At first she is startled. As I straighten up I see her stepping back, and ludicrously it strikes me that she may be making room for me to get out of my hidey-hole and stretch my limbs a little. She leaves it to me to speak first. "Don't move!" I say.
"Don't do anything stupid and you won't be hurt." Then I think - what a senseless thing to say; of course she's already hurt by this break-in of mine. This girl, woman - I've loved her ever since I saw her first all those years ago in that school dining-hall of ours. She ruined my life then. Or rather - Not! I must remind myself (daily) that it was I who ruined my own self 'up against her' so to speak, an insight which it took me years to face up to. And now I am violating her. It's too late now.
Can (does) a girl ever understand the horror felt by a boy who is not chosen by the one he loves? The boy's longing to be chosen by her, to be 'allowed in' by her? She may feel a trivial passing interest and make eyes at him and hook him: she may then quickly lose interest (like teen girls do) and rub up thoughts of another. Is there really no obligation on her to tread carefully about those she catches, to consider the future pain of whomever she reels in, and when she moves on, to consider the manner of her dropping him? All my life, my pain has screamed - yes there is an obligation on her! But I know that I am wrong. Why should she? Stop binding me, stop restricting me - that's what she says.
V. speaks. I must have been silent for too long. It is a moment before I can catch her complaint. "This bag is heavy you know . . ." A petulant comment. Emphasis on the "is". I look at the open door to the sideboard behind me, and her bag.
"Give it me" I order and take the bag sharply (she raising her eyes to the ceiling) and stuff it away. "Sit there" I tell her. She really looks no different from my day: her medium breasts; her slightly bouncing walk; her mousy hair and retroussé nose. Yes the years have aged her a little, it is true, but she is the same V. I loved before. The Girl Next Door type. And isn't it the case that most girls are 'the pretty girl over the way' in the eyes of some boy or other - until we get to know them of course. Oh how long it is before a man can see through the illusions, and it is because of a huge reserve of 'goodwill' we give young girls and also our unwillingness to face our own stupidity.
"Move along a bit - to the middle of the sofa." I pester her. "Legs apart more . . ." She wears jeans. She wore skirts in the other days. "Turn sideways." She does so, into profile, and she reminds me of the girl she was across the gangway in class. She must think me mad. And all the while the question revolves over and over again - does she recognise me? Can She Remember? What is this she does now? She brushes at a mark on her t-shirt. No clue - you see how women give us no clues.
For five years she played me. I had to avoid her, daily. I had to take junior corridors and walk round buildings not through them. I had to watch her wanting another boy - and at the last I had to know she had bedded him a few times. And now, all these years later when I realise I never will lead a normal life for it's all distorted and made wrong for me - now I am beside her again. A kettle whistles in the kitchen. I look up. Already she has calmly walked to the door. I follow her. She opens cupboards to fetch a jar, a mug, all her needs, calmly ignoring me and sometimes pouring while resting her free hand on her hip. Her territory. I, on the threshold, watching in case she makes a run for it.
She stands by the window looking out across her garden, sipping her coffee. She's made a cup only for herself, which irritates me. "Thinking of escape, are you?" I ask. "Planning a garden-path flight?" I say it but she doesn't look like she is at all. In fact she takes another sip. "Back into the front-room!" I order. "Hurry."
As she passes me at the kitchen door, she smiles at me. What does that mean, I wonder. It annoys me the more. Then it chills me - it has occurred to me that she might know who I am after all. Is that smile an invitation to change the whole episode into a meeting of two old acquaintances; and nothing said after the parting? Then, Ah! perhaps she intended sex as well, an adventure for her? After all, she knows me; it isn't like having sex with a total stranger which in her mind (I am sure) is cheap. Someone from her past; no current commitments; so why not? Was she thinking that?
She is sitting, not looking at me. I tell her to stand up. There is a key in the door. I lock it on an impulse. To try now? - I ask myself. Well how? Where to start? And if not now, then when? I am not sure I am the more powerful. We are the same height and my limbs are slight for a man. Probably (I look at her) her arms are thicker than mine. And where do I hold the knife? To her head? To her chest? Then how do I do anything?
She wears a t-shirt with three top buttons. I walk up to her and undo the three buttons. Of course it reveals nothing; just her neck, her collar. How stupid! Why did I do it? I kiss her t-shirt where her breast is. It is like kissing one's sleeve. Just material which makes one's mouth dry. She looks sideways at the window. There is no response. Nothing. Not contempt, pleasure, annoyance - nothing.
We must move from here. Go to my place. I'd known it all along, I guess. Yes, everything would be all right then. I order her up; get her to the door and stop her there. "Listen," I say "that's my van over there." I open the door a crack and stand behind her, gripping her collar with one hand while we check the coast is clear. The sun is behind us. All the shadows stretch from our side: slanted houses with chimney-pots and tennis-racquet trees. A little girl plays on the pavement before the hill. She glances over at us, then resumes stepping and hopping over a rope she's laid down. No danger. I push V. a little and we set off down the garden path.
I am to walk by her side - just as I did before. How long have I dreamed of this? It is oddly cruel. I must have been 'with' her, by her side (carrying her school-bags) scarcely more than a handful of times. Yet, if you are that young (and if you are me) the feelings burn so furiously that their glow never dies no matter how much you wish it to. And now here I am again. In pretend of course. I know that. The road bends to our left. I fix my eyes on it. If there is to be a danger, it will come from there. We walk. It seems that I am still and it is the world that slowly moves round me. I am oddly aware of how separate I am from the surroundings and how long all this journey is taking. The road seems to pivot on a point at my feet; the bend uncurls slowly; houses, gardens, and three clouds; such a slow unbending.
"She knows me." V. says. What does she mean? We are half way down the path now. The girl! Of course. I gaze at the child. Horrified, I watch her continuous smile. She looks like she is going to say something; or is she with that fixed smile of hers, urging V. to feed her the first greeting? I have to swallow to avoid choking; and what if I have to speak? Control has moved away from me now. To others. What if V. calls my bluff and calmly says to the girl "I want you to help me. Can you do that? This man is bad. Shall we make him go away?" The girl's smile will fade. I stare at it expecting it to change, and indeed it does seem to quiver a little. And if V. then skims round in an arc back to her neighbours' houses and safety? What could I do? The game will be up. I'll have to run the opposite way - perhaps making a slight detour to aim a kick at the grinning child - for how many brief hours of freedom? An afternoon?
"V.?" the little voice questions. "Where are you going . . . ?" Of course that's what she asks! - think I. The girl is asking V. but she is looking at both of us. Now, she is sitting cross-legged looking up at us and squinting a little because of the sun in her eyes. I hear V., next to me, reply. I can't look at her, for the girl's eyes keep mine fixed. "I'm going round and round, darling, and then in a flash I'm coming right back to you . . ."
The girl laughs and hugs herself but before she can ask what the nonsense means, we are in the van and have closed the doors.
Slowly I swing round in the road, watched by the girl, and drive back the way I'd come a couple of hours earlier. I have to stop somewhere unseen. V. will have to be blindfolded. She'll surely fling open the door sooner or later and she'll know I'll be lost then. But more importantly, she must not know where I live. I've changed the number-plates for others salvaged from a yard, so she'll not identify the van even if she has the presence of mind to notice anything, but I can't show her even the town I live in. She must be blindfolded. I find the secluded lay-by I'm looking for. She seems to know what I'm going to do but she sits still anyway until I order her out and into the back. I have to tie her wrists and ankles though it pains me and I grow awkward. Passing the blindfold around her like this, she passive and silently sitting on the foam I've bought with me specially for her, it strikes me that perhaps she'd tried to warn me about the little girl. Why did she do that? Most likely, I think, she'd feared I might panic and harm the child. Yes, that must have been it. The blindfold is on. She looks uncomfortable. "Thank you," I say quietly "the girl . . . thank you."
My room. And she is here, with my life on display - an empty time; and surely she's already seen that. How self-conscious I feel! All the keepsakes that strike me as so original in private, when displayed to an indifferent eye suddenly become tiresomely adolescent. She is putting down a little yellow car I've had since a kid. She picks up, instead, my library book and glimpses the cover - "Oh I've heard of this one . . ." she laughs. I pull the chair near the door (she mustn't be allowed to escape) and sit on it feet tucked up in front of me, for I wish to minimize the oppressive claustrophobia of my room by making myself as tiny as possible. Then I put a little smile on my face. I want her to be comfortable and suggest she switch on the table-lamp with the orange shade that casts a small skirt of light. She seems pleased.
And now she turns to me. "Do you have a hairbrush?" I spring to the wardrobe, reach up then bring it over to her. She smiles and thanks me. I watch her smooth her hair briefly, then put the brush on top of my television and pick up a pile of my shirts from the chair and put them on the floor so that she can sit down. They topple over. For a while she doesn't notice, then when she does, she picks up only the furthest one and drops it over the rest. She's touched my clothes without a thought. It thrills me a little that a woman has. And it horrifies me that it means so little to her. I dwell on it. I could never pick up a girl's clothes without feeling a small sense of invading her privacy, of approaching her sexuality. How can a girl be so carefree? I envy V.. And I resent the freedom she has. So much more is allowed her. Allowed all women.
She looks over to me. "I suppose you want me to cook us something?" I smile like a dull stereotype husband who hopes that his wife will take care of the chores. She, full of bounce, begins searching through my food-cupboard and prepares the cooker. She hums and pours herself a glass of wine from which she drinks now and again. This girl/woman chills me. We are all her audience still. She is 'up there', sometimes unsure and other-times taken over by carefree laughter, but all the time we are 'down here' unable to stop ourselves gazing and longing. We are slaves to an instinct and at school still, heads down yet raising hopeless eyes over in her direction. She horrifies me because even back then and despite all our inexperience, some of us at any rate knew that this was an excessive power and more to the point - so cheaply got.
I watch the way her jeans tighten as she reaches up to my cupboards and think - now! why not now . . . order her clothes off . . . now while I'm bitter and resentful? And of course I can't.
She turns her hips slightly, leans a little forward over the table, and as she prepares hot sandwiches for us she gently moves the hair out of her eyes now and again with a palm and a mannered toss of her head. At some time, at twelve-years-old perhaps, has she copied how her mother does it, has she considered the movements her friends make and copied and practised stances in the mirror? A contrived look? A girl's knowing fancy? Or we boys - should we boys have been more contrived? Is that it?
It grows dark. I need to think and the girl is staying awake. Perhaps she needs night things? it occurs to me. New underwear or a toothbrush? I - the concerned lover! I think it best to lead by example. "Listen," I say "I'm going to brush my teeth now (the bathroom door is right here) then I'll prepare to sleep on the sofa: you can sleep on my bed; just pull out those handles and you'll find the bed swings down from the wall." She has been washing our plates. She stops to look at me. "You have your own bed," she suggests "really I don't mind the sofa; quite often I fall asleep late in the evening, you know, and I don't even know it till I wake on my own old sofa . . ."
"No, no," I insist "I brought you here; the least I can do is to offer you the proper bed; it's only right."
"It shouldn't matter what people think. You probably worry too much." she says. She develops a bit of a lean - whether she is already bored or merely tired I cannot tell. I fear she will topple and so grab her by the hips, lift her up and bring her down again in an upright position which makes her eyes pop open.
"Listen my darling," I address her "it's like this. When we were children darling, do you remember the desperate dating game? It was all around us. Eyeing one another. Pairing off. And does much really change later on? Yes, yes, I know there is more in our lives than thoughts of who is attracted to us - nevertheless . . ." I have been looking at her looking away. Now I gaze down. "Can you even imagine what it is like to be a man refused all his life? All your life . . ." I can see she is about to protest, but I know her protest already and have to stop her. "Ho! Slow down old love of my life. We don't blame you (that's what is going through your mind isn't it) of course you've every right to refuse whoever you don't want. That's childishly obvious. All I'm trying to do now, in my awkward way, is to slide before your reluctant gaze the unavoidable result of these routine refusals. And yes, yes, we've all heard the trite phrase (at best a platitude but at worst a lie) that sooner or later there is someone for everyone. Why do the mothers of these lost men remain silent? Are they that uncomfortable?" She pulls down the bed from the wall and extinguishes the light.
A silver pool from the street-light outside fills the room - more than enough to show V. lying on the bed facing the wall, and her one open fish-eye. To move across and close the curtains seems inappropriate: she'll do it herself if she wants. Neither of us is sleeping. Why isn't she asleep yet? Is she afraid? Does she think I can sleep? Really? Ha! she should know what it's taken to get me here in this place at this moment. I'll get this conversation over with right now, before sleep. "So my V." I start off jauntily (it appears to me) and surprisingly she rolls over and the two of us lying on our sides face one another. And then, horribly, tears flow down my face. They're uncontrollable. I admit it. For a long time I wait until they stop, and all the while she looks away.
"Why am I crying so freely?" I'm not really asking it of her, but rather asking myself. "But first, hop over and draw the curtains would you, darling? Hey, I'd prefer the dark - after all, I know you better than you know yourself of course, and I know that a handsome man with tears, draws from you entirely different feelings from those caused by an ugly man with scrunched-up face. We can harbour (I lie) no despising. But we can see you identifying the unfortunate, glimpsing their grim future and shuddering a little. It is our fate. Nature's deal. We know it." She sits up, bends her leg and rests her ankle across her knee, then leans sideways to remove a tiny nail-file from her jeans pocket. She begins to file her toe-nails one by one. I wish I could raise her eyes to mine and it is this that depresses me. I want to take her arms in a rush and wrestle with her across the table, to push and to pull and even while I think it, I see the double need in my bullying - to make her understand (of course) but also to touch and ah! to be touched back. I feel the old jauntiness returning. I explain. "Fifty-two years old. V.. Approaching old age - aren't we? And I am an impotent virgin. It's not what you want to hear, eh? Nothing to do with you? No, it isn't, and you're right. But I'd like you to see (all right I am forcing you, I admit it) I want you to see the occasional result of this predicament men of my kind find ourselves in. Wait! I've lost the jovial face again. Shape up man! Wear the grin now."
She pipes up (I knew she would) a sharp complaining note in her voice. "Nobody says things like that. You can't. You shouldn't."
"Not in your world!" I interject.
"You can think what you like; it doesn't do any harm; but nobody says things like that. You! And anyway, despite what you say, you are blaming me. You ARE. And you're wrong . . ."
"You being nasty." she replies. I ignore the barb and continue my playful dialogue. "Of course we want to blame someone - we hurt so! Surely someone is to blame? But quickly we see that we can blame only those of you who enjoy hurting, and those of you who cheat." She bridles. Then she rolls her eyes and I get up.
"You know, my V., let me throw you a detail." I say. "Within that disturbed crowd of boys, jostling, parading, making its noises when it's twelve-years-old; a few of the clear-headed ones know even then that if they fail at that time, then they've probably failed for life. Do they fear they'll be made impotent? No, I doubt it's that clear to them. But they do know their place suddenly - the pecking order eh? And they know a life of social failure faces them. You may be commercially successful, you may be a success in the office, yes - but who cares? I mean, really, who cares? A few gold-digging women (always in denial). Only them. The rest of us, both men and women, can see it shouting from every false confidence of the seemingly successful man - undesirable! not fancied at all!"
I continue. "I found the whole struggle too undignified. I, the lofty patrician, the Cambridge Mind who never uses it, I tried to rise above you all - but was there any way to truly avoid that failure?"
I see her staring at the wall. It's not fair on her. It's not fair on me. I settle for the short night.
As dawn breaks I wonder - why am I in this situation? Why, really, have I abducted her? To start my life, finally? Finally? I make a decision - get it done now, then get her away; finish this business. I stretch up on tip-toe trying to see her face as I move across to her. And still her eyes are open, blinking at the wall. I undress, masturbate myself to an erection. It's difficult. Nothing happens at first. Even if I wasn't so nervous (in the presence of a woman) it would have been difficult. I have to thumb my nipples. She knows I'm there but continues to face the wall. I put my arm round her and gently pull off her t-shirt, trying not to trap her flesh and hurt her, but not very successfully. When she's bare on top I lay down beside her, hugging her and staring at her back. My heart pounds. Does hers pound? Probably. Clumsily I pull down at her jeans. I undo them; pull and tug indecisively again. At one point she winces; I see her cheek tighten; she lifts her bottom and I can remove everything. My erection is almost gone now. At first I press my cheek to her back; then gently scratch her shoulders. I try to fold her in my arms but it's awkward for she has her arms over her breasts. Before I lose my erection completely, I push between her thighs. It's hard to tell. I'm nowhere near her. Her thighs are smooth and soft and comfortable and I push a few strokes, but already I've lost the hardness. So I lay there for a time, kissing her back. My penis lies scarcely touching her thigh now, an insolent request.
She gets up first, dresses as I quickly try to follow her lead, then she checks her watch. I'm not slow. I can pick up her cue. We leave without breakfast, even without washing ourselves. Once we're near her home town, I release her and have her sit beside me in the cab. After all, she knows I'm returning her, safe now; why would she try to escape? For a mile or so I slip my hand into hers, steer with my free hand, and our fingers entwine. Later, she stands by the road and watches as I turn the van round to escape this old town.
It's still early morning as I near my own flat again. But I'm clever. What if she had recognised me but not let on? If the police have a name, then they'll know my address. An image of flashing lights, armed officers outside my building, and me walking towards them hands raised, comes into my head. But I'm being too dramatic. I'm not that important, I know. Still, I don't feel like approaching the door yet, so I park up and walk forward until I can see my window. A café behind me will do for breakfast. A chromium-plated door squeals as I push my way in. This long low-ceilinged room is dim. I have to pause in front of the door. They have turned out the lights too early and the day is struggling to begin. But the steel-topped counter down the whole length of the wall before me is still switched on, and at the end of it the proprietress and two men customers look over at me. She places her hands on the shoulders of these other two and then leaves them to walk towards me. Once they can see that I've accustomed my eyes to the light, all three nod a greeting to me simultaneously. The two men as well. It seems strange -are they family of hers?
"Tea or coffee, love?" she looks apologetic. "Sorry love, I should know shouldn't I. You've been in before haven't you; I never forget a face . . ." She turns to the two men behind her. "This is not like me at all."
"I'll take a black tea; though it's impossible you could know that." I reply. She looks at me for a moment, seemingly confused; then she shrugs and wanders over to her machine. She hasn't grasped her mistake at all. And she must grasp it. I am almost frantic. I have never set foot in this room before - I hate misapprehensions; I hate confusion. "Hey! You're wrong you know. That's what I meant earlier . . ." She looks at me while pulling the little lever on her machine. I grin the grin of a schoolboy trying to ingratiate himself with the teacher and yet explain to her that she has got something wrong. "It must be somebody else you've seen in here, you know. Someone who looks like me perhaps . . ."
She smiles amiably. "Probably, my love." she explains. "Don't mind me . . . sit down and I'll bring it over." I can sense the men watching me as I choose a nearby table and pull out the seat. They are two similar men; perhaps a similarity exaggerated by the mirror in which I watch them. Like a pair of boys at school, I think, drawn to friendship by their likeness. Both wear brown jackets albeit of different tones, both are of a medium build and sport their shirts open at the neck. I start. One of them, the larger of the two, is meeting my gaze in the mirror. Without taking his eyes off me, he resumes the talk with the proprietress that my arrival has interrupted. "So come on Helen, tell us all you know about this man in the apartment opposite. Quite a dangerous bird isn't he? (He looks across to her.) All our lives are, my darling, in your capable hands!" He shifts an arm along to nudge his police-colleague and they both chuckle to themselves. Policemen - for that is what they are; it is clear to me. The woman chides them: "All right, pack it in cheeky. I've dealt with enough trouble in my time, and I've got an older head on my shoulders than both you two. Who is he anyway, this man you're staking out?"
All the while out of the corner of my eye I can see him staring at me; but I am giving away nothing.
"Poor woman . . ." the proprietress mutters. "Men like that should never be let out." She is drying glasses and seems completely unaware of the drama in the mirror. I have bridled. 'A woman-hater'. V. has called me that - for I am sure the policeman has taken his cue from her interview. A woman- hater? Oh no, no, no . . . I'll not have that. I, a hater of a few specific types of woman - of course! But a woman-hater in general? No my darling. Not at all. And such an accusation betrays your own lazy half-comprehension, your lazy habit of refusing to spend your time on the awkward complications. The shock of what the policeman's jibes mean, begins to hit me. V. had recognised me. She had! And I couldn't tell. She said nothing . . . she must have been so afraid; she must have been, surely; she didn't seem to be. She knew who it was, and yet was afraid. I cup my tea in both hands and sip slowly. I know it must appear insolent to the policeman, but I can think of nothing else to do and anyway wouldn't anything I do appear insolent? My tormentor starts up again: "There's got to be something wrong with a man who's never married - if you get what I mean. If you're a true man and not married by middle-age, then there's something you're hiding, eh Cooper?"
Leisurely he removes his brown jacket and holds it up before him over the edge of his hand to smooth the sleeves a little. With the jacket removed I can't help but notice the man's physique; something I am sure he intended to show me. He has an ugly squarish muzzle yet his chin, his cheeks, his neck, all are almost unnaturally smooth-shaven, something I've always envied in others. He wraps his own jacket around the other man's shoulders, and lowers his face alongside the other's to address the proprietress. "Cooper's a bit apprehensive aren't you lad? This is his first arrest, you see. I've given him this one. The lad thinks there's danger in it. No, no, Cooper my boy you'll see. Most of them are pussy-cats. And a quick slap soon quietens down the others. But he doesn't know that yet." He leers at the proprietress: "His first time, isn't it my boy!"
I let my gaze wander back to the mirror for a moment and he seizes it there. My eyes must be round with terror. Too late, I close my slack mouth. Has he been bragging? He's the type who would. Or is he testing my nerve? He can't have a detailed enough description or he'd have arrested me already. Perhaps he's finding it hard to believe that I'd walk right into this stake-out of his. The coincidence is beyond him. Yet he obviously suspects. And now he slips off his chair and begins to walk towards me. I know he is coming to ask my name and to check my identity. The game is up. On impulse I ask the proprietress about pastries. I leap up, call to her at the further end of the counter. "Excuse me madam - can I take out a box of your cakes as I go? I'm not hungry at the moment; but you know how it is. Later I'll get a singular pleasure sitting at my windows with a cake or two." Already I am on the move towards them, and I raise my arm partly to ward off the approaching policeman and partly to point out the pastries I'd particularly like - and my confidence (I can't help but notice it) takes him aback. Indeed, he steps aside to let me pass. I am managing this crisis well. While she packs (an eternity) I wait in silence before the counter, hands by my sides and the policeman I don't like at my shoulder talking to the woman. Then he guffaws and slaps me on the back. "You're okay you are." he chuckles. "I'm a cake eater myself. We've been filling ourselves before you arrived. You're all right."
Already I've paid the money and am headed out towards the light of the doorway. He starts to follow me but stops. I get to the door, turn left, away from the flat. My walk is a little too quick I know. I look back inside the room, and at that moment the policeman shouts and starts forward. I drop the cakes and run like a frightened child.
Down deserted alleys between back yards I flash past closed gates, on tiptoe yet fleet, grinning madly at this ridiculous predicament while ready at an instant to drop to a normal walk at the slightest movement ahead. I burst into a crowd, a morning market. Faces sway towards me then sway away. A tall man shuffles closer to the backs of the crowd and holds-in the hem of his jacket to let me pass. Distant heads turn towards me. Then the alleyways again and this time, in some way even more furtive than before, I attempt a workman's walk, a guy who lives just around the corner, and indeed a heavy-booted labourer does call 'good-day' to me as we pass. And then I stand on a corner with two policemen on a similar corner further down the street. I pretend to look for keys in my pocket. When I look up again, they are running towards me.
Hours later I find a boarding-house sign and approach the tall building which has steps leading up to a glass porch. On the pavement two girls are unloading bags from the back of a car. Both wear sloppy pullovers and look like sisters. I hang back and wait. I am quite happy to. They are lively intelligent girls. They stop a lot and push each other about, laughing. One has half-length brown hair, a slender body and legs slightly too short for her body. The other wears an old-ladies hat for fun. I don't wish to become part of their little overheated drama. I can walk on and come back later - but how much later? And of course they'll recognise me and put two and two together and it would be the worse for me. At last one of them, seeing me stationary, shoots out a helpful comment - "Well come on then if you're coming. There's lots of room to get past." In some nervous and confused way I put her right. "No, no, you misunderstand the situation. I'm trying to get in the house you're lifting those bags into - I saw the guest-house sign; it's a room I'm . . . but anyway I've changed my mind . . ." But already the slim one with the slightly short legs leans back towards the porch and shouts out "Mum! It's for you." I've heard her friend call her Sarah already, and she smiles briefly before she turns away to lark with her friend again.
A rather elegant woman, taller than her daughter, appears at the top of the steps, shaking water from her hands as she greets me. She wears a violet dress which the wind trembles a little. I wonder whether she ever feels challenged by these junior lovers around her. Surely she must. Doesn't every woman? For a young girl's sex can bring down any woman's life - and this power is in the hands of someone who is prone to recklessness and who is hungry for chosen flattery. She invites me to sign a register on a small hallway table, and reaches for one of four small sets of keys hanging on a board. The girls laughingly crash about the hall with their loads as they struggle past us on their way down to the kitchen. The mother rebukes them and receives in return nothing but laughing melodramatic comments about having to live in cramped conditions. I find the house airy and happy and lit up in every corner. The landlady seems to sense my relief and my gratitude, and pleased by it she explains that she is shortly leaving for the evening but that I am to make myself comfortable and use the downstairs lounge and not to worry about payment until the morning when she will give me a wake-up call.
I lie on the narrow single bed, fully clothed and curled up. I have assaulted a girl, a woman, I love. It is horrific. I've damaged her. That's all I've done. No good at all. It isn't the beginning of 'life' as I've imagined it to be. V. never chose me, and nothing will change. I don't want to go to court: I want to go on with life as I know it, as if nothing has ever happened. It is something I'm used to. This is selfish . . . but it is what I want. I close my eyes.
I should return to my room and leave them in private. But there is a self-centred urge in these girls that leaves me aghast. I listen. I hear one of them give a sort of hum for a while; and then Sarah giggles again and confides in her friend (for it is not her sister after all) that anyway it is so embarrassing - which makes the two of them fold together in laughter. Later when she's able to speak again, she continues: "So you've never even thought of having an older man then? Come on. Be honest!" The two can't help themselves. Gentle laughter floats up the stairwell and they question one another with competitive "Huh?"s.
So, when an hour later someone knocks on the door, I fear her. Yet I am unable to stay in the dark. She knocks again. And she waits until I have the courage to walk over and open to her. I am already gazing at her as the door swings in. She starts off straight away. "Hello! I came to see if you needed anything. Is there anything I can do for you?" A normal man would laugh and usher her in. But I am too nervous to say anything. She has come out with it too early. She sees my anxiety and seems to find it endearing. I admire her for that. I admire almost everything about these people. "I thought you might like some company . . ." she says and she smiles slightly awkwardly. "No-one is in for a while." I close the door behind her.
She goes to the mirror on the wall. It has been knocked a little askew and she straightens it. Obviously she knows the room (I guess she has helped her mother clean all the rooms) and I see that the sort of proprietorial attitude she is taking is to help her overcome her embarrassment. "There!" she says "That's better." She draws from me a desire to help put her at ease, but as yet I can't think how, for I am far from at ease myself. I notice that she has put on a different top. It clings to her and reveals more of her bosom. Has she changed it for me? The idea shocks me. I sense that, if I let it, a welling-up of excitement could flow through me. Also, of course, it is still possible that I have misread the situation and the resulting sadness could deaden me the more. She asks me whether I've come from far away. I tell her the truth; past bothering to conceal myself now. She leans back against the dressing-table, legs straight together and flexing a little at the knees. I call to her, suddenly familiar and inviting friendship: "Hey. Come over and sit by me (for I am on the small sofa). Listen. You know that pullover you wore when I first saw you? I'll bet you never noticed what I was thinking?" Beaming, she shakes her head. "I thought - this is the resting place for me tonight: a nice family with a daughter who wears sloppy pullovers." She laughs then skips over to me shaking her head as she tells me "If I'd known you liked overgrown pullovers I'd have kept him on." She stands before me now, slightly awkward but playing with me.
She begins to sit herself sideways on my lap, then stops and puts her hand on my shoulder. "You do like me don't you?" She looks me in the eyes.
What is in her mind? Does nobody else wonder about the 'set' of the mind a girl brings into the bedroom? Sarah's attitude to girls and their dealings with boys? Sarah's attitude to her own dealings? And with me? With what 'mind' had Sarah climbed her own stairs to my room? Well ultimately, that she is doing me a favour of course. She's going to 'let me have it'. A feminine concept. No boy ever sees himself as opening his legs and 'letting her have some'. And how often does a girl thoughtlessly think the other side of the coin - well, you're not getting any tonight? Is this 'women' mind a corruption of sex? Are most women, in some way, corrupted? 'Granting' surely isn't normal sex. And what's going on in a man's mind? Ah, I think I know. Well, I've had enough time to think it over haven't I. I see our frowny concern to 'not disappoint' and I see so many of us trying hard to get her there. Not to disappoint you Sarah? Me with my tongue between your legs: you thinking he's older, he should know, hopefully he'll know to stay there long enough, and anyway if he doesn't, he's older, he'll understand my signal to return.
It isn't working for her. She sits up and rubs an erection from me with an unsubtle hand. She throws a leg over and sits upon it. Promptly I am finished. For God's sake - it is at this moment that I want to hold her close, but she is still sitting up there. I need closeness. And yes, also I want to reassure her that this is no selfish boy only after his own quick pleasure. I start to raise my arms childishly, intending to fold them round her, but already she is pushing herself up onto her feet. She shouts. Tells me I am pathetic. Her 'Dave' lasts much longer than that - and see what she will do to me if he ever finds out what we have done. No wonder I'm not married. At my age too. Don't I know how pathetic I am?
How do any of us deal with this horror? She leaves the room naked, her clothes in a bundle at her chest, slamming the door. And the house returns to silence. I listen carefully for an hour, not moving at all. Then I sleep fitfully and leave the light on.
It is the sound of voices downstairs that wakes me. Sarah (distressed I think) and men's voices. I push my face over the landing a mite, gripping a banister on either side. I can barely see the backs of legs. Two men. And I see a small part of Sarah's girlfriend, her shoulder, a part of her back, and she's talking, yes and so is Sarah's mother. I'm not sure whether I can hear the faint crying of Sarah further away, or not. And I see a newspaper on the small round hall-table, and facing me in the newspaper is my very own picture. The party moves up the stairs. I step back. I must think quickly and the airing cupboard is the only refuge. Almost certain to be discovered anyway, and how laughable to be found in here, how ridiculous. Still. I hear them lower their voices as they approach the top. They step silently to the door of my room and open it without knocking.
Sarah's friend speaks first. I watch her through the vents in the cupboard's door. Oh what a different self you present to these police-officers, my darling. No longer the irrepressible girl now; the sweet thing; but rather the concerned citizen. "I did feel guilty leaving Sarah alone." she is saying. "Really I did. I didn't mention it downstairs but he made a pass at me as well; I thought he was a bit 'funny' even then."
"What's that?" interrupts the policeman. "He touched you? Said something to you? What exactly do you mean?"
Sarah's mother stares at her now; just like the officer; they are on either side of her like two parents fearing the worst. Sarah herself begins to sob, and her mother switches attention to her daughter again, folding her in an embrace and resting her face on the girl's head. "Mum?" the girl explains. "It wasn't until I saw the paper that I realised how much danger I'd been in. How horrible he was; that he'd done it before . . ."
Sarah my darling. I have to put a stop to this. For all our sakes. I open the door. "It's a lie" I say quite calm but staring her down. "It's another concealment. Another attempt to hide the dirt. The refusing to 'see'."
I surprise myself for I am calm. This time there is no piping voice wobbling into a castrated squeak. No! Quite the level head; and this despite an active policeman as hard as a sapling, forcing my arms behind my back. "Sarah?" I feel sorrowful and I suppose it shows. "Sarah . . . we've come to expect concealment from your type even if it is the first time you've cheated on your boyfriend (her mouth drops for no-one is supposed to actually come out with it) but Sarah - my dear - this is more, this is different, this is The Lie." And already her mother is on me! Stepping between her daughter and me before (I suspect, anyway) her daughter can incriminate herself. She holds her arms back, stretches her head towards me aggressively, and hurls abuse rather like a goose (I think) the foolish pin-head eyes betraying after all a rubber stupidity. Truth smothered to keep the 'girl-illusion' going.
I am bundled from the house and into a car. I have got to come to terms with my guilt now. Fully come to terms. It is time and it is fitting to do so, and I'll not be very good at it for I'm proud. And what about they and their guilt? When will they ever begin to face theirs? I ask it now.
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