Alligator Playground

by Alan Sillitoe

  What burned in him came, he was sure by now, from the familiarities with Diana that flowed in them both. For Jo it was a weird log-blazing fire she had never known with a woman. Well, it was different, anyway, telling her amazed self that such fervour couldn’t possibly mean anything with someone like Tom, and a man, too, though she cried out, smiling with head back and eyes full of tears: ‘You’re lovely, it’s wonderful!’

  Comforting one another in their agony of grief, unable to separate because of it, they kissed their way upstairs to the spare bedroom, neither having much say in the matter, awed but happy at the responsibility they hardly recognised.

  Jo also wondered whether it would have been the same if they hadn’t both been intimate with Diana. She hoped not, though in another way didn’t. She tried to make out what Diana would think, if she was anywhere where she could think at all. It really didn’t bear consideration, since the attraction between her and Tom was too mysterious to fathom. Questions would come later, she told herself during her first days at the house, but foreseeing they might be too hard to answer, thought she would ignore them when they did.

  She must have got pregnant on the night of the funeral. Lust was insidious and sly, though she supposed that if you put a philanderer like Tom in bed with a hamster there’d be a lot of little ones scampering around in the morning. Laughing and crying at the same time, she felt like a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl who knew knock-all, the Pill something she’d never had to think about.

  ‘We’ll order in ten minutes,’ Tom said to the waiter, stroking Jo’s hand across the table and filling their glasses with the other. Angela’s pregnancy had ended in disaster, and Debbie, thank God, had taken precautions because she hadn’t trusted him to behave like a sensible grown-up, while Diana had been so long on the Pill before they met that she was afraid to come off it in case of side effects, and didn’t want to have a kid because it would rob her of time painting her marvellous pictures.

  ‘You can always have a DNA test after it’s born,’ Jo laughed, in case his joyful astonishment was a show of mistrust. ‘Can’t be anybody else’s, though, let me tell you. I was a virgin.’ His jump rattled knives and forks. ‘A what?’ ‘I’ve been a lesbian since before I started my periods.’ Had he been waiting all his life for this? No, it was too kooky. ‘I’m absolutely delighted.’

  His jump rattled knives and forks. ‘A what?’

  ‘I’ve been a lesbian since before Istarted my periods.’

  Had he been waiting all his life for this? No, it was too kooky. ‘I’m absolutely delighted.’

  ‘Yes, I can see you are.’ She took off her tie, leaned across the table and kissed him on the lips, to the arch look of a passing plate-girl who took them, he supposed, for father and daughter. ‘You look really chuffed.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I am.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  He never thought he would live long enough to see Jo Hesborn blush. ‘Let’s drink to it, then.’

  She was slenderly pregnant, with an elegant belly, and didn’t leave her job till six months gone. One Saturday afternoon she drove her battery of modems and Internet technology in a hired truck from the flat in St John’s Wood to Tom’s place.

  She jumped from the cab. ‘I can do most of my work in the top room,’ then unlatched the doors to get things out.

  He set his coffee mug on the garden table. ‘Don’t! Let me do it.’

  She had heard it said that every country got the ruler it deserved (or some such thing) and surmised that every man ended up with the woman he deserved, sooner or later, the same obviously for a woman. So she surrendered to the extent of taking the wires and plugs, and then laughed at him heaving the heavy stuff upstairs into her new office like any removal man.

  After supper she lay on the couch scanning the latest issue of Net User magazine. ‘We should have got together years ago.’

  ‘I know, darling.’ Maybe they hadn’t because of her hurling that glass at Norman, while she wondered if it hadn’t been his fault for taking Diana away from her at Charlotte’s party. ‘I can only suppose,’ he said, ‘that there’s a time for everything.’

  Three-month-old Diana frothed and gurgled as if fully supporting the idea of her parents being married. ‘We’re spoiling her rotten by doing this,’ Jo said.

  Tom stood portly and upright in suit and tie, and had only half a smile on his lined face. The small gold ring in his left ear glittered, and a short ponytail was neatly tied. He had lived ten years in one, and what was previously thought of as love hadn’t been close to this by a million light years, since it had never included the potent ingredient of understanding. As unregenerate as ever, he even so liked to foresee a treaty by which he and Jo could live in mutual tolerance, she to take over the girlfriends he discarded, and he to comfort the rejects from her. What firmer union could there be than that?

  Jo acceded to all the creepy notions of the marriage book, and so did Tom, but then he would, wouldn’t he? During the ceremony she held up her left foot and moved it in a circle. She turned her head from side to side half a dozen times. She swayed backwards and forwards with a goitrous smile. The registrar broke off to ask if she was feeling all right.

  ‘Just,’ she said. Tom hoped she’d stop larking around, but she jigged a little more to make her point, only wanting to get the farce over with. Such fatuous platitudes about love and obedience were meaningless, since she and Tom would stay together because of Diana, and that was that.

  Tom was so besotted with his newborn daughter that even if his fantasy of an exchange deal with lovers never came about he would be satisfied with this one area of happiness. He and Jo seemed so mated that getting married for the last time for him and the first time for her had been the obvious step.

  His drinking and driving days were finished, and after the wedding he went with Charlotte and Henry by taxi to the Park Lane Hotel. Jo followed with Emmy Brites the novelist, and Barbara Whissen-dine her agent. The six made up a table for lunch, Tom at one end and Jo at the other.

  Henry, looking up from his brandy, ineptly quoted the remark of Doctor Johnson’s that, ‘A gentleman who had been very unhappy in marriage, and married immediately after his wife died, showed a triumph of hope over expectation.’

  Tom reflected during the watery silence that he couldn’t recall Henry ever having talked before, and if he had it had only been to ask Charlotte if he could, and she’d said no, unless he’d asked for the salt, which he got grudgingly because she’d read it was bad for the heart. Henry muttered something about being sorry, the soft brown glow of rebellion in his eyes dimming as he reached for his milky coffee.

  Nothing could trample Tom’s jubilant mood; he had always known that silence meant unhappiness. ‘It might do you some good, Henry, if you started to live, by having another crack at wedlock, for instance.’

  Charlotte smoothed her Mao-blue gymslip. ‘That was uncalled for.’

  ‘I know,’ Tom smiled, ‘but a little working-class fecklessness now and again can’t be bad.’

  ‘Pack it in.’ Jo knew that for a marriage feast to end in a fusillade of bottles wasn’t unusual, so wanted the gathering to be friendly. ‘Johnson’s sexist quip was like something that windbag Norman Bakewell used to belch up out of his sour stomach.’

  Emmy Brites also spoke little, but her cornflower blue eyes and pink shell-like ears recorded every nuance and comment of the occasion. Tom’s notable coup had been to get her into his Augean stable, on the assumption that she would become more popular – and perhaps more deadly – than Norman Bakewell. Her pretty lips had taken in nothing but fizzy water to drink during the meal. ‘He wasn’t a bad novelist,’ she said.

  Tom watched his cigar smoke drift across the table as after the last cannon shot at Waterloo. It was as well that Norman had popped his clogs, and wasn’t here to witness the conclusion of a story which he had followed with the pertinacity of an entomologist. To come in at such a time would have fused his whole being. The notio
n of any situation having a conventional end, especially among those who were so far under his creative thumb as to be regarded as his friends, would have brought out all his cantankerous self-indulgence, and reduced their wedding feast to a shambles. Tom wondered what publisher would have been able to afford the advance of the novel he made out of that. Instead, having done them the favour of dying, he had pulled the plug from the waters of the alligator playground, leaving them high, dry, and blinking their eyelids at the prospect of living on dry land.

  Drinking a toast to him was the least they could do, Tom thought, standing to raise his glass.

  A Respectable Woman

  TRAVELLING SOUTH, Paul enjoyed the slow melting of cloud after passing the watershed, les partages des eaux: white lines waving on a brown board prominently displayed by the motorway, but the pleasure often had to be paid for with worsening weather on the homeward trip from the Mediterranean. That was life. What you didn’t expect, you didn’t appreciate. An electric dark blue sky between downpours turned into a threatening decline of the day.

  Somewhere beyond Rheims, heading for Calais, white headlights made little impression on swathes of water at the windscreen, wipers sluggish on the fastest rate. He seemed to be driving under the sea, and marvelled at the occasional car overtaking confidently into the slush.

  Life was too short to be maimed in such a way, or even killed, so he argued with himself about parting from the motorway at the nearest exit. Eight o’clock meant he would be lucky to get a room in Cambrai, but a sizzle of lightning settled him to try.

  He trawled the streets, deserted under heaven’s free wash, calling at three places that were full. Coming again out of the main square, onto a road he didn’t know, he pulled in at the Hotel de la Paix, and took a room large enough for a family, no option but to pay up and bless his good fortune.

  The way had been long from the house in Tuscany. After leaving Wendy at Pisa airport, with their two sons who could not be late for school, he drifted up the motorway through mountains he had always wanted to walk in. Wendy didn’t like the car trip, but he enjoyed doing it alone, whether or not he was late slotting back into managing his electronics firm. A long drive was good for mulling on problems he might find on getting there.

  He backed into the last vacancy of the courtyard. All other cars faced inwards, but a quick getaway, though rarely a necessity, was always neat to think about. He took his overnight case to the room, washed and changed into a suit, and went downstairs before the restaurant closed. The tourist season lagged on, and he stood between the bar and reception counter waiting for a table, rain at the glass locking his gaze as firmly as had the tarmac sweeping all day under the car.

  A dark blue Renault stopped at the door, and he assumed the GB plate because of the side the driver stepped from. She ran in like a goddess coming from the ocean to be born – he couldn’t help telling himself – and when she asked at the counter for a room he felt some satisfaction in knowing the answer.

  ‘Damn!’ she responded, ‘nothing at all?’

  The clerk told her.

  She had been all over the town – and so have I, Paul thought. ‘Isn’t there another hotel you can recommend?’

  It was no feat to pick up her responses: ‘I can’t go on in this atrocious weather. What the hell am I to do?’ His feeling of guilt was overidden by exultation at having got there before her.

  ‘They’ll all be full,’ the clerk said. ‘I telephoned around for someone a few minutes ago.’

  Paul, no reason to be concerned at her plight – though he was – sensed her annoyance at whoever might be responsible, and he for one wished he knew who it could be. A day on the road sleeved by the rich landscapes of France acted on him like a drug, opening his mind to spaces that made him ready for anything, especially after the relief of finding such an opulent billet. He couldn’t think why he said it: ‘I might have a solution to your problem.’

  She stood in the doorway, a tall woman, in her late thirties perhaps, with short reddish hair and gold-framed spectacles, an opened raincoat showing a pale cream blouse, a loose purple skirt, and short black boots that zipped up the front. ‘Well, it’s my problem. I’ll just have to drive on.’

  ‘I took the last room, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I suppose someone had to.’ A trace of vinegar indicated that she was too proud to let him assume he might have done her an ill turn.

  ‘I had to take a room far too big for me. It seems a shame for you to go out in that, and me with a large double bed going to waste.’

  He told her his name, and held out a hand, French style, which she barely touched, though looked at the card which he took from his wallet and laid on the bar, wondering what he thought he was up to. Of medium height and slender, with thinning dark hair combed dryly back above a pale relaxed face, he seemed too well dressed for a holiday bird of passage. Maybe he tried this stunt every night, staying all day in the hotel and waiting to pounce on such as her. She forced a smile as if to show she was embarrassed by such a proposition. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve driven up from Italy today, and I’m absolutely done for.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  ‘I’d be at death’s door if I did. But after dinner I’ll drop onto one of the beds and won’t wake for nine hours. All you have to do is fall onto the other and do the same.’ He regretted having spoken, since she thought he wanted to make love to her, which he had no intention of doing. ‘Have a drink while you’re waiting. By the time you’ve decided against my practical suggestion the rain might have eased off.’

  Very smooth, yet she was tempted. After much experience she had evolved the notion that you should think everything but let no one suspect your thoughts. She sometimes wondered why it came so easy, but in that way, common sense – or an instinct for self preservation – decided your actions. No harm therefore in taking up his offer. ‘I could do with a Martini.’

  On trips to and from her house in the Haute-Loire she whiled away the miles with a fantasy of such a meeting, and now that something like it was happening she would drink her drink and get back into the weather. Fantasy was one thing, and reality another game altogether.

  He eyed his pastis as if to make sure every swallow was worthy of the honour. His idea of paradise, he told her, was the smell of pine trees in the hottest sun, subtly mixed with odours of rosemary and olive, preferably while sitting on the terrace with his wife at midday over a bottle of wine and a platter of dark bread and salami. Such an injection of relaxed living, at least once a year, was the best way he knew of keeping sane. In the afternoon – though he didn’t go this far – he would dispatch the boys into the hills with map and compass, and a haversack of things to eat, so that he and Wendy could go to bed as in the days of their honeymoon. He hoped that talking about himself would make her feel at ease, and not be so suspicious at what ought to seem his generosity in offering to share his room. ‘I’m a practical person, basically. I have to be, in my job, so it seems only logical to put the spare bed at your disposal.’

  She smiled at this good sense, good for him, anyway, and as if to confirm it even more, rain drummed louder at the windows. She asked herself, during the second Martini, what her thoughts would have been on passing him in the street, and decided she might have found him interesting enough to want to know more. She could even, in a certain mood, have ‘fancied’ him. Such a judgement had no bearing, but the warmth within reddened her face.

  He would have the advantage of a good story, if only to tell against himself, about how he had rescued this very personable woman in distress, and been correct in not trying to seduce her. ‘If you don’t accept my suggestion you leave me no alternative but to push on. I’ll stop in the first layby, and sleep soundly at the wheel, more than happy in knowing you’re well taken care of. Here’s my key. I’ll have a word with the clerk.’

  Occasional dips into the bread-and-sausage bag along the way had left her famished, and the two Martinis, quickly drunk
, were having an effect. Though his plan ought to be rejected in no uncertain manner, she heard herself say: ‘All right, I’ll take it.’

  Such an adventure to look back on couldn’t be bad: ‘This very kind chap actually gave up his room for me. Would you believe it? No, he wasn’t that sort. He was such a gentleman that on thinking about it I rather wish he hadn’t been.’

  He put his glass down. ‘There’s just one condition.’

  Oh Lord, her grey eyes said, now I’ve dropped into it. Why are men always so sly? He probably plays chess. If he’d come straight out with it I’d at least know where I was.

  ‘I can see what you’re thinking.’

  There was too much triumph in his tone for her liking, but he probably knew that, too. She was ready to leave. ‘Am I so transparent?’

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that. I only want you to have dinner with me, before I ask the clerk to transfer the room. I always hate eating on my own in a strange place. I hope you won’t take too long to decide, though, because here’s the waiter coming to say our table’s ready.’

  What am I doing? – he refilled her glass from the bottle of Côtes du Rhône – me, a supposedly respectable woman getting into a situation like this? ‘My name’s Margaret,’ she told him. He reasonably wanted to know about her, so what could she do but say she was a teacher at a girls’ school. She couldn’t think why such plain truth seemed so out of place: ‘An aunt died and left me enough money to buy a small house near Le Puy. A cottage, really, but I don’t imagine you can use such a word in France, can you? There was enough left over to buy a car, so I go when I can.’