by Simon Raven
With her left hand she held the lids apart, while with the fingers of the right she gently massaged my scalp.
'That's all right.' she said. She withdrew her left hand from my eye, then ran her finger nails down the bare flesh of my arm and on down my flannelled thigh.
'Ooooh, Angela.' I said, and reached out greedily for her. 'No,' she said, pushing me away; 'you're very sweet, but no.'
'Then you shouldn't have done like that with your nails.'
'It's not that I don't like you. Fielding. I think that you're very attractive.' A hand rubbing my knee. 'It's just that.. .'
'Just that what?'
'I can't really be at ease with you as long as we're at cross purposes.'
'What on earth do you mean by that?'
'You're quite sure you want to go to Cambridge?'
'Of course. I've wanted nothing else ever since I can remember.'
'And I suppose I can understand that. But,' she said regretfully, 'it does place a barrier between us. Me brought up in India, you see, and you despising it like this.'
'I don't despise it.'
'But you refuse to go there. Fielding. I find that... rather hurting. I find it makes it very difficult for me ... to get to know you better.'
'You mean ... You mean that if I fall in with this sch—'
'—Don't spell it out,' she said kindly; 'it would only spoil things.'
There was a long silence while she went on rubbing my knee. 'Come on,' she said at last, taking my hand to pull me up, 'we can't sit here all day.'
I lost the match by eight and six.
The first rocket soared and sprayed over the fairground in the Tuesday Market Place; there were cheers, gasps, moans; the V-J celebrations in Lympne Ducis had begun.
Lympne Ducis, which was about twenty miles up the coast from Broughton Staithe, was an ancient town with modern facilities for shipping. It had a beautiful fifteenth century Customs House and also a small but well equipped harbour which had been working to capacity during the war. Although the summer fair, which was traditionally held in the Tuesday Market Place, was limited in scope by war-time restrictions as to fuel and power, the proprietors, knowing there was a lot of good money in the town and victory to grease it, had strained the regulations to bursting. The old-fashioned roundabout and the tower slide were there as usual; but for the first time since 1940 there was also a big wheel and a dive-bomber, a ghost-train and bumping cars. The stalls were crammed with food and prizes, with waffles and cockles and 'Victory' sausages, with teddy bears and goldfish, with hats which bore the legends 'Blighty', 'Britannia'. 'Tipperary', 'Tobruk' and 'Hiroshima'. There were lights, after the years of darkness, wreathes and festoons of lights; and as the rockets swept arching up over the gabled houses, every bell in Lympne Ducis rang out in triumph over the evil little yellow men beyond the sea. 'How exciting,' said mama; 'I wish your father had come.'
'He might at least have let us have the car.' I said.
'You know how it is, dear. This hateful petrol rationing.'
'There's always enough when he wants to go somewhere ...'
And now the outlines of a huge set-piece were visible high over the market place. The myriad points of light crackled and whirled and fused, formed themselves into gradually distinguishable features. Surely ... it must be ... yes, oh God of Battles, yes, George King and Emperor, his Queen, his daughters, all smiling serenely out of the spurting flames. The noises of the fair died, music came from the loudspeakers hung round the square, and fifteen thousand voices took up the chant:
LAND OF HOPE AND GLORY,
MOTHER OF THE FREE...
'I think, dear,' said mama, 'that I should like to sit down somewhere.'
With some difficulty, I made way for my mother through the rapt singers and led her into the lounge of the Duke's Head. With even more difficulty I fought for and won a glass of whisky in the bar.
'There, mother. Make you feel better.'
'Thank you, dear. Don't let me spoil it for you, though. You go out and join in, and collect me later.'
'If you're sure, mama ...'
But I turned away without waiting for an answer. Outside was a vast sea of vocal euphoria.
God, that made thee mighty.
Make thee mightier yet...
Not only us, I thought; not only us in our privileged chapel: all these people too.
GOD, THAT MADE THEE MIGHTY.
MAKE THEE MIGHTIER YET.
The music died, the cheers faded, the fair-ground chorus resumed. The roundabout organ; laughter, screams. A man in front of me was sick, another slipped in the mess, staggered against two young girls who were walking arm in arm, and fell violently to the ground.
'Two bloody little 'ores,' the man said.
The girls looked distressed. Pale and vulnerable, irresistibly pretty and pathetic.
'Bloody, fuckin' little 'ores,' the man shouted from the ground.
The dense crowd seemed indifferent.
'Come with me,' I said, and taking them both by the arm I swept them through a gap in the crowd to a stall which sold waffles.
'Have a waffle?'
'No, reelly ...'
'What's your name? Mine' - 'Fielding' would sound too ridiculous in this company - 'mine's Christopher.'
'Chris... I'm Phyllis.'
'And I'm Dixie.'
Phyllis was a well set up but commonplace blonde; Dixie, who wore a 'Hiroshima' hat, was a brunette with spotty but interesting features, a weak mouth, a tilting nose.
'Have a Waffle?'
'Well, all right.'
Three waffles, please. With syrup.'
'Ooooh .. .'
It was not an evening on which to rebuff invitation. All round us, set free in the name of victory, excited by the singing, made bold by the pealing bells, people were confronting one another, breaking the rule of a lifetime for this one night. Hand reached for hand, even heart (briefly) for heart; stranger clung to stranger and called him brother. Phyllis and Dixie could be no exception. We all went on the roundabout, the dive-bomber, and the tower slide, at the bottom of which the girls' skirts flew up to reveal brown, ample thighs. Wc went on the bumper cars; we fired air guns and threw darts; Phyllis won a goldfish in a bowl.
'The ghost-train. The ghost-train.'
'Phyllis is feared of the dark.'
'Then you come, Dixie.'
'Yes, you go, Dixie, love. I'll stand here and mind my fish.'
Into the car and through the double gates.
'Ooh. I'm so feared, I'm as bad as Phyllis, hold me tight.'
'I'm here. Dixie. Kiss me.'
Spider webs trailing in the dark. Dixie's tongue meeting mine, keen, wet, inexpert. An enormous phosphorescent skull. Into the huge mouth went the car and into Dixie's went my probing tongue.
'Hold me tighter. More. More.'
Diabolical laughter. A sudden turn, throwing me right across her. My hand on her breast - how did it get there? - a little whimper, part of guilt and part of joy.
'Chris, Chris, Christopher. Kiss me again.'
Rattle, jerk, bang, and out into the lights.
'Round again, please. Two.'
'No, Chris. Phyllis. She's waiting.'
'Just once more. I've already paid.'
Crash through the double door. Now. Tongue between her lips, left hand over her shoulder and cupping her breast, and with the right hand...
'No, Chris. No.'
'Yes. Dixie. And when we get out. we'll give Phyllis the slip and we'll—'
'—No, Christopher. No, no, no.'
But her legs parted slowly to admit my hand into a warm, moist country where I had never been before.
'Oh, no ... Oh ... Oh ...'
'Dixie. Well give Phyllis the slip. And then ...'
I moved my hand to part her legs yet wider.
'I can't. I can't, I can't. She's my sister.'
Using both her hands, she thrust mine away from her, away from the paradisiac country. Panting and whimpering
, she strained away from me. The whimpers mounted and coalesced into hysterical weeping. Christ. Christ, Christ, Christ.
'Dixie, please ...'
A heavy, rending, choking, unquenchable cacophony of sobs. Rattle, jerk, bang, and out into the lights.
Run for it.
Out of the car and down the steps, just missing the astonished Phyllis (crash went the goldfish bowl - 'Oh Chris, my poor little fish'), straight through the crowd, round the lower slide and behind the stalls. Would they follow? Would they call the police? Would they collect a mob? A whistle from the distance. Could that be ...?
Into the Duke's Head.
'Quick, mother. We'll miss the train.'
'But Fielding dear, I thought—'
'—No, no. There's no time at all.'
'If you say so—'
'—Please be quick, mother. This way, out of the side door ... Down this street. It's a short cut.'
'Really, dear, anyone would think the police were after us. You know I can't hurry too much.'
'Taxi ... Taxi' By God, what a bit of luck. There weren't more than three in the whole town. I blocked the road, waving frantically.
' 'Ere, 'ere. I don't take no more fares, master. I'm off 'ome. I've used my quota for the day.'
'But the lady's ill. Just to the station.'
'Ill, be she?'
'There'll be a whole pound for you if you take us.'
'Ill she be. In you get, missis...'
When we were in the train, which was not due to leave the station for another thirty minutes, mama said:
'If you ask me, dear, you ought to be a little more careful of your money. A whole pound.'
'It was for you, mama.'
'Was it, dear?' said my mother equably. 'Well, if you think it was worth it...'
'Why is it,' said my father the next morning, 'that I never get any co-operation?'
'Co-operation, dear?'
'Yes, dear, co-operation, dear. I've had a letter from the so-called Tutor of Lancaster College, in which he acknowledges mine and begs to inform me that any instructions about Mr. Fielding Gray's place at the college should be sent by Mr. Fielding Gray. Don't they know that I'm his father? And that he isn't twenty-one?'
It was unlike my father to own publicly to a snub. He must have something up his sleeve, I thought. Nevertheless the opportunity to gloat was too tempting to be missed.
'It is a popular fallacy,' I said to my father, 'that parents have a legal right to dictate to their children until they are twenty-one. Provided a person pursues a responsible course of life, he can leave home and suit himself as soon as he is sixteen.'
'Then leave home and suit yourself,' my father said. 'Go on.'
'Jack, dear—'
'—I will have co-operation. And I'll tell you how I'm going to get it. Either you do as I say,' he said, thrusting his face into mine, 'or there'll be no more money for you until you do. You can live here and have your meals, since, you're still under twenty-one, but there'll be no money at all for anything else.'
There was a long silence.
'Does that set you straight? ' my father said.
'While we're talking of money,' I said, trembling all over, 'let me tell you something to set you straight. Mr. Tuck is not offering me this job to do you a favour, but because his boss in India is after some extra capital which they think you may be persuaded to provide. His wife told me all about it. They don't love you, they don't think you're marvellous, they simply want your cash.'
After this I locked myself into the lavatory and burst into tears.
'... I must say [Peter Morrison wrote from Whereham], you seem to be having a most unpleasant holiday. I expect it will be a relief when your parents go away. Meanwhile, I only hope your father stops being so silly over this tea-planting business. I don't see you as a sahib.
'Which reminds me. I'm as glad as you are that there's now no prospect of getting killed in the Far East; but I don't think we should be sanguine about this bomb they've thought up. The terrible thing about it is that it makes its possessor infallible. It does away, you see, with any margin of error or need for selection. In the old days you had to aim at your target. Now, in order to be sure of destroying what you want to, you can simply destroy everything at all. Suppose such a weapon were entrusted to a man like your father (or even Somerset) who knows he's right?
'But I expect you are depressed enough without my raising additional nightmares. I hope things improve, and I look forward to seeing you and Somerset on the 24th or 25th. Please let me know which ...'
So at least that was all right - though quite what was to happen about money, since my father's threat, was still obscure. One could only hope for the best, I thought; and anyhow, mama would be sure to wangle something. So I wrote to Peter to tell him that Somerset was definitely arriving at Broughton (as I had now heard) on 20th August, and that we would be coming on to him on the 24th. After that, I wrote to Christopher;
'... So that all being well I can be with you in Tonbridge on 4th or 5th September and stay till I leave for Wiltshire on the 7th.
'Oh Christopher, how I wish it could be sooner. I've been so lonely without you. I expect you've been lonely too (in a way, I hope you have), but at least you're busy with this tutor of yours. There's a line from a poem by a man called Auden which keeps running in my head—
"I think of you, Christopher, and wish you beside me ..."
'If only it was that afternoon of the Eton match again, when we sat next to each other in the scoring box ...'
Having posted these two letters, I settled down to read Dorian Gray; but the afternoon was very hot and the book a sickly bore. Every ten seconds I was interrupted by memories of Christopher in the hayloft: 'Oh ... oh, oh, oh.' Oh Christ, those long smooth legs with their fluffy down.
And then I thought of another pair of legs. Angela Tuck's. Why not go to the Tucks' bungalow and say to Angela, 'All right. I'll sign on with your husband's plantation provided you'll come to bed with me in exchange'? That was the deal she had held out, so why not take her up? Not in so many words, of course, ('Don't spell it out,' she had said) but in the same veiled terms which she had used on the golf course, so that later on I could always wriggle out of the bargain. They meant to exploit me; why shouldn't I exploit them? All these adults ranged against me made for inequitable odds; I was entitled to any little victory I could win, however treacherously, in their despite. Superior strength in the opposition (as the Senior Usher had once observed) absolved one from obeying the Queensberry Rules.
Mr. Tuck had gone to London for a few days. My father, having apparently taken my point about Tuck's motives, had sent the wretched man to Coventry; so that Tuck had doubtless felt it expedient to try his talent for recruiting elsewhere. Angela had been distant. But if I were now to present myself and make my offer? She couldn't eat me, after all, and anything was better than hanging around in the house with Dorian Gray gone stale on me.
I went to my room, washed my hands, face and feet, slicked my hair down with water, and substituted my blue 1st XI blazer and scarf for my ordinary coat and tie. Then I walked the three quarters of a mile to the Tucks' one-storey bungalow near the quay.
The curtains of one room were drawn. Angela must be having a siesta (Indian habit). On the whole, good. I was about to knock on the front door, when I reflected that she might be cross if woken up and dragged through the hall to answer. Better surprise her, quieten her as she lay vulnerable on the bed, and then introduce my business. 'I've been thinking over what you said about India, and I see that I've been very silly. It's not a chance to be missed.' Something like that. Whatever else, she could hardly pretend to be shocked.
Very quietly, I tried the front door. The catch was evidently up, for the door opened. The excitement of what was virtually house-breaking had now replaced desire. As the door opened yet further, apprehension replaced excitement. I was about to turn and run, had indeed already turned. Too late.
'Who's there?' said Ange
la's voice from inside a half-open door a few feet along the hall. My lips were parting to reply, when:
'Nobody's there,' said my father's voice. 'How could they be? I fastened the front door.'
'I thought—'
'—Don't be a silly girl, Angie. Your old Jackie will see you're safe.'
'And Jackie will be a good boy about you know what?'
The voice was childish, wheedling, without irony.
'I'll see that little beast signs up with Tuck. After that ...'
'If Tuck was in a position to say that you'd guaranteed to invest a few thousand—'
'—Why can't that wait,' said my father crossly 'until the Army's finished with the boy and he's free to join?'
'Now the war's over, they're anxious to expand as soon as possible. If Tuck brings in new money now, they'll be very grateful.'
'Well, I'll see. If Angie's nice to Jackie, Jackie will see what he can do.'
The bed creaked.
'No. Jackie must promise Angie.'
Sweaty and furious as I was. I nevertheless had a clear mental picture of concupiscence struggling with avarice in my father's face.
There was a great wall of randiness.
'All right. Tuck can tell his boss I'll invest five thousand. Perhaps a little more if things go well on the market.'
'There's a dear, good Jackie.'
If she knew him as I do. I thought grimly, she'd get him to sign something this minute. But perhaps she too was keen to start. After all. I'd heard people say my father was a handsome man.
'Jackie. Oh. Jackie.'
A different tone now. all childishness gone. A woman speaking. Either she was a good actress or she was very much in earnest.
'Christ, Christ, Jackie, Christ.'
She was in earnest.
I heard my father's breathing mount. Wait. Time it carefully. You swine. Jack Gray, you disgusting swine, - with your hot, panting breath.
'Soon, Angela, soon'
'Oh yes, Jackie.'
Now. I opened the front door to its full extent and then pulled it to with all the strength in my body.
Having slammed the door on the repulsive idyll in the Tuck bungalow, I went for a walk along the beach in order to calm myself. For a long time I thought, with a mixture of lust and apprehension, of Dixie in the ghost-train. Supposing she or her parents tried to raise a complaint? Suppose the police came making inquiries? In the end, however, I persuaded myself that the police would have neither time nor good reason to look as far afield as Broughton Staithe, and that in any case Dixie probably wanted to forget the whole episode as much as I did. Though there was one aspect of it I could never forget: my first, brief visit to the lotus country of a woman's loins.
