By lunchtime, Miss Hawkins’ preparations were complete. She had bathed and put on her best dress, but she had retained her slippers to offset the formality of her appearance, and to give the casual air of the ordinary to an extraordinary event. In small and nervous sips, she had managed to down half the bottle of port, and she felt aglow. Her erstwhile nervousness now focused only on whether her home-baked sponge was up to standard. And to settle that small anxiety, she cut herself a small slice, dunking it in her port, and found it satisfactory. There was nothing more to do now than to wait for him. She sat down on her side of the settee, and read off the items in the first and second section, slowly and carefully, as if her eyes were being tested on an optician’s chart. The final section of Brian’s services was concealed under the fold. She would not be needing those services today, certainly not today, and probably never. Never, never, she said to herself. Even if she had an appetite for them, they were certainly beyond her means, so costly indeed, that they were hardly worth bargaining for, for even at half their price she could not afford them. Yet she had to admit they made very exciting reading. She took the folder from the mantelpiece and revealed the category of unattainables. She snuggled into the corner-angle of uncut moquette and read them aloud. There was a gradual build-up of services and prices, and the final offer, the most, she assumed, Brian or any of his kind was capable of serving, was charged at the princely sum of £50. The reading of the service itself thrilled her almost beyond control and its fee was almost more exciting, and she saw through her woollen slippers the frenetic movement of her wiggling toes. She wished that he would come. She read the section over again, trying to convince herself that the reading of it was enough, and praying that it would always be enough and that she should never seek to translate it into practical terms, even if Brian was to give it her for nothing. But above all she prayed that her diary would never order her to it. Miss Hawkins had long ago dispensed with God in any religious form, but she still clung to the estates of heaven and hell and there was no doubt in her orphan-washed mind that non-virgins, if unmarried, went straight to the fire without any right of appeal. Without using any of the words, matron had always made that very clear. She remembered the special talk matron gave to the small cluster of girls as they left for their first working day at the For Your Pleasure factory. They were all highly excited. The prospect of freedom, with the added bonus of unlimited sweets was intoxicating, and it was difficult to concentrate on the final words of wisdom and warning with which matron burdened her departing wards. Although they were now free of her, and need never, in the whole of their lives look upon her angry face again, she had so conditioned them to fear that they trembled even on the brink of their parole, and listened, as they had always listened, to her sour words of hate, mistrust and hell-fire warnings. ‘Never forget what you came from,’ she told them. ‘What you came from is nothing and that is easy to remember. You have no fathers, and your mothers don’t count, for they are fallen women, fallen in the sight of God.’
‘She’s not,’ Hawkins protested, though she’d never seen her mother or even heard her name. ‘My mother was a good woman,’ she said, with the courage of a school-leaver.
Matron was regretfully aware that the bread and water days were over. All she could do was to spit in Hawkins’ direction. ‘I can see the way you’re going, Hawkins. You’ll end up like your mother, on the streets, riddled with disease and poverty. But the rest of you girls,’ she said, turning her back on Hawkins, ‘there’s hope for you. I want you to take my advice,’ and Hawkins saw a red flush on the back of her starched neck. ‘Whenever you meet a man,’ she said quickly, ‘cross your legs, and keep them crossed until you’ve left the altar. Or I promise you that you will go to the fire and burn for ever after. Amen.’ The girls shuddered, and though the words were not addressed to her, so did Hawkins, and on no-one did the words have a more lasting effect, for throughout her confectioned life, under the bench, the desk, and finally the till, she had kept her legs firmly locked.
Miss Hawkins looked at them now, and saw the frightened reef-knot of her ankles and she stiffened with fear and fury. Quickly she reached for her knitting, and plained matron away in a spleen of olive green. It took almost six inches for her anger to evaporate, and it was time for Brian’s visit. She put the knitting away and took a generous gulp of port.
When the door bell rang, she unfastened her extremities and straightened her best dress. She waited until he rang a second time. Her blushes and tremblings proclaimed her eagerness enough, without her having to rush to the door. On the second ring, she went slowly through the hall, assuming a look of wonder on her face as to who it was, and for what reason anyone should call on her. And it was this questioning look of surprise that Brian countered as he stood at the door twiddling with his hat.
‘Hullo,’ he said, and there was no shyness in him. His manner was abrupt and businesslike. ‘May I come in?’ he said briskly, as if there were no time to lose. As if he had another client waiting. Which indeed he had, in the person of Violet Makins’ friend to whom he had been fulsomely recommended. His first transaction with Violet had been an unparalleled success. She had concentrated on the first and second sections of his bill of fare, and it was clear to Brian, that given time, she would make her lustful way through the whole meal. Her appetite, even for the hors d’œuvres was gargantuan, and so satisfied was she, that she immediately gave him the name of her friend, to whom she had confided the details of Brian’s servicing, and who had shown more than average interest in becoming a client. Mrs Makins had indicated that he could do for her twice a week, and her friend, no doubt, would want likewise. He looked forward to a discreet accumulation of clients and goodwill, and if his strength were over-taxed, why, he might even go into discreet partnership. He looked at Miss Hawkins, and though he felt instinctively that the lady was not a great spender, he nevertheless felt a strong affection for her. Although he’d been in business for less than a week, he already knew how to recognise innocence, and dear Miss Hawkins was shrivelled with it. He followed her into the sitting-room.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said rushing out again unwilling to bear witness to his reactions to all her ceremonials, the drawn curtains, the port, and the up-stage placing of the settee.
Brian sat down and was pleased with the setting. The desperate void on the top of the port bottle moved him infinitely, and he decided to throw in one or two services for nothing. A fact that would not have pleased Miss Hawkins, had she known of his intended generosity, for she was in duty bound to spend £4 on her investment without availing herself of the more costly services. She poured the hot water on the tea-leaves, and waited while it infused, shifting from one foot to the other, dreading the brewed moment when there could no longer be any delay. Yet at the same time, she was anxious to get on with it, if only to hurry the life-giving moment of ticking off her diary’s order. She took the tea-pot into the sitting-room. ‘Nice little place you’ve got here,’ he said. He liked Violet’s sitting-room better. Somehow, with its old pieces of silver, and framed family photographs, it had more substance. It spoke of a past that had been eventful, it spoke softly of inheritance and continuity. Miss Hawkins’ sitting-room was barren and unsired. It spoke of no dowry and of no bequest. It was here for the length of her lifetime and afterwards it would be re-papered without respect or regret.
‘It’s very comfortable for one person,’ Miss Hawkins said. She thought of Maurice under the bed, and had a sudden thrilling notion of adultery.
‘D’you take sugar?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m sweet enough,’ he said.
‘But you’ll have some cake,’ she said, cutting him a slice. The tea, and all that attended it, was part of the ritual of postponement, and it was clearly more for the hostess’ sake than that of her guest. Brian was already practised enough in his trade to dispense with the preamble trimmings. ‘Come and sit down,’ he said, patting the moquette beside him. Then for the first tim
e he noticed the neat pile of change on the table. He totted it up quickly with his eye, and was rather surprised by her intended extravagance. He girded his ageing loins. She settled herself by his side, her legs demurely crossed at the ankles.
‘You’re looking very lovely in that frock,’ he said. Flirting was for free, and he’d learned it as a useful prelude to the serious part of the business.
‘Thank you ever so much,’ she said, grateful that he still saw the woman in her, and not solely a paying recipient of his trade.
‘Have you decided what you want?’ he said, putting his cup of tea on one side. She was surprised by his promptness and his determination to get things going.
‘I’d like some port,’ she said faint-heartedly, and without unlocking her legs, she reached over for the bottle. ‘Would you like a drop?’
‘I think I can manage with just the tea,’ he said.
‘Oh I don’t need it,’ she said quickly, and she wondered why he was pulling rank on her.
‘You haven’t done this sort of thing before?’ she asked, needing to re-assure herself that there was a mutual innocence abroad.
‘Of course not,’ he said, recalling the useful lessons that Violet had taught him. ‘I just don’t like port very much. It’s a lady’s drink,’ he said. ‘So you enjoy it.’
She obeyed and took a generous mouthful. Then, when it was down, and she was re-settled, locked in the settee, there was no longer any earthly reason why they shouldn’t get down to business.
‘I thought I’d try the first section,’ she said. ‘I’ve added it all up and it comes to £1. And I’d like to pay you in advance.’ She took one pile of the change and gave it to him. He did not count it, for he had already gauged its worth from his place on the settee, and he put it in his trouser-pocket. ‘Would you like the lights out?’ he said. Violet had been prepared to spend far more money in the dark and she’d been altogether more comfortable as a non eye-witness.
Miss Hawkins was grateful for his consideration. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said, getting up. ‘I can feel my way around.’ She turned off all the lights, and crossed over to the curtains, and closed off the small chinks of sunlight from outside. Now it was totally dark and she had to grope her way back to the settee. She tumbled down close beside him, and she was able to use the dark as an excuse for her unseemly lack of decorum. Then she realised that she could no longer see the bill of fare that stood open on the mantelpiece.
‘Now I can’t see the bill,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I know it by heart.’
‘So do I, I suppose,’ she giggled.
‘We’ll start at the beginning and we’ll go right through.’
‘Just the first section,’ she added, on her guard. ‘Then we’ll see.’
‘Oh we’ll see all right,’ Brian said, ‘and we won’t see either, shall we?’
She was prepared to leave it at that.
He took her hand, but not as he had taken it before, as a teasing sample of his services. This time, he took each part of it, as Violet had guided him, alternating the parts with the whole, stroking and pressing, and occasionally pressing so hard, especially in the palm that it almost hurt. It was the hurting that Miss Hawkins liked best, and she was prepared to pay over and over again to test the threshold of her acceptance of his cruelty. Thus he went through each item in a teasing manner, and when she paid for a repeat performance, given the limitations of the target, he really gave his all. In the second performance, Miss Hawkins felt urgent stirrings in those parts of her body that were catered for only in the forbidden section, and she had to call a halt for a while, a breathing space, as she told Brian, for she still had half her bounden money to spend. She persuaded him to a thimbleful of port, but refrained herself. She needed no more stimulant, or her nest-egg would be scrambled in one fell swoop. She moved away from him on the settee, and was horrified to notice, that somewhere along the line, her ankles had freed their lock, and she thought of matron and her promise of eternal damnation. Yet she had only spent £2, hardly enough for a mild reprimand. Eternal damnation, if it proved to be worth it, would surely cost a lot more. She promised herself that she would never go that far and she moved closer to Brian so that his encore would prove her sworn limitations.
She handed over the third pile, and coyly suggested they move on to the second section of the catalogue. Brian, sensing that she would want a repeat of this section as well, and mindful of his later engagement, covered the items in quick succession, and the speed of it, contrary to all expectations, laced it with even greater thrills. ‘More, more,’ she squealed, handing over the last pile, and he repeated it, slower this time, because he didn’t want to overcheat her. When he’d run it through a second time, Brian said, ‘That’s all for today. I have to get back to my mother. I hope you’re satisfied.’
Miss Hawkins looked again at her wayward loose ankles. And she resolved that the next time Brian came to serve her, she would tie them together with string. Indeed, Brian himself could tie them, very tightly, she would insist, so that it would hurt her splendidly, and Brian, without knowing, would be giving an extra service for nothing.
‘Yes, I’m very satisfied,’ she said getting up. ‘Can you come again next Monday?’
‘I’ll be glad,’ he said. ‘I rather enjoy it, don’t you?’ He had to remind himself that he too was supposed to be new at the game, so he chorused her innocent giggling. ‘It’s going to get better and better,’ he promised.
‘It’s a lovely way of saving,’ Miss Hawkins said. ‘You’ll keep the accounts, will you?’ she said.
‘Don’t you worry, Jean,’ he re-assured her, and his calling her by name was more re-assurance than she could ever hope for.
She saw him to the door and the front gate, and waved to him as he hurried down the street. The back-door syndrome of Mrs Violet Makins had no place in Miss Hawkins’ production. She had no shame of what had passed in her sitting-room. The last hour or so had been by way of a tea-time confessional, and even matron had granted that confession was good for the soul. She shut the front door behind her and returned to her sanctuary. She sat in the darkened room reliving her wild purchases. She had intended having Maurice to dinner, but suddenly she didn’t want to tell him of the day’s events. She didn’t want to share them with anybody, partly for the sake of her own privacy, and partly out of sheer exhaustion. She decided to go to bed early and read her way into a romantic sleep. But first there was the joy of ticking. She unlocked her diary and opened it to the day’s order. She had spent the required sum and it had been more than she could afford. She ticked it off with acute pleasure. Then she cleared the tea-trolley and drew the blinds open to release the fading light of day. She undressed slowly and gently and, as always, with her eyes tightly closed, but treating her unseen body with a new and tender care. Then she snuggled with her novelette between the sheets, while the faceless Maurice lay a-cuckold under the bed.
Part 2
Chapter 11
Miss Hawkins’ diary was three years old. She flicked through the thousand-odd pages, and found them blood-red with obedience. She had dutifully served more than half her sentence. Only occasionally did she wonder what she would do with her official freedom when the time came. She avoided giving it much thought, because in the beginning, the diary had been but a postponement of a self-inflicted quietus and it was logical that once it was obsolete, she was free to carry out her original intention. But she no longer had any appetite for that manoeuvre. Her life had become meaningful in the pursuit of pleasure. She had no scruple about enjoying herself. There was no sin in loving and believing oneself loved, and her weekly sitting-room activities became more and more a ritual of worship, and Brian her constant priest. But if she chose to go on living after her sentence had expired, she did sometimes wonder how it would be possible without the diary. It was true that sometimes she loathed her little order book and feared it as it colonised her more and more. Yet without it, she would feel
herself disorientated. She could of course buy a second five-year round, but there would have been something artificial about obedience if it were to her own proscribed orders. As far as she was concerned, her present diary was itself an order from others, from all her previous masters, and all she had to do was obey.
Such were Miss Hawkins’ thoughts on this New Year’s Day of the fourth year of her sentence. It was time for stocktaking and sorting out her accounts. She had been putting it off for a long time. Over the past three years she had donated over a thousand pounds to Brian’s church, and during that time, she had not sampled even one item of his final category. In that respect she had been more moral than thrifty, for even to read that section was to kindle the purgatorial fire. She had to add to all that the weekly expense of a rich home-baked cake and a bottle of port. There was also a weekly expenditure on candles. After their first few sitting-room sessions, it was Brian who had suggested a little light on the proceedings. He wanted to see what he was doing to ensure that, as far as the required service was concerned, he was not out of bounds, for the difference between a favour of one price, and another that cost double, was a difference of only one finger. Nothing was for nothing. But for Miss Hawkins, the candles shed a flattering and romantic light on the proceedings, as well as underlining the sense of tabernacle. Her wool budget, too, was astronomical, for though her life was reliably punctuated with pleasure, her intermittent anger never abated, and the scarf was now some twenty yards long. Miss Hawkins had cause for concern, and it was time for her to set down her columns of income and expenditure. The former was constant, consisting of her gratuity, pension and the interest on her shrinking nest-egg. It was that particular that worried her. She wondered how Brian had invested her savings, and what he was doing with its returns. He never volunteered information and she would have thought that an investment of one thousand pounds would have given him something to talk about, some progress report to enlighten her. When she herself mentioned it from time to time, he assured her with a smile that all was well. So she had no idea of how poor or how rich she was. Over the last three years she had occasionally and obliquely mentioned marriage, not necessarily as a state specific to herself, but as a notion in general. Brian had never expressed any opposition. Indeed he saw it as something to be striven for, and once even, he had mentioned the possibility of the two of them joining hands without any payment in advance. She was wary of nagging him about her savings in case he really did intend to use them for their nuptuals, and she did not want to risk the possibility that he would change his mind. So from time to time, she fretted and feared, and hated herself as well as Brian. And all the accumulated knots of anger and bitterness, she unravelled in her knitting.
A Five Year Sentence Page 11
