A Five Year Sentence

by Bernice Rubens

  She put the diary aside and gave up any further attempt at stocktaking. She had to face the fact that she had insufficient data. She looked at her watch. Soon it would be opening time at the Pirate’s Arms. Over the years she had become one of its regulars. She had a table in the corner of the private bar, which was understood by other regulars to be Miss Hawkins’ reserve. On the table she would spread her handbag, a book, or sometimes, if the plaining mood were upon her, her knitting. The interminable scarf had become a topic of conversation at the pub, and for some was a proof of Miss Hawkins’ eccentricity. And though they knew nothing about her, they warmed to her. They asked her no questions, because she gave off a very clear signal of privacy. Miss Hawkins looked forward to her daily tipple, taken usually in the early evening, but this morning’s drink was a bonus, since it marked the beginning of a New Year, a year, she dared to hope, which would see the changing of her name. As she sat there sipping her port and lemon, an observer would have seen her give a sudden start, and noticed that her face had turned an ashen grey. For Miss Hawkins had just remembered that on leaving the house, she had forgotten to write out the day’s order. In the three years since her sentence was pronounced, she had never once gone out of the door, without prescribing some duty. And not any old duty, but one that contained an element of risk. Not all her orders had been Brian-orientated. She had spread her duty net pretty wide. She had, for example, ordered herself to go swimming in the local baths, though she had never before set foot in a pool. Once, her diary had sent her on a dustbin treasure hunt with specific orders as to what to bring home, and that order had sent her foraging late into the night until her list of requirements was complete. Now she was unnerved by her neglect and she began to shiver like an addict deprived of a fix. She downed her port and lemon, noticing that a few clients were watching her, and she got up quickly saying, ‘I left the oven on,’ and she left the pub covered with shame. She hurried home and went straight to the leather-bound tyranny. Each New Year started on a piece of parchment paper covered with a wispy tissue. There was a special column headed ‘New Year Resolutions,’ and it was one order that she ignored, since she considered that every day contained resolutions that she had obediently carried out. That column was kid’s stuff, and too amateur for a hardy professional like herself. She turned over the parchment and smoothed her hand down the virgin New Year’s page. Its untrodden whiteness called for a dramatic sortie, a brave footprint of a pioneer to an uncharted land. She no longer deliberated on the ease or difficulty of an order’s execution. She tended to write down whatever wishful thinking played in her mind, and at this moment, on the first day of the New Year, she allowed herself one single resolution. But only because it was in itself an order, which required all her reserves of courage and cunning to fulfil. So she wrote, high on the page, and in large capitals, for she was not unmindful of its timing as a turning point in her life, ‘MADE ARRANGEMENTS FOR MY WEDDING DRESS.’ It was only after she’d written it down that she realised the fulfilment of such an order on New Year’s Day, when most of the shops were closed, was well nigh impossible. But it was too late to erase it. Her willingness would have to overcome all obstacles. She buttoned her coat and left the house once more.

  She had intended to return to the pub, partly because she fancied an extra port and lemon to celebrate the New Year, and because her hasty departure and manufactured excuse inferred a return, and she liked to believe that the regulars would miss her. Moreover, she needed that drink to fortify her for the arduous task the diary had set her. And she would have a cigarette too, not as a means of postponement, but as an additional stimulant. All her adult life she had been wary of cigarettes, but her new-found taste for alcohol somehow included tobacco. She tried to ration herself for reasons of economy. Her pull to alcohol was strong, and she was finding it increasingly difficult to drink without a cigarette. Again she thought of her stocktaking, and all its unavailable data. But at least she could be sure of expenditure, and there seemed to be no reason at all why she shouldn’t budget for tobacco. She called in at the newsagent next door to the Pirate’s Arms. There was a small queue, and while she waited she idly read the small ads in the glass case above the stationery counter. She read of rooms to let and washing machines for sale, and an offer of French lessons with the bracketed codicil of ‘genuine.’ And beneath this declaration of honest academic intent, a Mrs Daisy Church offered her services as dressmaker. She had no phone number, but her address was within walking distance of the shop. Miss Hawkins looked upon the notice as a timely deliverance and she repeated the address to herself until she’d learned it by heart. The salesgirl asked her what she wanted, and still in her diary’s order, she answered, ‘A wedding dress,’ and the girl giggled out of pity and embarrassment. The hurt Miss Hawkins giggled too, for that was the only way of confirming it as a deliberate joke.

  ‘Twenty tipped,’ she said, ‘and a happy New Year.’

  The girl felt less pity and more embarrassment and quickly she handed over the cigarettes, for such eccentricity gave the shop a bad name. Miss Hawkins lit up immediately. Over the years, since the beginning of her sentence, her discretion had by necessity evaporated. Her day’s order was a reckless one, which allowed no room for prudence, and so she might as well in all particulars throw caution to the winds. Between blatant and public puffs on her cigarette, she repeated the address to herself and made her way in that direction.

  Mrs Church tried not to look surprised when Miss Hawkins stated her purpose at her front door. It had been a long time since a client had called. The little notice in the newsagent’s was a standing order, and had been there at a small weekly cost for many years. Her clients, such as they were, came by way of recommendation, and were women of uncommon shapes and sizes, for whom off-the-peg did not cater. Mrs Church sized up Miss Hawkins and with a practised eye judged her a simple size fourteen, who would have no problems whatsoever in any chain store. She therefore must want something special, something perhaps that needed privacy to acquire.

  She showed her into her work-room. There was a musty smell inside, as if the room had not been used for some time.

  ‘I hope you’re not in a hurry,’ Mrs Church said, sensing her client’s wariness. ‘I’ve got a lot of work on hand. I’m doing a wedding in three weeks’ time,’ she invented. ‘Three bridesmaid dresses and one for the bride’s mother. Rushed off my feet, I am.’

  Miss Hawkins relaxed, confident in Mrs Church’s speciality. ‘I’m not in a desperate hurry,’ she said. ‘I’m getting married in six months’ time.’ The date was arbitrary, but she wanted to assure Mrs Church that she was not rushing her.

  ‘My congratulations,’ the dressmaker said. ‘You’ve been married before, of course.’

  ‘This is my first time,’ Miss Hawkins said proudly. ‘Not that I haven’t had offers, but I’ve been very fussy.’

  Mrs Church began to feel sorry for her. ‘What colour are you thinking of, dear?’

  Miss Hawkins thought she had been misunderstood. ‘It’s my first time,’ she said primly, ‘so naturally I shall want white.’ Her virgin status was something she was quite ready to flaunt if called upon, because its retention had cost her dear. She knew of course that, according to Brian’s bill of fare, it would be far more costly to give it away. The temptation had often assaulted her, and she could have found ways and means of raising the cash. So she was proud that she resisted, and there was no reason why she shouldn’t share this pride with Mrs Church.

  ‘That’ll be very nice,’ the dressmaker said with little enthusiasm. ‘What style did you have in mind?’

  ‘Have you any patterns?’

  Mrs Church opened a cupboard and took out a pile of books. She put them on the work-table, and opened a few at the required nuptial page. Miss Hawkins noted that the books were around ten years old, and Mrs Church, who had a telepathic knack, hastily assured her that all the old styles had come back into fashion. Miss Hawkins’ eye fell on a long white satin creation,
with yards of skirt and train, a nipped-in waist and childlike Peter Pan collar. She put her finger on it decisively. ‘I’d like that one,’ she said.

  Mrs Church winced. ‘Don’t you think that one would be more suitable?’ she said, pointing to a matronly gown suitable for a bride’s mother. ‘Or that one, or that?’ she said. ‘That one is very becoming.’ As delicately as possible, she tried to persuade her client that no matter how kosher her anatomical status, she was rather too old for cherry blossom. But Miss Hawkins had made up her mind. ‘I want that one,’ she said. ‘It’s my day,’ as if Mrs Church were denying her, ‘and I must look my best.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll take your measurements.’

  Miss Hawkins took off her coat and stood to attention. She had never had a dress made before and she was prepared to put herself entirely in Mrs Church’s nuptial hands. As the dressmaker had supposed, she was an exact size fourteen, and she was relieved that there would be no need for a pattern adjustment. She made a quick and audible sum in her head. ‘You’ll need quite a lot of material, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘The skirt alone is seven yards. Altogether it will be eleven. In a heavy white satin. Should be beautiful.’ She tried to concentrate on the dress itself, eliminating the model. It could indeed be quite a piece of haute couture.

  ‘What about the net for the head-dress?’

  Mrs Church was quickly brought down to earth, and felt called upon to make a small objection. ‘Don’t you think a simple veil over the hair would be more suitable?’

  ‘I want the tiara.’

  Mrs Church began to pity her again, and hoped she would not have to witness the wedding. ‘That’ll be four yards of silk net,’ she said, ‘and the crown you’ll have to buy separately.’

  Miss Hawkins was satisfied. ‘I’ll buy the material tomorrow,’ she said, ‘and I’ll drop it in on my way home. I live close by, so I can come for a fitting at any time.’

  ‘It’ll be a month yet,’ Mrs Church reminded her, suddenly anxious about her rusty sartorial skills.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Miss Hawkins said, ‘I just like to have everything to hand.’

  As she put on her coat, Mrs Church tried to blind herself to the vision of grey mutton clothed in lamb. On the top of Miss Hawkins’ head, the cherry-blossom was sprouting. Once again the good lady tried to get her client to change her mind.

  ‘What did you wear when you were a bride?’ Miss Hawkins said.

  ‘I wore a dress very like the one you’ve chosen. But I was eighteen years old.’

  ‘Age is in the heart, my dear,’ Miss Hawkins said. ‘You had your day, and now I shall have mine.’

  ‘What is the groom going to wear?’ Mrs Church dared to ask, and she did not miss the shock on Miss Hawkins’ face.

  ‘Top hat and tails,’ she said after a flinching pause, scraping her memory of an old Fred Astaire movie.

  And then Mrs Church was convinced that there was no groom, nor ever would be and that the poor woman was going to inordinate and expensive lengths to satisfy a day-dream. She wondered whether she would ever return.

  Miss Hawkins reached home and lit another cigarette. She’d had a distinct feeling of unease ever since she’d left the dressmaker’s house, that was not offset even by the pleasure of ticking off the day’s order. Mrs Church’s objection to her choice of style, and her final question about the groom’s apparel had only served to underline her own lack of confidence in the event she was so busily producing. Angrily she reached for her knitting. She puffed furiously at her cigarette, letting it dangle from the corner of her mouth, her one eye closed to avoid the smoke while she knitted out her fury. She recalled the picture of the bride in the fashion book, and without much difficulty was able to translate it to her own person. This made her feel a lot better, and she looked forward to buying the material on the following day. She convinced herself that she would marry in June, a suitable month for such a ceremony, and she did not doubt that by then her diary would be prepared to order her to the altar. She wondered how and where they would settle. She didn’t particularly like Brian’s house. She much preferred her own. She poured herself a little port, and holding the glass in her hand, she went from room to room and in her mind she rearranged her dwelling to accommodate a husband. She stood at the bedroom door. It already housed a double bed, and she shivered with excitement when she gave a thought to its new and unknown duties. The wardrobe was small, but there was room enough along the same wall for a second. He would have to share her dressing-table, she decided, as well as the chest of drawers. He could have the two bottom drawers, she decided, and she set to work immediately emptying his share of space. In the space of half an hour she had changed the room into a marriage chamber, and she marvelled at the easy re-adjustment. The kitchen was her own domain, and needed no change. Neither did the sitting-room, she decided, unless he wanted to bring some things of his own. She had a spare room with a small single bed, and this would be used when occasionally they might need a rest from each other. Miss Hawkins assured herself that the best marriages needed the occasional respite. Yes, she decided, this would make a fine marriage home and all it needed was the emptying of a couple of drawers. She gave a fleeting thought to Brian’s mother. With luck, she might drown herself in her incontinence within the year, and if not, then she would definitely have to be put away. She would have to broach the matter with Brian. There were so many things she realised she would have to ask him about and she decided there and then to give herself a rehearsal. She would invite Maurice to dinner. But first she would clear out the spare room of all the old cases and cartons full of things that she couldn’t bear to throw away. Now she would make a clean sweep of everything. She would give Brian space to leave his own individual traces, she would make him realise he could only gain by changing his status. As a preliminary she might even offer to do some of his small domestic chores like washing or darning his socks. But she would not give too much away, for fear he would take advantage. There had to be a threshold to her offerings. That would be constant and immovable, until the time when a wedding band allowed her to give her all. And so she fell again to thinking of her wedding day, and the time passed so quickly in her day-dreaming that it was soon close to supper time. She decided to postpone the spare room cleaning and to make sure that Maurice had a good meal.

  She set the table, and hooked him gently on the wall. It was a long time since they had dined together and she felt guilty because of her neglect. She lit a candle and put it in the centre of the table. Maurice, too, was entitled to join in celebration. She adjusted herself opposite him and smiled. ‘I wish you a very happy New Year,’ she said. He nodded, clearly wishing the same for her.

  ‘Maurice,’ she began, ‘I want to discuss my future with you.’ She knew she must not ask him advice or indeed any question at all, because his lack of verbal response only served to shatter the illusion that she was not dining alone. ‘I’m a little bit worried about Brian,’ she went on. She thought that if she could talk about it, if she could let the fearful words out into the room, and air them a little, perhaps they would be satisfied and go away and not trouble her any more. ‘It’s my investment,’ she said, airing every syllable. ‘It’s over a thousand pounds now, and I don’t know what he’s done with it. He said he’d save it for me. You heard him yourself years ago. He said it was an investment, didn’t he?’ She looked at Maurice and saw that he remembered. ‘Well, he doesn’t mention anything about it. And I’m afraid to ask. I’m afraid to ask him,’ she repeated and paused, hoping to get some answer from its echo. ‘I’m afraid he’ll be angry if I ask him.’ Suddenly the need to verbalise the core of her anxieties nagged at her throat, and she got up, for she didn’t need Maurice as eavesdropper, and she whispered softly, for she herself didn’t want to hear, ‘I don’t think he’s saved it at all. I think he’s spent every penny.’ She felt a tear trickle down her cheek and she sat in her place again and noticed that Maurice was weeping too. ‘I’ll speak to him tomorrow,’
she practically shouted at her companion. ‘I’ll have it out with him. Penny by penny. My diary will order it,’ she screamed. ‘Then I’ll have to do it.’ Her anxiety eased a little with this decision, painful as she knew its consequence might be. Yet despite the relief she was trembling pitifully, and she knew it as a sign of the hatred growing inside her, a hatred and mistrust for the man on whose behalf she had this day ordered her bridal gown. On whose behalf she had re-planned her own home, accommodating him with gentle consideration. But she didn’t want to hate him. He had, after all, given her a great deal of pleasure. She looked up at Maurice. ‘What does it matter?’ she said. ‘Even if I did pay for it. I’ve paid much more for things that I didn’t enjoy at all.’ She wanted to tell him a story that would illustrate such pointless expenditure. But she could look back on little pleasure in her life, whether paid for or otherwise. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ she said. She was on the point of asking Maurice point blank for his advice. She experienced a brief moment of total belief in the flesh of her companion. It did not last long, and for that she was grateful. She wondered why she was grateful. Maurice was patently there. Anybody could see him. She looked at him and she didn’t understand him at all. ‘We must keep our wits about us, mustn’t we, Maurice?’ she said. ‘Tomorrow we’ll tackle him.’ Mute as he was, she enlisted him for her support, and to that end she decided to use him for a dummy run.