The Hive

by Claire Rayner

  Ruth came off duty the next evening, after a day during which the nurses had been startled by her unusual bad temper, in a state of shaking nervousness that twisted her guts inside her, so that she felt sick. But she had made her mind up, made it a firm decision, and she wasn’t going to go back on it.

  She dressed and made up automatically, choosing her underclothes with the sort of care she usually only gave to her top garments, and last thing before she left her room, she made up an intra-muscular injection of a million units of penicillin, using a syringe and phial she had brought from the ward.

  She stood, one leg up on the bed, the syringe in her hand, looking down on her thigh, bulging a little over the top of her stocking, and breathed deeply.

  ‘Once I’ve done it, I’ll have to. There’ll be no going back, you know that, don’t you? You’ll have to then. Please God, make it someone nice, make it someone nice——’

  She watched her hand move down, watched her other hand pinch up a piece of the pinky mottled flesh, and pushed the needle home sharply, almost as though it was someone else who was receiving the injection, someone else who was giving it, as though she were three people, the nurse, the patient, the onlooker. As she pushed the plunger home, and a deep ache filled her thigh, moving up through the muscles to fill the pit of her belly, she threw her head back and drew in a breath that rattled thickly in her throat, letting the pain wash over her.

  It settled then, settled to a dull ache, and she pulled the needle out, and threw the syringe under her pillow before moving her leg, feeling a sharp twinge of pain again as she did so.

  But it was better now. Her fear had gone, the sick anticipation leaving her filled with a heavy sense of reaction, and she walked heavily out of her room and down the stairs, moving stiffly, with no spring in her step at all.

  ‘Please God, let it be someone nice—let it be someone nice——’ All the way up to town, in the rattling train, the words went over and over in her head, mixing themselves up with the advertisements she read on the walls of the train. ‘There is no substitute for—let it be someone nice—for wool—’Pon my soul, said the—let it be someone nice—for Assurance, remember the—let it be someone nice——’

  He was a small man, not particularly tall, with a heavy overcoat and a double breasted blue suit under it that had widely padded shoulders, and he sat with the jacket thrown open, his hands in his trouser pockets as he talked at her over the meal they ate in a Fortes’ restaurant in Leicester Square, so that the suit made his shoulders look disproportionately wide. She watched him talk, a blank and automatic smile on her face, and wondered how he would look without the suit.

  ‘Will I have to see him naked, or will the lights be off? Christ, will I have to? Will he want me naked? How do you take your clothes off when they’re watching? Do a strip-tease thing? That’d be a—how do you take your pants off without looking bloody silly—they never show you that, do they? Always show you before and after, never show you the thing—I can’t do it—I’ve got to. I’ve had the penicillin—I’ll have to—ergot—I could use that if it happened. How much? When? How do you find out how much and when? One of the patients—will one of them know that? How can I ask them? Christ, what’ll he do? Put the light out?’

  The pick-up had been so easy, everything had turned out to be too easy altogether. He was staying at the Regent Palace for a week, he’d said in the bar, over from the Channel Islands for a week on business, something to do with agricultural machinery. And he was experienced, she could feel that. The smooth way he had started talking to her, even before she had had to do anything to attract attention. No by-play with watches and telephones this time. She’d just ordered a drink, and there he was, asking her out for a meal. And a careful man with money, no fancy restaurant, just Fortes—he knew his way around, and he wasn’t going to be any mug, not this one.

  ‘How about a little drink, eh, Sylvia?’ he asked, when he had paid the bill, and they were out in the noise and fried onion smell of Leicester Square. ‘These pubs look too crowded for comfort, what do you say? Come on back to my room, eh? Got a nice little bottle there—brought it over—don’t see why I should pay fancy prices in these pubs when I’ve got some of the real stuff in my room——’

  She didn’t argue, not even in play. There was no point. She had made up her mind, and there was no point. The only way in which this evening was the same as others was in the way she had chosen her name.

  ‘I’m Sylvia Swinton,’ she had said firmly, and rather loudly, when he had told her his name was Jimmy Rennard—‘From the French you see—should be Reynard, I daresay, but Rennard is how we say it. Must have been a Frenchman in the family somewhere, eh? Got the best of the French, and best of the English, that’s me——’ And he had pinched her thigh under the table, and winked heavily.

  In his room, he took her coat, and then sat down beside her on the bed, his free arm round her, drinking his whisky in short gulps, watching her over the edge of the glass as she sipped hers.

  ‘Nice girl you are, Sylvia? And a nurse—it’s a great job, that, and you nurses, you know how——’

  ‘How to look after ourselves—yes,’ she said, and put her glass down on the floor at their feet.

  He emptied his, and dropped it on the bed behind them, and grinned widely as she lifted her head.

  ‘Well, it’s nice to know that, anyway,’ he said, and put his face close to hers. She didn’t turn away, holding her head still with a conscious effort, and he kissed her, his tongue forcing teeth apart, thrusting hard into her mouth so that she had to pull back, feeling nausea rising thick in her throat.

  He pulled back too, and looked sharply at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘What’s the matter? Got bad breath or something, have I? Or are you one of those who only go half way? Because if you are, I’m not falling for——’

  ‘No!’ she almost shouted it, and then managed a grin. ‘Not a bit of it. I’ve——’ She swallowed. ‘I’ve a funny nose, you see—can’t breathe through it properly for long, that’s all——’

  He grinned too, ‘Who cares about noses, then? I don’t go for these kissing games much either. Why play about——’ He reached for the buttons on her blouse, and she let him undo them, her hands on her lap, lax and unmoving.

  ‘You like your clothes on or off?’ he said, and thrust a finger into the cleavage of her brassière. ‘It’s all you, then, none of these padded jobs for you, eh? All you. Do you like your clothes on or off, eh, Sylvia?’

  ‘What do you like?’ She felt panic rising suddenly, the anxiety coming back—Christ, how do you take your clothes off when they watch you? ‘What do you like?’

  ‘I like mine taken off for me.’ He reached over her shoulder, pushing her back on to the bed, fumbling for the light switch over the bedside table. The room went dark, only a faint illumination from the narrow fanlight over the door coming in, and she relaxed, slightly, grateful for the disappearance of the bright yellowness, feeling safer in the dark.

  He stretched out beside her, and methodically pulled the straps of her brassière and slip down, so that she had to pull her arms through them, pulling them down to her waist, leaving her blouse crumpled underneath her.

  When she felt his mouth on her nipples the sense of shock took all feeling away, leaving her in a state of cold astonishment. ‘I didn’t know—Christ, I didn’t know! I thought it was only me who thought of that—I didn’t know they liked it—Christ, I didn’t know——’ And then she heard herself laughing, heard it as though it was someone else, not her.

  He lifted his head, and laughed too, softly and then nuzzled against her breasts again. ‘Like that, do you? Gives you a big thrill down there, does it——’ And then he was feeling for her skirt, pulling it up above her knees, tugging at her suspenders, undoing them with a practised twist.

  ‘Wait a minute——’ She gasped it out, pulling at his hand, drawing her knees up, feeling her whole body pull away from him as though it had a volition of its own. �
��Wait a minute—you—don’t be in such a hurry—what about you—you’re still dressed, what about you——’

  She was gabbling, anything, anything at all to stop him from going any further, yet. ‘What about you? You’re still dressed—what——’

  He rolled on to his back, and slid one arm under her body, pulling on her hand, pulling it over towards him, downwards towards the waistband of his trousers. ‘Come on then, if you like a bit of a maul yourself. Come on then——’

  She could feel him then, through the cloth of his trousers, the hardness of him, and her hand pulled back, astonishment chilling her again.

  ‘Come on then——’ His voice sharpened. ‘Don’t go in for a tease—I’m not the sort—normal, that’s me—no playing for me——’ And he pulled her hand back, unzipping his trousers as he did so, and then she was touching him, warm and rough, could feel hair under her fingers, and hardness, and warmth, and the giggle rose in her throat again.

  ‘I never knew. I never knew. I should have done, but I never thought about it. I never knew.’

  It was like the injection she had given herself. She felt like different people again, with one Ruth perched in a corner of the room, watching and giggling, the other lying on the bed, her clothes bundled round her middle, her pants crumpled round one ankle, letting it all happen and feeling nothing. Not even pain.

  That was the real surprise. She had expected pain, pleasant pain, certainly some feeling, but there was nothing, just his weight, and the heat of his breath on her face, and nothing more.

  The Ruth in the corner giggled softly, and thought—it’s all a lot of rubbish, a lot of rubbish. Nothing at all, just nothing. Poor Ruth down there, feeling nothing, after all these years of thinking about it, and it was all lies, because there’s nothing at all but weight, and smell, and hot faces.

  He was lying on his back again, doing something with a handkerchief, so that his elbow thrust sharply into her side. She felt that, and turned her head to look at him in slight surprise.

  ‘Didn’t you get there, then?’ he said, and laughed. ‘Just shows you—could have sworn you would, I could. Thought you’d hit the roof before me, I did that—eager type, you are. Didn’t you get there, then? Want me to give you a bit of help?’

  He rolled over towards her again, and his hand moved over the bare cold skin of her belly, towards her groin, and she pulled her legs up, and moved away sharply.

  ‘Don’t——’ The movement made her aware of it then, the thick sticky feeling all round her thighs and groins and a sharp retch rose in her throat. Almost without volition, her own hand moved down, and she could feel the wet stickiness, and her hand pulled back as though it had been stung.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she said, her voice high again and thin. ‘I never thought about it—I just didn’t know.’ And she began to laugh, feeling tears on her face as the laughter rose higher and higher.

  He raised himself on his elbow, and peered down at her in the dim light from the fanlight over the door.

  ‘Here—just a minute—you don’t mean——’ His mouth dropped in amazement. ‘You don’t mean you never did before, did you? Go on—you must have. You’re no beginner—— You’re just in a state because you didn’t get there—I’ll help you—I don’t mind. I’m not one of these teasers, either, believe me. Let me help you——’

  Again, his hand moved down towards her groin, but she rolled away from him, stood up, to pull her clothes into place again.

  ‘Leave me alone. I’m all right—I can manage—leave me alone——’

  He lay back again, and looked up at her in the dimness, and laughed.

  ‘You’re a right silly piece, you are. If you’d have said, I’d have made it better for you, if you’d said you were a starter. I’m not silly, you know, I can make a woman like it, even the first time, I can. I’ve had a few beginners in my time, and I’ve made ’em feel marvellous—you’re a right silly one, you are——’

  ‘I’m not——’ She started to argue, started to tell him she was as experienced as he was, and stopped, and sat down on the bed, and looked at him, her face creased and puzzled.

  ‘Is it always like that?’ she asked, and her voice was timid. ‘I never really knew, you see. I thought it’d be—I don’t know—good. I thought I’d feel something, but I never felt anything. Is it always like that?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, love. I wouldn’t know. I’m not a woman. But there’s some who like it—I’ve made a few of ’em scratch my back to shreds, I’ll tell you that. But there’s some who don’t do much—just lie there, and let you get on—you’re like that, eh? Just like to lie there?’ He sounded sleepy, and suddenly yawned widely.

  ‘I could make you feel better, if you like, it’s up to you—I know how, and I could show you——’ he grinned at her again. ‘I daresay you know how I mean, eh? If you’ve never had the real thing before, you’ll know how to make yourself comfortable, eh?’ He rolled over, his back to her. ‘You can do it yourself, if you’d rather. I don’t mind, and you needn’t mind me. I’ve been around——’

  She sat in silence, looking down at his back, listening to his breathing get heavier and deeper, and tried to think about how it had been, tried to think if she had felt something and had only forgotten it. The other Ruth, the one in the corner, began to talk to her, began to tell her how it had been, what had happened, and sitting there on the bed, her thighs tightened, and she felt the damp stickiness against her clothes, and the familiar sensation rising within her.

  The other Ruth watched her as she slid back on to the bed to lie beside him, watched as she pulled his shoulder, and he turned sleepily towards her.

  ‘Please—you can if you like—if you know how. I’d rather it was you helped me—please——?’

  And he laughed in his throat, and rolled towards her, and she breathed deeply, and closed her eyes as his hand moved down across her skirt again.

  ELEVEN

  She got back to the hospital an hour before breakfast and slipped in through the door of the nurses’ home, walking carefully through the silent corridors, not wanting to be seen. It was funny really. The old Ruth, she’d have come in noisily, would have made an effort to disturb someone, so that they’d have known she’d been out all night, but the new Ruth was different.

  ‘I am a new Ruth,’ she told her mirror reflection as she pinned her cap on, climbed into her uniform. ‘Will they be able to see? Will she be able to tell? She’s got to. She made me and she’s got to——’

  When she was ready, she stood still for a moment, and then a smile curved her lips, and she went out of her room, along the corridor and tapped on Swinton’s door.

  ‘Who is it?’ The voice was sleepy, and she opened the door, and went in, and stood beside the bed where Swinton was raised on one elbow, looking up at her in faint surprise.

  ‘I need some advice,’ Ruth said flatly. ‘How much ergot do you need to abort?’

  Swinton stared at her, and then smiled wearily and threw back the bedclothes, and got out of bed, to pad over to the wash-basin in the corner.

  ‘Couldn’t you even wait till breakfast time?’ she said over the splash of water. ‘What are you trying to prove, Arthur? Leave me alone, will you? I told you—you bore me. I’ve had enough. Go and tell someone else——’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Ruth said softly. ‘I’m going to tell you. You made me, and I’m going to tell you——’

  ‘Made you? Made you what?’ Swinton’s voice came muffled by her face towel.

  ‘You were right, you see.’ Ruth sat down on the bed, and smoothed her apron neatly over her knees. ‘Quite right. I did enjoy myself—very much, I used to enjoy myself. But you went and spoiled it all, didn’t you? You knew, didn’t you?’ She looked up at her in real curiosity. ‘How did you know? Have you had it yourself? Is that how you knew?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake——’ Swinton began to clean her teeth, splashing the water noisily.

  ‘Is that why? You ought to tell me�
��you made me do it, you see. You went and spoiled it all, didn’t you? So you ought to tell me. Have you had it—really—like I did last night?’ and triumph rose in her voice. ‘I did, you see. I really did. I picked up this man in a hotel, and we went to his room, and then he——’

  ‘I don’t want to know!’ Swinton turned and almost shouted at her. ‘I don’t want to know. I didn’t make you do anything——’

  ‘But you did, Sylvia, you did.’ Ruth’s voice was gentle, and soft, and she looked up at the other woman with a wide smile on her face. ‘It was what you said. You knew none of it was really like I said, and you told them all, so I had to, didn’t I? I gave myself some penicillin so that’ll be all right—but suppose I get pregnant? What do I do? Ergot? How much? You know, don’t you?’

  Swinton stood and looked at her for a long moment, and then came and sat heavily on the bed beside her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at length. ‘I should have known better. But I was bored, and it all seemed so silly. I’m as bad as the rest of you, really. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, you needn’t be!’ Ruth said cheerfully. ‘You needn’t be. It could have been worse. I mean, I didn’t like it much—the real thing—but he was a nice chap, really. Helped me, you see, helped me afterwards, so it could have been worse. Next time, it’ll——’

  ‘No——’ Swinton sounded urgent, angry. ‘Don’t change yourself, Ruth. I shouldn’t have said it, I suppose, but I was bored, and—look, don’t go and do—whatever it was again——’

  ‘I told you what it was. The real thing—all the way. Don’t you believe me?’

  Swinton took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I believe you,’ she said heavily, after a moment. ‘And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did. But you don’t have to do it again, do you? Can’t you go on as you were? There wasn’t any harm in it the way you were——’