Commander Amanda Nightingale
Page 10
"Little Amanda," Angela said. "Long time no see." She smiled and in an odd way the smile looked like a triangle, and just hung there as though she could not pull her mouth back into place.
"Quite," said Amanda smiling tensely. "I often looked out for you at Old Girl reunions, but never saw you."
"When I shook the dust of Cheltenham from my feet," said Angela, "I swore never to return, and I kept my promise. In fact it is one of the few promises — to myself — that I have ever kept."
They looked at each other again. Same education, bequeathing only one thing in common, a voice, an accent. Angela was soft and relaxed in a blouse and skirt, a Londoner. Amanda was trim, well tended, well groomed, a country girl who happened to be in London for the day, edgy, ill at ease.
"Do you want tea?" Angela asked. "Personally I intend to have a gin and tonic."
"Oh, yes please," said Amanda with relief. She felt she needed, very badly, something alcoholic.
In Angela's absence Amanda surveyed the room with her eyes. Expensive and in good taste, but neglected. Amanda longed to go over it with a Hoover, to take the dust smell away. Amanda noted on the mantelpiece the picture of a good-looking young R.A.F Officer, smiling, cigarette in mouth, wearing his wings and, underneath, the ribbon of the D.F.C. On the coffee table was a cold pipe, self-evidently not owned by the R.A.F. officer. In a way this manifestation of masculine presence relieved her and made her less tense. It was as if she had been relieved of responsibility. The whole affair was ridiculous anyway. Now the girls could simply gossip. Amanda felt happier.
Angela returned with the glasses and they sat down, Amanda in a straight chair, Angela in a deep, worn armchair, the seat of which almost touched the ground, and revealed Angela's thighs to the clip of her garters. There was an awkward pause.
"I gather you do go back to the dear old school," Angela said in a voice that made Amanda feel a fool for doing so. She sought to excuse herself.
"As you know, my father is Dean of Northminster Cathedral and that imposes a certain responsibility on me. I have to attend these occasions," ending weakly, "perhaps more often than I would wish." Amanda, she said to herself, thou hast denied thyself. She could have kicked herself for her moral cowardice, for not admitting that she longed for the Cheltenham reunions, as she longed for the Young Conservatives and the Ladies' Guild meetings, as an escape from… marriage, she supposed.
"Still play cricket?" Angela asked casually. Zing! The light uninterested question, with all its implications of absurdity, frustration, and retarded maturity, soared like an arrow and sank unerringly into the bull's eye of Amanda's dignity. So… all these years Angela had hated her too. Why?
"No. My husband played for Cambridge, and I watch the county team from time to time when they can get enough men on leave to scratch up a team. That's all."
"You must miss it."
The second dart skimmed home to its mark.
"Do you have any children?" Angela asked with a casualness that Amanda felt was forced.
"Two boys. Would you like to see a picture of the youngest?"
"Love to."
Why had Amanda asked that? She knew that Angela could not be less interested, and anyway Amanda's baby looked like every other baby. Was it perhaps an appeal, a proof that there was no meaning to her visit except to chat about old times? That she was a wife and mother, which made everything all right? Flushing, Amanda fished in her handbag, and produced a photograph. Angela cooked her admiration and gave it back.
"What are you doing for the war effort?" Angela asked. It was a common question of the period.
"My husband is in the Army. I am joining the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry."
"Ah, the good old FANYs! I have a friend in it. Her name is Phoebe Smith. It's a common name but you are sure to run into her. She is a physical training instructor. A big strong girl. True farmer's daughter. Say hello to her for me."
"Thank you. I shall look forward to meeting her. Are you doing anything?"
It was artlessly phrased. Angela gave another one of her smiles that stayed there. "Just giving comfort to the armed forces where I can. They'll probably catch me sooner or later and stick me in the FANYs too."
"Oh no," said Amanda, and finished before she could bite her tongue off. "It is very difficult to get into the FANYs. All the girls are volunteers."
"Well then," said Angela, smiling brightly. "Mr. Bevin will probably net me and send me down a mine."
It was useless. The conversation dragged on until Amanda finished her drink and rose thankfully to go. But there was to be the final twist in the torque of her discomposure. Angela, deep in her armchair, struggled a little to rise and Amanda, without thinking, touched her elbow to help her. But the effect of this gesture on Angela was quite extraordinary. She stopped struggling, looked at the hand on her elbow, looked Amanda between the eyes, looked down again at her hand and, with exquisite ostentation, lifted her arm away from physical contact with Amanda. As she stood up she leaned away, as though to be as far away from Amanda as she could. The implied insult was blinding and Amanda felt herself go scarlet, so scarlet that it showed. At the door they faced each other for the last time. Angela's moist green eyes were mocking. "Tough luck, Amanda," she said.
"I don't know what you mean," said Amanda, almost shouting.
"Don't you? Good-bye."
The door closed. Amanda went down in the elevator, weeping tears of mortification, damning herself for every kind of fool. And a sinner to boot. Her crisis of conscience became acute two months later when she learned that Angela had been killed in the Blitz, and no matter how she tried she could not bring herself to be sorry. And try she really did. The incident troubled her intensely for two and a half years, until one morning she sat in front of the mirror in her bathroom. In the bedroom next door she heard Lucien Schneider turning the pages of the Times, and from the kitchen the whistle of the electric kettle. She looked at herself, her hair falling down her back, her eyes looking back at the eyes and lips of a woman she had never seen before. "Of course," she said to herself. "That was why."
That was why everything. That was why everybody. That was why Angela Bowman-Preedy. That was why Phoebe Smith. Except that it took her two and a half years to understand Angela Bowman-Preedy. She understood Phoebe even as Phoebe was beating her up. How precipitate had been her education in herself, after so many years of non-understanding. There had been Lucien, but before Lucien there had been Arisaig, the little village in the north of Scotland, and the other terrible incident. Classes were over and the officers had departed to dress for a drink in the mess before dinner. Phoebe Smith, the physical training instructor, had suggested to Amanda and two other girls a last bout of judo in the solitary cool of the evening. For a while the four gambolled and grunted, laughing, panting, barefooted, in sweat shirts and gym shorts.
Amanda and Phoebe grappled and for. a moment it seemed that Amanda held her. But although Amanda was a strong girl, Phoebe was a heavyweight. She spun Amanda around, almost it seemed with a finger, and flung a full Nelson on her, pinning her arms behind her head. That was the beginning, however, not the end. Amanda yelped and laughed. "All right, Smith, I concede," she said.
Phoebe laughed too and so did the other two girls, Connie and April, who now stopped wrestling each other and gathered around to watch. It seemed to Amanda they were obeying some signal, and knew something that she did not.
"I said, you win," said Amanda. "Pax. I yield." But Phoebe did not release her. She continued to laugh in her ear, not pleasantly.
"Let me go!" Amanda exclaimed.
"No," said Phoebe.
"Let me go, I said."
"Oh dear me, no."
"What does this mean?" Amanda cried. "Are we all playing silly asses or something?"
"I'll tell you what it means, Amanda," said Phoebe. "It means that we are going to have a conference, right, girls?" Her front was plastered against Amanda's back and her voice breathed warmly into her ear.
"Let me go!" Amanda cried, startled and perplexed. "Is this some kind of a joke between you three idiots? If it is, I don't find it funny." She felt her dangling fingers tingle as the blood drained out of her pinioned arms. She struggled but was helpless in Phoebe's grip.
"You see," said April sadly. "We are idiots. Does that not sum up Mrs. Nightingale's personality? Our I.Q.s are quite high, you know, Amanda. If they were not we would not be here, like you."
"It is not that we minded too much," said Connie, "that when you gave a party to celebrate your husband's M. C. you invited only the senior officers and the local laird."
"It isn't that you are the only FANY officer here who does not join the others after supper, because you are too busy discussing England's war aims and future with the C. O."
Amanda was red from struggling. "This is unforgivable. I shall report you all to the CO. immediately," she cried, her voice shrill with apprehension.
"I don't think so." Phoebe smiled into her ear. "I really don't think you will want anyone to know what we intend to do to you. We have an idea you will tell people you fell off a horse or something."
Amanda's mind teemed with feelings of astonishment and horror. She had thought of herself as on friendly enough terms with these girls, but there was no wall higher than that which separates those who have absolutely nothing in common.
"Do you realize, Amanda," said April, "that you know the second name of every FANY in this group and you do not know the Christian names of any of us?"
"You see, Amanda," said Phoebe, "one of the troubles of walking through life with your nose in the air is that you tend to bump into people, and a chin in the eye is sometimes pretty painful."
"What have I done!" Amanda exclaimed. "It must be more than that. This stupidity has gone on long enough. Let me go."
Phoebe tightened her lock and pressed her body even closer against Amanda's.
"So we three girls," said Connie, "developed a temptation that ultimately proved irresistible…"
"Namely," said Phoebe, "to see what Commander Nightingale looks like with her backside bare."
Amanda struggled with set teeth. She did not know what this was all about. She wanted only to break free, to run away anywhere, to escape these hate-filled women.
"All right, ladies," Phoebe ordered. "Remove Commander Nightingale's pants."
Amanda went hot with horror. "Don't you dare!" she shouted. They meant what they said literally. Connie and April closed in. Connie was closest. Amanda kicked out with her legs. It was desperate, blind, but her bare foot connected with Connie's cheekbone in a perfect French savate, hitting her with such force as to knock her completely off her feet and onto her back. Connie lay for a moment dazed, then rose shakily to her feet, holding her face which was already swelling. "You bitch," she growled, "you'll be sorry for that," and hit the rigid Amanda hard across the face, twice, forehand then backhand. Amanda's senses went numb and her shorts were stripped off her. She stood, her hands still locked behind her head, nude from the waist down.
April screamed with laughter, while Connie held her bruised face in her hands. Phoebe pressed her loins closer.
"I always suspected you were not a natural blonde," said April.
Amanda panted feverishly, humiliated to the core.
"How does she look?" Phoebe asked. "I'm behind her and can't see."
"She looks giggly," said April.
"A hairy officer," said Connie smiling with difficulty.
"A jolly hairy officer," said April. "But symmetrical. You must grant her that. A perfect isosceles."
"Wait until I report you to the colonel!" Amanda shouted.
"How, precisely, will you word the complaint?" Phoebe asked. "Personally I should be perfectly happy to lose one of my officer's stripes just to hear you tell them precisely what happened."
April laughed hysterically. "Oh! Phoebe, you must take a look!"
"Yes I must," said Phoebe. Unexpectedly she let Amanda go. But before Amanda could bring her arms painfully down, she was spun around like a rag doll and Phoebe punched her in the breadbasket, her fist sinking almost to the wrist into the slack, unready flesh. Amanda belched and went down, Phoebe on top of her, kneeling with all her great weight, on Amanda's chest. Amanda was winded and in great pain. Dimly she saw Connie cross to the old manorial fireplace, the gym having been converted from the dining room of an old Scottish castle. What she was doing Amanda could not see, but she returned with her fingers covered in soot.
These she held under Amanda's nose and Amanda, wild-eyed and appalled, jerked her head to one side. The fingers followed her. Amanda jerked her head in the other direction, but still the fingers remained a few inches from her nose, so that Amanda was compelled to stare down at them double-chinned. Phoebe laughed and ground her hard knees into the jelly of Amanda's breasts.
"Guess where this is going," Connie smiled. A large blue lump was rising under her eye. Amanda felt uncontrollable sweat breaking out. "Don't you dare!" she screamed.
"I just want you to guess," said Connie. "We are letting you off lightly you know. We were thinking in terms of tar and feathers." The fingers disappeared.
"Don't," Amanda shouted. "For God's sake, don't." She kicked out, but her legs were carefully avoided this time. April held her knees down and Connie thrust her fingers deep into her. Amanda gave a violent shudder. Her vaginal muscles made furious, fromp-fromping spasms to eject the foreign matter, but the fingers held their place remorselessly, wriggling. Amanda groaned. "You filthy, filthy women."
"The moving finger writhes," April murmured. "And having writhed, writhes on."
"It isn't us that's filthy, duckie," Connie chortled.
"What's she like?" Phoebe demanded, grinding her knees into Amanda's breasts.
"Dripping."
"I knew it all along," said Phoebe. "Maybe we'll have to change her nickname from Holy Nightingale to Randy Mandy. Don't be put off by the wife and mother stuff. Amanda likes girls, don't you, Amanda?"
Amanda struggled weakly.
"I know she does, because Angela Bowman-Preedy told me so."
The name penetrated Amanda's dazed mind, sufficiently for her struggles to stop. "What do you mean?" she uttered.
"Angela told me she hadn't seen you since Cheltenham. Years later you telephoned her with some cock-and-bull story, went to her flat shaking like a bitch in heat, made an improper advance, and Angela slung you out."
The monstrousness of this lie appalled Amanda more than anything that had gone before. "You beastly liar," she gasped. "Either you are lying, or she was lying. Or you were both lying together. Probably it is you two women who go in for that sort of filthiness."
"That is quite a casus belli," said Phoebe. "And I think I shall require an apology from you. Let's get to business. You two officers and ladies, hold her arms down."
For a fraction of a second she released Amanda as the other two descended to pin her arms down. Desperately Amanda clawed out. Her long, manicured nails sank into April's cheek and tore it down to the jowls, widening curlicues of skin gathering inside her fingernails, leaving behind lines of thickening red. April screamed and put her hands to her face. "The bitch has disfigured me." But Amanda could not release herself. April's knees pinned down one arm while Connie held the other. Phoebe stood astride her, looking down with a smile. "Pull yourself together, April, and be a man," she said. "You look most appropriate for a clergyman's daughter, Amanda. Arms outspread, naked before your enemies. Imagine yourself as Christ on the Cross."
Phoebe bent down, put her hands on Amanda's shoulder, her thumbs pressed firmly into her armpits. Then she acted. Her legs went up in the air, as though she were going to do a handstand on Amanda's shoulders. But halfway up she
came down again, bringing her knee up, one hundred and forty pounds in weight, propelling the hard bone of her kneecap into Amanda's groin. The impact made the two watching girls wince and one said, "Oh my God! "
"Apologize!" Phoebe whispered.
The effect on Amanda was startling. She did not cry out. Her mouth opened wide and a harsh, desexed "Aaaah!" seemed to be drawn from the pit of her stomach. The pain was so obliterating it almost cancelled itself out in the numbness beyond understanding. She jerked in a vital spasm of pain as though she had received an electric shock. At the second blow, hitting unerringly into the same place, she shouted "Jesus!" Her head went up and back, hitting the ground with a crack. Her belly vaulted upward in a taut arc. Her legs rose convulsively upward into a semi-foetal position like a frog's and then fell weakly again.
Phoebe, her sweat flying, began rhythmically and athletically to batter Amanda, each blow accompanied by a panting, triumphant cry of «Apologize», each drawing from Amanda a gasp of "Jesus!" as though blasphemy created some kind of salve. Amanda's enemies were close enough to be able to peer into her nostrils, to study the bulging of her eyeballs, the rictus of her teeth bared to the gums, the spasms of her rib cage, the throbbing of her throat, the eruption, like a million tiny geysers, of her sweat glands.
The girls holding her arms stopped smiling. "Phoebe," Connie said, "she's had enough."
Phoebe looked up from her concentration and paused, her face purple from exertion. "She's learned her lesson," Connie persisted. "Just look at her."
"Look at yourself," said Phoebe. "She has scarred both of you."
"Connie's right," said April. "You don't want to cripple her for life. She's a bitch but she'd had all she can take."
"And I," said Phoebe, "am just warming up."
Amanda groaned. "Not again. If you do it again I think I shall faint."