by James Barlow
‘Of course you’re right,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m a perfectly normal representative. I sell soap. A very dreary occupation, although quite well paid.’ I smiled my gentlest smile at her and with difficulty resisted the urge to pat her hand. ‘We both live dreary, respectable lives,’ I said.
‘What else is there to do?’
‘Nothing really,’ I said. ‘But supposing one fell in love or something like that. Should one stick to the dreary respectability or should one give oneself wildly to life?’
‘I just don’t know,’ said doe-eyes, ‘because it’s never happened to me.’
‘Perhaps it will.’
Doe-eyes stood up. ‘Until it does,’ she said with another attractive, rueful grimace, ‘I’m stuck with dreary respect-ability … It was terribly nice of you, Mr Harrison, to buy us our cakes and coffee, but we’re late and must fly now …’
‘It was a privilege,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I’ll have the pleasure of seeing you again.’
‘Maybe,’ she said, and gave a careful smile. Then she made her kids thank me, and drifted towards the door, scared to death, I think, of some friend corning in to find us. She had high heels on today, which, adding to her height, made her wide hips more sensuous. A girl with wide hips should always be tall. If she is, it adds to her desirability; if she isn’t, wide hips subtract from it. Furthermore, high heels gave doe-eyes an improved walk. She turned at the door, as her kids shot beyond it, and offered a final smile and a nod.
She was absolutely correct about the newspapers. I read about the case in three of them, and there was certainly no mention of any traveller being sought. However, doe-eyes is hardly likely to check on that. The Gazette, which gives the fullest report, no doubt because it’s the local rag, says that the Yard man has been to several places in connection with the death of Olwen Hughes. I don’t know what else they expect him to do! He’s been following up all the false information and has visited places I’ve never heard of. It’s a pleasure to learn of him making such a fool of himself, and not only him-self, but all the men under his direction. He hasn’t abandoned the chase yet, but the vague reports make it clear that he doesn’t know what happened. Obviously, without wasting further time, I must tell you and, through you, him – or, rather, his successors …
I met Olwen for the last time on Tuesday, waiting in my car in Clifford Avenue, parked cautiously under the heavy shadows of some plane trees. I sat sleepily on the warm leather seat, looking through smoked glasses towards the hairdresser’s shop a few hundred yards away, but on this day she did not arrive from that direction.
‘Roy!’ she said from the other side of the car.
I turned quickly, startled, thinking for a brief moment that it was some other woman who knew me. But the smoked glasses hid any shock from Olwen. ‘My dear,’ I said. ‘Where did you spring from?’
She leaned on the car, gripping it with her hands, her perfect left hip jutting out. Her lips seemed petulant and there was something about her eyes that suggested a nearness to tears. There was a kind of sadness about her – almost as if she knew the future – and she said, apparently in relief, ‘Oh, Roy, darling, I am glad to see you.’
‘Well,’ I said, looking at her, ‘that does sound pleasant.’
Olwen was wearing her bottle-green costume and a pale green blouse. Her breasts seemed to swell inside the blouse: the skirt fitted tightly round her hips; on this day she was as desirable as she had ever been. Her hair hung limply as if it were damp; it was copper-coloured and shone in the sun at her every gesture. With a slow, silky movement she climbed into the car and sat as though she were tired. Pouting slightly, she said, ‘I’ve had a horrible morning.’
I started to drive. ‘You’re in safe hands now,’ I said. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I more or less had the sack.’
‘Why? Whatever for?’
‘She found out something.’
‘About you?’
‘Yes,’ Olwen said. ‘About me.’
I laughed and commented: ‘Surely there’s nothing to find out about you?’
She looked at me seriously. ‘It’s not funny to me.’
I put a hand on her shoulder for a moment. ‘It was just that I couldn’t imagine you doing anything wrong.’
She stared at me again and moistened her lips. ‘Can’t you?’
‘What we’ve done was not wrong,’ I said, but blushing a little at her intensity.
‘No,’ said Olwen coldly. ‘Because it gave us pleasure.’ She looked out of the window and commented acidly, ‘That’s the main thing, isn’t it? To have pleasure. Although I understand that Freud, who started this sort of justification, was a bitterly unhappy man. So were his wife and mistress, I understand. But no doubt there’s an explanation for that in his own works.’
Hello, I thought, what’s this? Has she got fed-up before me? This sounds like Myrel. This presages something. This seems like woman about to make her demands, to exact her toll of misery. ‘Olwen,’ I said. ‘Don’t be unhappy with me. You said you were glad to see me. The world may think we’ve done wrong, but we know we haven’t …’
‘Take no notice of me,’ she said. ‘I just had a moment of panic, that’s all. A few weeks ago I quarrelled with a friend because of you … Now I’ve left my employment … I feel trapped.’
‘You’re not alone,’ I said. ‘You’re with me. If your friend despises you, you can make a new one. It’s a question of time, that’s all … Tell me what happened this morning.’
‘Not now,’ she said, hesitating. ‘Later I will. Darling, it’s only fair to tell you that now I’ve left work I’ll need some money …’
‘Dearest,’ I said. ‘Was that all you were worrying about? Tell me how much you need.’
‘Later,’ she said. ‘Let’s have lunch first. You might think I want a lot. Perhaps I’m not worth that much. You mustn’t quarrel with me. Promise you won’t quarrel with me. Does it say anything in Freud about whether one is permitted to quarrel about money? Do you think I made a good whore?’ She started to cry.
‘Olwen,’ I pleaded, ‘what is all this?’
‘All this,’ said Olwen in slight hysteria, ‘is known as the survival of the fittest. The hot war or the cold war. Or something. I’m not being very gay, am I? Would you like me to give an imitation of a young woman being gay?’
‘You sound so unhappy,’ I said, but relieved because she was just having the usual moan about conscience. ‘You’ve no cause to be unhappy.’
‘I will tell you,’ she said. ‘Who is going to tell you if I don’t? What is this thing called love? Do I sing well? Tell me the definition. Answer the song. Do you think love is a physical thing? Tell me, how do people manage to love God if it is? Did you say I’ve no cause to be unhappy? Then we must make a cause. It would be terrible for two people to be happy. Somebody might notice. Do you love me very much?’
We were turning into the car park at the Dragon. There were very few people about: a man too far off to observe; a double-decker bus a quarter of a mile away. I leaned Olwen backwards on to the seats, kissed her fervently to damp her bitterness, and explored with one hand quickly to her swollen nipples. ‘I love you very much,’ I said.
‘Yes, but how much? Oh, Roy, do you love me like that man – what was his name? – Peter Abelard loved? – so much that you could go on liking me after they’d castrated you?’
‘I could,’ I said, shocked at these sort of words from Olwen. ‘But why should I?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Olwen said. ‘It was just a thought. I’m slightly hysterical. After lunch I will give a little lecture – not about God this time – but on the causes of hysteria in women. Oh, Roy, I’m tired and I hate being a woman sometimes … Let’s have about fourteen sherries so that I can be as brave as you …’
&n
bsp; She had three sherries before her lunch, and for a time they seemed to calm her. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked during the meal.
‘Almond Vale,’ I said. ‘We’ll have tea somewhere there. I haven’t brought anything.’
‘Let’s walk along the river bank to find that island,’ Olwen said.
‘Which island?’
‘Don’t you have any memories of me?’ she asked, moody again. ‘Aren’t you starting to collect them against the day when I’m sweating fat with child, or thin and bent with old age, or the day you find I’m cheating on the housekeeping? How do people love when they’re old, Roy? Eternity’s a long time – will the memory of my breasts last you that long? Don’t you think you ought to commence collecting other sorts of memories? My silly words or my laughter or something we endured together. There’s no guarantee with my body,’ she said in anguish. ‘It may last a long time for you. But there’s absolutely no guarantee. A road accident or a machine-gun bullet or some childbearing could ruin my legs for you. I can’t guarantee my breasts against cancer. They’d take them away and put them in a jar, and I’d scream until pain made my face ugly too. You should think of these things. I wish you’d try to believe in God, because that sort of love covers all situations, I understand. Even if it’s a he –’
‘I remember the island,’ I said calmly, not reminding her that some of her words applied to Evelyn. ‘It was that day you surrendered to me on the train. I rowed up the river and there was a large island, with steps down to the river and two swans … I’m sorry if I seemed slow recalling it, but such a lot has happened since then.’
‘Too much has happened,’ Olwen said.
‘I wonder what that means?’
She smiled without humour, stretching an arm across the table to touch me. ‘I’ll tell you later. Another lecture: the facts of life and love.’
We left the Dragon just before closing time and were in Almond Vale before three. I averaged fifty, which wasn’t bad. Almond Vale is really a main road that slopes slightly. It’s the surrounding countryside that has given it some slight fame: the blossom on the fruit trees and, of course, the well-known jam factory farther down the river. The town itself is the one main, half-asleep road and the surround network of dwelling-houses. At the top of the slope is a cross-roads, a cinema, a church and the police station from where this Maddocks and Superintendent MacIndoe are operating. To reach the river one turns left (turn right for Worcester, straight on for the jam factory); one walks along wide pavements, under flower-baskets and past the rather snobby horsy and tweedy shops until a grass square is reached. This square is by the river bank – a sort of official point – and it is here that one can hire boats. Because there is a weir upstream there is a tendency among boaters to move the other way, following the downward slope of the town. That was the way we’d boated previously; it was the way to the island, but I persuaded Olwen to explore the other way. I expect it has saved my life.
I parked the car on the cinema park (to avoid any official payment: another thing that leaves me anonymous) and we walked along the river bank. A boatman spoke to us, but it was Olwen he stared at. He won’t remember me, and if he does he didn’t seem the type who would be on good terms with the police. It was a very warm day: one of those that are warm even when the sun is hidden. Very few people were about (it was a working day, of course) and what few there were did not pass close enough to recognize or remember features. There was nowhere private enough for love-making, and we had to walk nearly two miles altogether before we were at a safe distance from everyone and there was a screen of bushes.
I found a hollow and examined it. Olwen stood a short distance away and said unexpectedly, ‘Let me take your photograph.’
She was carrying a satchel. ‘Is that what that thing contains?’ I asked, laughing. ‘I thought it was food.’
‘Stand still,’ she commanded. ‘I want to have a picture of you so that I shall always remember you.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Are you thinking of leaving me?’
‘I may have to leave you.’
‘But why?’
‘With no job, I must go back to Wales.’
‘You’ll obtain another,’ I said, ‘and I’ll tide you over until you do.’
‘Don’t look so concerned.’ she said. ‘Stand still and smile or you’ll spoil the picture.’
I stood there with my hands in my pockets and grinned. ‘Now let me take one of you,’ I said.
‘What for?’
‘I’d like one,’ I said. ‘If I have to start collecting memories … You look so lovely today.’
‘I don’t believe that. I don’t feel lovely.’
‘Put the camera down.’
‘Take the picture first.’
I did this and then put the camera on the ground by her handbag. Smiling knowingly, Olwen stood still. She affected surprise when I embraced her. Standing on a tuft of grass she was awkwardly balanced and gradually leaned on to me so that we both sagged to the ground. In my embrace Olwen sighed and seemed to groan. ‘Whatever’s the matter today, Olwen?’ I said. ‘You’re so determined to be unhappy.’
‘Do you really love me?’ she said. I started to explore, but she protested, ‘No. I don’t mean that sort of love. Would you love me if we were in trouble? Would you help me?’
‘Of course I would. Why should you doubt it?’ I was aching to love her. ‘Don’t torture me, Olwen.’
‘Don’t touch my body,’ she pleaded. ‘It belongs to somebody else. Roy, Roy, I’m going to have a baby.’
That was it. The trap. The oldest female trick in the book. We lay there in the sun talking about it. ‘Is it mine?’ I asked.
‘I don’t love anybody but you, Roy. Surely by now you know that.’
‘It makes things rather different,’ I said.
‘Of course!’ she groaned. ‘I knew it would. Now you won’t want to marry me. Loving me is one thing, but the arrival of a baby is rather sordid, isn’t it? Even the baby isn’t allowed to be grateful. He has to cry.’
‘Don’t rush to conclusions,’ I said. ‘We’ll get married.’ My mind was working like radar, sending out impulses, hearing echoes, exploring distance.
‘When will we be married?’
‘When we can.’
‘When’s that?’
‘Eventually.’
‘Why not now?’
‘Haven’t you forgotten Evelyn?’
‘You haven’t. I see that.’
‘What do you want me to do? Commit bigamy? We have to wait.’
‘I suppose you don’t believe me. You want to see me swell to make sure. You’re really frightened, aren’t you? You should have had more sherry. Are all bomber heroes frightened of birth? Is it only death they’re brave about?’
‘Don’t quarrel with me,’ I begged. ‘I understand how you feel. Is this what Mrs Harper found out and sacked you for?’
‘She didn’t sack me. I told her I was leaving, that’s all.’
‘Then you lied to me.’
‘I was confused. I had to leave, Roy, because of the baby. I’m ill every day.’
‘I’ll give you some money to pay your board.’
‘How much money?’
‘As much as you require.’
‘I’ve got to go through the shame and the agony. A man can boast about it. It’s rather funny for him, and quite a convincing proof of potency.’
‘We’ll get married.’
‘I don’t want to get married now. You don’t love me.’
‘What do you want, Olwen?’
‘I don’t know. I loved you so much, Roy.’
‘I’ll give you fifty quid.’
‘Is that all my virtue was worth?’
‘It’s all I’ve got
. You’ve cost me a packet.’
‘Wasn’t I worth it?’
‘I’m trying to be reasonable,’ I said. ‘I will marry you when I can, and in the meantime I’ll give you all the money I can.’
‘Why not see your Mr Bushell and ask for a rise?’
She was determined to quarrel. I got hold of her and shook her. She wasn’t nice to look upon now. They say redheads have tempers and in her case it was true. She was disappointed about something and spitting mad with it. ‘How do you know about Bushell?’ I asked.
Olwen sneered. ‘I bet he’d like to hear about what his traveller does.’
‘Then he hasn’t heard?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But he could.’ She stood up and collected the camera. ‘Why, I even have pictorial proof.’
‘You needn’t threaten me,’ I said. ‘Women don’t threaten me.’
‘Women?’ she said. ‘So there have been others who might have threatened you. I phoned Mr Bushell and he said Harrison was in Sheffield. That’s the sort of fool you took me for. What’s your real name, Roy? Tell it me so that the baby may at least know who his mother ought to have married.’
I told her my name. She went very pale. All her silly dreams collapsed and she knew now that she had surrendered her everything to someone she didn’t know at all. She thought she’d understood me inside out, but now she realized she was just another victim. ‘I shall go to see your Mr Bushell,’ she said. ‘He ought to know what’s going on. Perhaps the others didn’t have that much courage, but I have.’
I grinned. It was true that she had courage; but no brains, of course; they never have brains. ‘You’ve no proofs,’ I said.
‘I’ve got a letter here that talks about marriage,’ Olwen said.
The exploring mind had touched the word ‘victim’, and I knew what I had to do. I’d had enough. It wasn’t the sort of quarrel which could possibly have any reconciliation. It had become too ugly. It was time to look after Number One. ‘Got it here, have you?’ I said.
