodness.’

  ‘Roy!’ Olwen protested, stunned with shock at his callousness. ‘You can’t be selfish all your life; and think, it may be a little boy who looks like you. You’ll think differently when we’re married.’

  He had rolled slightly away and was biting his nails. It was an incredible gesture from one whose every previous action had seemed so mature and courteous. The look on his face was something she had never seen before; it was a punishment to look at it. ‘We’re not getting married,’ he said.

  His sour mood was so obviously real that she could not touch him with words; she did not even wish to touch him physically; he was so patently not interested in tenderness; he was so clearly a man whose plans had gone astray. An anguish was filling Olwen’s whole being; a terrible knowledge that there was something here that needed more than apology, needed explanation; a chilly apprehension that his love – that love which she had believed as tender, emotional and far-reaching as her own – was perhaps only lust. Things poured out from the store of memory like flashbacks in a film: little events and words that had led to her physical surrender. She knew the terror of one who has fallen into a trap.

  She refused to believe them yet. ‘But you said you wanted to be
married,’ she said. It was true: he had said it several times, and now it was her only hope.

  He made a gesture of dismissal with his hands, and without a word revealed that what he said was not necessarily what he meant. Words were what one used on fools to obtain what you desired: should his integrity be higher than the politicians’? ‘You don’t think I’m going to marry a mouse of a thing who gets herself caught, do you?’ he said. ‘You’ll have to get rid of it. I’ll give you twenty quid to help.’

  Olwen turned very pale and swayed in weakness. It was the end. This ugly Roy was as real as the tender one; was part of him; her love died in crucifixion with his murderous words; the diary and the picture would never mean anything now … She struggled to her feet, feeling an immense urge to run from the presence of this naked cruelty. ‘I’m not getting rid of the baby. To me that’s murder.’

  He gave a brief, derisive laugh. ‘Oh, stop talking crap. If you’ve got a mother fixation, I don’t see why I should pay for it.’

  Olwen had begun to cry. ‘I don’t think you ever did love me.’

  ‘Oh, stop snivelling,’ Roy shouted. ‘I can’t stand snivelling women. I’m not good for any more than twenty quid, anyway. You’ve cost me a packet.’

  ‘I don’t want your twenty pounds.’

  ‘Well, you needn’t file any order against me,’ he said with another harsh laugh. I’ve never seen you before, young lady.’

  ‘I know where you work,’ Olwen said. ‘I shall go to see them. I know your Mr Bushell. Perhaps he’d like to hear what sort of a traveller he has …’ Another terrible memory came to her and she gasped, ‘Your name isn’t Harrison at all, is it?’

  He was alarmed at once. He sprang to his feet, grabbed her by the shoulders and then twisted one of her arms. ‘How did you know about Bushell?’

  ‘Let go of my arm,’ she cried. ‘Roy, what’s happened to you? Don’t I mean anything at all?’

  Roy twisted her arm more and saw the colour fade completely from her face; she slumped against him in a slight faint. ‘What about Bushell?’