The Pillow Fight

by Nicholas Monsarrat

  ‘Good heavens!’ I said, genuinely appalled, both at the picture, and at the bitter edge to her voice. ‘What then, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I was eighteen,’ said Susan Crompton, ‘but I still had my strength.’ Already, in the space of seconds, she was something less than bitter; her lovely brow was clearing; this was danger escaped, and therefore not too awful to remember. ‘I brought my knee up hard, the way mother teaches you in survival school, and then I called the front office, and kept on calling till they sent someone up. I don’t know who he was; one of the girls said they keep this guy they call the rape clerk, but I don’t know. Anyway, he said, like, we don’t want any scandal in this establishment, do we, and then he said, could it have been your own fault, and then by golly he wanted to settle down and talk things over quietly, like two reasonable people! Men!’ She ended her recital, with a sharp toss of the head which made her hair glint in the candlelight. ‘You really are a wonderful bunch, you know.’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ I said. ‘What happened about the screen test?’

  ‘That was the screen test. They sent word down next morning, they’d mixed up the dates and couldn’t fit it in. And that was all I ever heard. I think that was the day I decided I was doing all this on the wrong basis.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Her eyes lighted up suddenly; but it was for the strawberries, which did indeed look luscious. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But all the wrestling, all those propositions … And what did I have to show for it? I was getting less famous every day.’

  This was still not clear. ‘Was that what went wrong down here?’

  She laughed. ‘Heavens, no! That was something else again.’ She was now busy eating, at ease once more, and certainly resigned to most of the current hazards; it seemed that she had forgiven us all, because we could not really help it. ‘Men,’ she said again, on a gently chiding note. ‘And it’s not as if I was just dumb and stupid. After all, I practically graduated from college.’

  ‘I wish I had enrolled at that establishment. Where was it?’

  ‘Well, it was a sort of finishing school. In San Francisco. The first day we were there, they told everybody: “Go away and write an essay called Who I am and why I came to college.” One hundred words. Then they worked out what courses we ought to take.’

  ‘What did they choose for you?’

  ‘Courtship and Marriage.’

  After that we danced, because it was by then high time that I had at least an arm-and-a-half round this ravishing creature. A man could spend just so much energy on the twirling cape-work; thereafter, honour and appetite combined to make a definite engagement essential.

  There were certain young women of whom you knew, as soon as you touched them, that their next word – even their next movement – would be ‘yes’; and for me, Susan seemed to be one of these. She was a close dancer, supple and generous; we had circled the floor only once before I felt as if I knew her all over. My terrible tartan dinner jacket was thin, and through it I could feel both the shape and the warmth of those delicious breasts; when our thighs touched, hers lingered closely and frankly before moving aside. The moving-aside was not exactly a bereavement.

  Yet I knew very soon that my overall guess was going to be wrong. For all her compliance, she seemed to have made up her mind to remain cool; cool to me, cool to the music, cool to the fact that my body was growing patently ambitious. She must have known what was going on – she would have to have been wearing armour-plate, to think otherwise; but she was not really joining in, so much as riding out a storm which she hoped would be brief.

  Her own pressures were skilful and receptive, yet they remained friendly; and at this particular moment I was not looking for a friend. I did not need to be psychic to realise that no measurable or mature progress was being made; this message, for some reason, was being relayed swiftly, continuously and finally, by a body which, though almost frantically sensual, belonged only to her.

  At the age of thirty-four, one did not become bad-tempered when facing this particular cul-de-sac; and when we went back to our table we still liked each other, and the evening was still much more fun than any other social occasion was likely to be. Indeed, when I cooled down a little, I was intrigued. There were some odd pieces in this appealing pattern; and unless it was a simple teasing operation, which I doubted, they combined to make up quite a puzzle.

  What was she doing in Barbados, solitary, beautiful and probably broke? What was the thing that had ‘gone wrong’ down here? And that remark about ‘investing in a girl’ – what was that meant to be? A caution? There were plenty of other things. The vivid and disgusting picture of the near-rape had been frankly revealed – but to what end? Enticement? – or warning? And the other remark about doing things on the wrong basis. What was the right basis, and was she using it now? And what was this thing all about, anyway? If it was a seduction, who was doing it to whom, and what was holding it up? And if it was a stand-off, why had she started the exercise in the first place?

  She could have been lonely. She might even have been hungry. But having told me so much, she would surely have told me this also.

  I did not ask her any of these questions; but now, we both wanted, by mutual agreement, to enjoy what there was, not what there might have been. All I did was confirm the fact of exclusion.

  When the music restarted, about half an hour later, I said: ‘We try again?’ and she answered: ‘Help yourself,’ with a smile and a look which told me that she knew what this was all about, also. I had not been mistaken; the rules remained the same. Though she nestled in my arms agreeably, and such pretty witchcrafts as a chance visitor might feel were enough to set up a thriving pulse, yet her whole body was once again saying No.

  Later, we sat and talked on the patio outside my cabin, and we held hands, because – with moon rhyming with lagoon, and night with delight, and sea with you-and-me – it would have been silly to do otherwise. Later still, we walked back, barefooted, along the beach towards her hotel; and when we were near it, we stopped and kissed candidly, our toes in the water, our faces in moonlight, our bodies one single shadow on the sand, and, in the flesh, warm and confluent.

  At that moment, I wanted her, with the most urgent need of all the evening; and at that moment she put her refusal, at last, into words.

  ‘No, Johnny,’ she said, her arms still twined round my neck. ‘Not tonight. I’m just not in the mood.’

  ‘You could be,’ I said. ‘And I presume you already know about me.’

  ‘Oh, I know you want me,’ she acknowledged. ‘And of course it could be mutual. It just isn’t, that’s all. I can’t really explain why. I’m just not too keen on men, at the moment.’

  ‘How long will that last?’

  ‘I don’t know that, either.’ But she was not being tough, nor even unkind. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly, and turned within my arms, brushing my whole body, as a loving girl should. Her hands, it seemed, were ready to move obligingly. ‘And I know what it’s like for you … Can I take care of anything?’

  ‘No,’ I answered. She really was an astonishing character; as knowledgeable, understanding and generous as a man could wish for, if he had to make second choice. ‘No. Though thanks. Top prize only.’

  ‘Good night, then, Johnny. Lovely evening. And no hard feelings?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s one way of putting it.’

  We laughed together, and on laughter we kissed again, and on laughter we parted. I was left to cool my ardour with champagne, under the wheeling stars, staring sombrely at an ocean as restless and alone as myself. The champagne and the night were both beautiful, but they were not her. Nothing was her, and I knew it for many hours afterwards, hungrily aware of what another man in another part of the forest had called divine discontent.

  She was still not too keen on men, the
following night, but at least she told me why.

  The daylight hours had passed as they usually passed in Barbados; dreamily, gently, happily, under a tropical sun whose burning edge was eased by the tradewinds traversing three thousand miles of surging ocean to console us. I had worked most of the morning, cleaning up the masterpiece, which was now almost ready for other eyes; then, after lunch, I had given Susan a long-distance wave, and joined her in a swim out to the reef and back, and a little collecting of sea anemones, and some frank admiration of a body which, when dripping wet, was as good – as very good – as naked.

  Then we drank at our ease, and talked the sun down, and kissed a temporary goodbye, because there was some obvious mutual pleasure in kissing. Now we were keeping our second formal appointment.

  First we had gorged ourselves afresh. Already, traditions were springing up around this particular contest, and that night they involved a procession of caviar (again), grilled dolphin, chicken off a turning spit, and crêpes suzettes, with (God bless us every one) a lime-sherbet as a chaser. Susan justified this atrocious menu with the words: ‘It’s good for you to eat’; in the circumstances, it was one of the least disinterested remarks I had ever heard.

  Afterwards we went for a slow drive through the Barbados maze of winding inland roads; lost ourselves in mid-island; had a brief wrestling match in a sugar-cane field (‘Not here,’ she said reprovingly; ‘don’t you know, everyone does it in the cane fields?’); made our way back to the coast by star-navigation; and finally settled down in a beach nightclub, a few miles out of Bridgetown. If there was one thing I had to do, it was to put my arms round her again, in legal circumstances and permissive surroundings.

  Our surroundings were certainly permissive; the place was impenetrably dark, the décor chiefly palm branches and bamboo partitions, the dancefloor thronged by entirely motionless couples, from whom an occasional moan was the only evidence of life. But if one was in the mood, it was just right. I was in the mood.

  She was looking very pretty that night, as always, in a green dress of off-the-shoulder, liberal design; though her hair, which yesterday had been smooth and closely shaped to her head, was now a top heavy, bouffant swirl, like a small pitchfork of hay. I did not like the effect at all; but perhaps, I thought, it would come undone later. There was no harm in looking ahead.

  It was a night and a place for confidences. I played with her hand on my knee, and told her all about being a writer; she leant back in her chair, superbly aware of a ravishing display, and told me all about being a girl. Presently, when we had groped our way round the dancefloor, and finally given it up (we were really too old for this branch of the Tunnel of Love), she began to answer the questions that still intrigued me, and by degrees her story was out.

  She had come down to Barbados with a man. ‘You probably guessed that already,’ she said softly, her fingers stroking my wrist. ‘It’s not the surprise of the year, is it? Not for me, anyway … I never have any money, I couldn’t afford this sort of trip myself … You know how men offer you trips and money and things, as soon as they know–’ she left that one in the air, as she sometimes did, and finished instead: ‘Well, anyway, that’s what I do sometimes.’

  ‘How many men has that involved?’

  ‘About twenty.’

  ‘Twenty!’ I had not meant to react so swiftly, nor to grimace, but she must have seen my face in the half-darkness, for she went on: ‘Well, it’s not like every day and night, is it? It could have been hundreds … I told you, it just didn’t make sense, doing it for phoney screen tests and interviews with agents and things like that.’

  ‘Well, all right,’ I said. Naively, I felt bereaved, though I guessed that the feeling would pass. She was that kind of a girl; the girl who was eternally forgiven, forever kissed and taken back; and if not by the same man, then by another man prepared to adore her in spite of all transgressions. ‘But it still seems a lot of people.’

  She was frowning. ‘I thought you’d be more–’

  ‘More what?’

  ‘Understanding.’

  ‘So did I.’ That was true, and I came round to the realisation even as I pondered it. ‘And so I am. But tell me more, Susan. Who was the one down here?’

  ‘He was a mistake. He was terrible.’ She was sitting back again, staring squarely at her miscalculation, and not liking it at all. ‘He seemed just right in New York, and then it all went wrong. It’s always guesswork, and this was a bad guess. But what can you do about that? If you say yes, and they make all the arrangements, you’ve got to go through with it. To begin with, anyway.’

  ‘What actually went wrong?’

  ‘Well, as a starter, he turned out to be mean.’ This must have been the first time she had talked about it, and she was very ready to take the chance. ‘Mean like an expert … I told you, he was perfectly OK in New York. He spent all sorts of money up there. I suppose that was the investment bit. Then he must have begun to add it all up, and he was a very slow counter … First there was the mink stole. He promised me a mink stole. He didn’t have to. But he did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He kept making excuses. In the end he rented one. In Washington. With my initials on it, but only for a month. He said, let’s not lose our heads over this, by the time we get back it’ll be warm weather again.’

  ‘Frugal,’ I said.

  For once, she wasn’t listening. ‘That was just the beginning of it. We went to lousy motels all the way south, and he’d argue half the night about the price of the room, and if there was one where we could share a bathroom with someone else, he’d take that … We used to go the whole day on coffee and doughnuts, and then for dinner he’d go out and buy one chicken-in-a-basket and one carton of French fries, and we’d sit down and share the feast, watching complimentary TV. Then we came down here, because he had a free pass or something, and after that it got really bad.’

  ‘No wonder you’re so hungry,’ I said. But it was not at all funny, and I squeezed her hand, ashamed that I had tried to make a joke out of it. ‘Sorry, Susan … What did go wrong here?’

  ‘The whole bit,’ she answered. ‘He was just a pig, and soon he didn’t bother to pretend anything else … He was dirty. He never took a bath, or shaved, or changed his shirt, or anything. And he was horrible to share a room with. You’d think he’d never lived in a house before. He used to do it in the washbasin.’

  ‘Do it?’

  ‘You know – wee-weed.’

  ‘Oh.’ Visions of truly bizarre behaviour evaporated, in favour of mundane eccentricity. ‘Lazy as well … But the thing I can’t understand is, how you picked him in the first place.’ I squeezed her hand again. ‘You know, you’re truly one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. Why give it to a man like that?’

  ‘I told you – it was just a bad guess. Back in New York, he was just another Joe, with a nice car and plenty of spare money and a few good jokes … I suppose that was the advertising front. He was in advertising. He was quite good-looking, too … What worries me is what you do if you actually marry a man like that. It could happen! I mean, suppose you wake up and find you’re tied for life to a man who absolutely revolts you.’

  ‘You usually spend more time choosing.’

  ‘I’d like to believe that … Well, anyway, there I was in Barbados, with a mean man who behaved like a dirty animal … I can’t tell you what he was like, Johnny. He used to scratch himself for hours. And he had enormous yellow toenails. Like tusks! He never cut them … It’s not funny,’ she said, seeing my expression. ‘They slashed me!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Some of the hazards of the profession are new to me.’

  ‘It’s not a profession,’ she answered. She brooded for a moment. ‘At least, I don’t want it to be … I suppose that’s really why I walked out. He was disgusting, and it wasn’t any fun, and I had a
little money left, and I was still me. So I said, that’s all, my friend, thank you, and he went back to the States with the mink stole, and I stayed on here, by myself.’

  ‘When did all this happen?’

  ‘About two weeks ago.’

  ‘And how much money left now?’

  ‘Not much. But enough. And I’ve got my ticket back to Miami.’

  It was the end of her story, and it had been sad, and moving, and somehow important. The thing which struck me most forcibly was the terrible vulnerability of a girl like this one, as soon as she had opted for a life set in this pattern. What started out with glamour and hope and excitement, tailed off into rented minks, French fries, intrusive toenails, and just enough money to get halfway back home … If this was what could happen to the pick of the candidates, how fared the ugly and the old?

  Of course, I was probably being naive again. The fiasco – and all comparable setbacks – were entirely her own fault; she could just as easily have chosen to be the world’s most beautiful waitress, and her worst hazards would then have been gravy-stains and fallen arches and ten-cent tips. But, stern common sense apart, I still could not help feeling sympathetic, and vaguely protective.