‘Well that’s your good deed for the day,’ she said, hoping that licence was now given to be as sinful as he pleased.
‘I hope she hasn’t already read them,’ he said.
‘She’ll never notice.’
‘You don’t know my mother,’ he said, and there was no concealing the anger in his voice. If his mother were to be slandered it was only he who had the right to malign her and he resented any stranger’s invasion into his private battlefield. Miss Hawkins sensed she’d made a bloomer and she hastened to take his arm as her only known means of making amends.
‘You said it yourself. The other day,’ she said.
And because she was right, he resented it even more. She squeezed his arm and wished she knew more about the subtleties of courtship.
They were approaching the cinema. She wondered whether she ought to make a show of paying for her ticket. She knew it was the man’s job to do the paying, but she did not have the confidence to see herself as part of a pair. His paying for her would confirm a relationship, his role as protector, and perhaps it was too soon to expect a commitment from him. So in order to avoid a possible disappointment, she began to rummage in her purse. They made for the ticket box and joined the line. He placed himself in front of her and Miss Hawkins saw that as a very hopeful move. When his turn came, he turned to her. ‘D’you like to sit upstairs or down?’ he said. Upstairs was posher, she knew, and far more expensive, and not knowing what her share of it would be, she hesitated. Then, ‘Upstairs’, she risked. She heard him as he instructed the cashier. ‘One circle seat,’ he said. He took out a small leather purse and counted out the exact change, while Miss Hawkins fumbled frantically in her bag hoping she had enough. As she counted out her change, he stood and watched her, and even when she found herself a few pennies short, he made no move to assist her. Sadly, she withdrew a five pound note from her wallet that she was loath to break into for a few mere pennies. She counted out her change and followed him into the darkness. A torch guided them down the circle flight of stairs and as she groped for her seat, she remembered her diary’s order. ‘Enjoy yourself.’ She sat down and took honest stock. No, I’m not enjoying myself, she thought. She tried to ascribe his lack of courtesy to an unwillingness to commit himself, an unreadiness to play the role of consort. Yet the thought niggled her that he was just plain downright mean, and she wished she’d had more man-experience to understand whether stinginess in men was a norm. She was angry. The act of breaking into a five pound note was always depressing, but it pained her less if it were for a largish sum, at the supermarket, for instance, for a week’s shopping. To break it down for the sake of a few pennies seemed an extra extravagance and she regretted that she hadn’t opted for the stalls. She looked sideways at him and he smiled at her, then out of the blue, he took her hand and instantly she forgave him. He squeezed her fingers, but such sudden ardour made her suspicious. Perhaps, she thought, he was celebrating the discovery of a companion who could pay her own way. Am I enjoying myself? she thought. She longed wistfully for a red tick, but she could not in all honesty feel that it was yet merited. She relaxed her hand in his, and decided to give him another chance. ‘Shall we have tea in a cafe afterwards?’ she asked.
He nodded, his eyes on the picture. She would give him a chance to pick up the bill, and if he paid, she could sincerely tick off the diary’s order. If not – she postponed thinking of that alternative and decided at least to enjoy the picture.
It was called The Splendours of the Night, and the titles were just creeping up on the screen. It was years since Miss Hawkins had been to the pictures. Since her acquisition of a television set, she had seen no reason to duplicate her pleasure and pay for it into the bargain and she tried not to think of the broken five pound note again.
The film now seemed to have started in earnest, for at least five minutes had passed without a printed credit. They were in a ballroom. There was old-fashioned dance music, and beautiful fancy dress, and immediately Miss Hawkins was swept into the romance and glamour of the occasion, oblivious of the man at her side. So oblivious, that she didn’t notice that he let loose her hand, for he too was transported into the unknown longed-for country, and for each of them, the other had no possible part of it, for their fantasy was so extreme, it could only contain themselves. Thus, side by side, they were separately transported into a beat of life that was never ugly, never lonely, never poor, and never sick. Miss Hawkins picked on the central figure of a beautiful girl with whom to identify, and with her she would stay throughout the picture. At her side, Brian too was fixing on his dream-image and on a far less obvious target. His focus was the grandfather of that same young beauty, whose youth now throbbed vicariously at his side. The old man sat both at the summit and centre of his lineage, attended with equal fervour by his peers and his inheritors. The young nurtured and sated his carnal appetites; a single movement of a finger was enough to conscript an army to fulfil his smallest wish. And on every level, large or small, this continuous and loving service was prompted above all by respect. Brian sighed. Yes, that was his final thrust of joy. Respect, that acknowledgement that all his life he had constantly sought, and had constantly eluded him. He blamed his mother for it, as he blamed her for everything. He had tried to understand her. Often enough he had dwelt on her past miseries, how his father had left them both, and penniless, and not a word from the brute since he had disappeared. Daily she cursed him and all his kind, and as she looked at Brian in his rompers, or school-clothing, or even later in his army uniform, she heartily wished he was a girl. But since he’d turned out like his father, then, as a man, she would use him. And gradually over the years, she made of him her surrogate husband and punished him as she would have done his prototype, had he been around. All this Brian understood in hindsight, but understanding did little to increase his tolerance or to diminish the bitterness of his feelings towards her. What worried him most was that he himself had been party to her practices, that it took two to do almost everything, including her own brand of colonisation. He bit his lips in anger, as he recalled his years of positive submission, and at that moment he resolved that when he got home there would be an end to it. That he would look after her only if she begged, and only if he had nothing better to do. Then slowly he would reverse the roles that she had insisted on. But suddenly he remembered too, that often in his life he had made that decision, but somehow, in the end, she had overcome. So he sat there gritting his false teeth with hatred, while on the screen, a young man was ushered into his presence, bowing and scraping his way into his affection.
Miss Hawkins saw in the young man her suitor, and as he was asking the old man for her hand, Brian was demanding a little more reverence before granting it. Which the suitor gave now on bended knee. But still the old man withheld his permit and Miss Hawkins curled her lip in disgust, convinced that the old lecher wanted her for himself. He was to come back in a year, the old man said, having fulfilled some impossible mission, the attempt at which would most likely entail his death. ‘Mean old thing,’ Miss Hawkins whispered to her companion as the scene changed on the screen and there was an interval to daydreaming.
‘Serves him right,’ Brian said, still in the ebb of his fantasy. For Brian was relishing the aftertaste of power. ‘I don’t think I want to go to a cafe afterwards,’ he said, feeling a sudden need for self-assertion. But he could be persuaded, he knew. But only if she said ‘please’ often enough, to the extent of begging, or even buying his favours, and he would be content. It was a negative form of self-assertion, but at least it was a beginning.
‘Oh please,’ she said. ‘I do like a cup of tea. With a cream cake as well.’
‘I don’t like cakes.’
‘What do you like then?’
‘I like something savoury. Welsh rarebit, or mushrooms on toast.’
‘We can have that then.’
‘I can do without it,’ he said.
‘Please,’ Miss Hawkins said, ‘I was so looking f
orward.’
‘It’ll be costly,’ he said.
‘I’ll treat you,’ Miss Hawkins almost shouted, and regretted it as soon as it was out, recalling the order in her diary to enjoy herself.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, having already made up his mind.
She writhed at his side, deserting her image on the screen, while she scratched in her mind, searching for any advantage in the situation. He wanted her as his slave, she decided. He wanted her for her service. The role was not unappealing. She had a distinctive need to obey, to be subservient and when she’d retired, the diary had replaced her masters. Brian would be a duplication, but withal, she granted, a human one. Yes, she decided, she could serve a double master. She had found a happy rationale for paying for his tea, and subsequently perhaps, for all his pleasures. It was prostitution in reverse, and it thrilled her with disgust and pleasurable anticipation. She made a quick reckoning of her income, assessing how much she could put aside for his sundry weekly pleasures. Bus-fares, cafes and pictures were assessable, but she had no notion of the going rates for his other little pleasures, and it was hardly a commodity that lent itself to window-shopping or price comparison. But it excited her none the less. Now the notion of being taken out and of being paid for at every turn, faintly displeased her. She concluded that there was a far greater power in paying than in being paid. But Brian had fashioned his own rationale, and his conclusions, likewise dictated by his needs, were exactly the opposite.
Miss Hawkins turned her attention back to the screen, and Brian likewise, and both wallowed in their separate myths till the end of the picture.
It was Brian who chose the café, one that was nearest to the style of Splendours of the Night as the present century would allow. It was a large tea-room, upholstered in red plush and walled with flock. In the centre of the salon was a small fountain gushing from a fish mouth. And at the far end, flanked by potted plants, was a small gipsy orchestra who were tip-toeing through the tulips as they were ushered to their table. Miss Hawkins had never seen the like before and she wondered whether it was the first time for Brian too. She wondered how much this pleasure of his would cost her. Certainly more than the ‘Copper Kettle’ she had had in mind. But power increased in ratio to the investment, so she tried not to mind his choice of venue. She reckoned she had almost five pounds in her purse, which would surely be adequate. The rest of the week she would have to economise, especially since she had already spent an unbudgeted sum on her knitting materials. The cost of survival was inflationary. She made do on her pension, but she had a little put aside over the years in a bank deposit. But she would never draw on that except in the greatest emergency. She looked upon her present spending as an investment in marriage, and hopefully Brian would succumb before the nest-egg need be cracked.
The waiter handed them each a menu. It was a large coloured folder decorated with yellow roses which echoed the name of the café. There was a large choice of items catering for every range of appetite, and the prices were astronomical. In a central rose-ringed box was a menu for a standard tea, which included welsh rarebit for an optional extra of 60p. On a quick reckoning, it seemed to Miss Hawkins that it would be overall cheaper than choosing separate items on the à la carte list, and she was quick to point out to Brian that his rarebit was on the menu.
‘Yes,’ he said, he’d have that, and she could have his cream cake. Every large take required a little give, he decided. Thus he could prolong their unequal partnership.
A few couples were dancing round the fountain, and the bandleader moved around the tables, his baton uselessly beating at a distance as he chivvied along other couples to join them. He reached Miss Hawkins’ table, and she prayed that he would bypass them. And indeed he saw them as unlikely candidates and quickly passed on, scanning the tables for more likely material. Miss Hawkins would have liked to dance, but she decided she would not suggest it. She hadn’t budgeted for dancing and it was up to Brian to make a free offer. But he was silent.
‘That was a nice picture,’ Miss Hawkins said in an attempt to change a subject that had been unspoken.
‘I liked the old man best,’ Brian said.
‘Bit of a tyrant, wasn’t he?’
‘I didn’t think so. All he wanted was respect. That’s not tyrannical.’
‘But they won in the end,’ Miss Hawkins triumphed.
‘But the old man didn’t lose, did he?’ Brian said. ‘What won in that picture was respect.’ Brian marvelled at his sudden profundity.
‘You set a lot of store by respect, don’t you?’ Miss Hawkins said.
‘The world would be a happier place.’ Then, after a pause, he took the plunge. ‘I’m not interested in anybody who doesn’t respect me,’ he said pompously.
‘Oh I do,’ Miss Hawkins obliged. ‘I really do. I’d do anything for you Brian,’ she said. She heard her nest-egg cracking, but managed a smile. Brian was pleased. She knew what was expected of her. He had laid his cards squarely on the table.
They gave the waiter their order. Two set teas with one welsh rarebit as an extra. Brian was more than content. His discovery of Miss Hawkins as a willing and paying slave had offered him on a plate the role of master that had been for ever denied him. In his working life, he had always been an underling, and this same menial role had been domestically confirmed. Well, there’d be no more of that, he decided. Even though he wasn’t paying the piper, he would certainly call the tune. He caught Miss Hawkins’ look of salivating adoration and he was smug with achievement. When the worm turns, that turning is usually savage and the bully is but the flip-side of the weakling. And in this turning, Brian needed to perform an act, that cruel as it might seem to others, would confirm for himself his creeping notions of superman.
He looked around the room and his eye rested on a single woman, sipping her tea at a corner table. ‘There’s time for a dance,’ he said. He rose, and Miss Hawkins hesitated. She didn’t associate Brian with dancing, and besides, it was not like him to come to such a positive decision. But she shifted in her chair and was on the point of rising.
‘Excuse me,’ Brian said, and he was gone, threading his way to the lone lady across the room. Miss Hawkins remained half-standing, totally bewildered by his behaviour and grinding her jaw in fury as she watched him offer his dancing services to a stranger. She clutched at her chair and sat down. She saw how the two of them almost trotted to the dancing section, and how he circled her waist and clumsily led her around the floor. She crossed her ankles tightly, painfully pressing on the bone, and she heartily wished that her knitting was handy. She could hardly believe what he had done and had a mind there and then to get up and go, and would have done just that, had not the music suddenly stopped and she watched him take leave of the lady on the floor.
He returned to the table and sat down as if nothing were amiss. ‘That’s given me an appetite,’ he said, as the waiter arrived and placed his rarebit before him. Miss Hawkins was too astonished to protest, and as she unlocked her ankles, she felt a movement on her knee. She lifted the tablecloth to find his hand lying there. She could not understand what was happening. Hardly had he settled down after one aberration, than he was proceeding with another. But understanding was not the priority. First she had to deal with her feelings, feelings that were so overwhelming, that she feared some unnatural change in her body, and feared it with an awful joy. I am enjoying myself, she had to admit, and even if he withdrew his hand at that very moment, she could, in all honesty, tick off that precarious order. And when he was assured of her delight, he put his hand to the cutting of his rarebit. She still felt its fevered imprint on her knee-cap and she was convinced that underneath her stocking lay the spoor of the devil’s hoof. Her cheeks were on fire, and she kept her face averted, as if to face him would be an indecent exposure of pleasure. Brian munched at his rarebit, but he noted with satisfaction that he had pleased her.
‘You liked that?’ he said.
‘Do it again, Brian,
’ she said to the tablecloth.
‘That was a free sample,’ he said. He eyed her to gauge her reaction; and from her sudden intake of breath, he knew that she’d got the message. Thereafter they ate in silence. Too many questions crowded her mind, and each more perverse than the other. And in her mind were the answers, too unnatural for the telling. So only silence could cover their unspoken and unspeakable dialogue. But Miss Hawkins was thinking and concentrating very hard. If indeed she had to pay for her pleasures, as Brian’s statement had clearly inferred, such pleasure would be pure and untrammelled. Miss Hawkins firmly believed that nothing was for nothing, and any pleasure purloined for free was bound to be adulterated with guilt and shame. No sin could be attached to pleasure if it had been earned with good and hard cash. Indeed, through such a transaction, pleasure would amount to a virtue. It now seemed to Miss Hawkins to be totally immoral to accept a complimentary pass to happiness. It was incumbent on her, as a good Christian, to foot the bill of her gratification.
When they had finished, the waiter handed Brian the bill, and he, without embarrassment, passed it across the table.
‘I enjoyed that very much,’ he said, assuring her that her investment was not wasteful. She put a bold face on the bill, taking care not to betray her horror at the offensive total. The change from the broken five pound note would just about cover it, and quickly she recalled the hell-born print on her knee-cap to offset her dismay. She put the exact money on the plate, covering it with the bill. She had no money for a tip, and she was anxious to leave the room before the waiter returned. She got up from the table, and Brian followed. In the street, he took her arm.
‘I’d like to see you again,’ he said.
‘What about your mother?’
‘I’ll fix her,’ he said, with a bully’s courage. ‘Next Friday, then?’
A Five Year Sentence Page 6
