The Protagonists

by James Barlow

  She stared at his lank hair, the sweat on his pillow, the pattern of his pyjamas and, inside them, a grey rim of dirt on a vest that would not be changed again. (It had a small interest: something unusual after all: the skeleton was animal enough to smell. Now surely that was statistical enough to justify comment?) His skin was dead – so dead that it proclaimed itself. The bones protruded in finality. In the cadaver face the lips were pale, the bones more real than the flesh, the hair lank, the skin sallow beyond sallow; only the eyes remained Stephen’s: they still desired, they understood, they even pleaded still. Every word counted; everything he said must be significant; there was not much time, not much breath, the world waited for him to go: there were plenty more soldiers. Don’t pray; there is scarcely time for that. What would he say? Please God, let it be real, let it be him, let me not be afraid, let him understand and let me–

  He smiled – at a distance certainly, but not outside reality. (He is smiling at me. Does he think I am funny? Do I look feminine and concerned?) He said – the words just audible despite an absolute silence – ‘I know, I know. And thank you.’ A long pause. Is he still here? ‘They wanted me to see a priest,’ he said. Another smile. He isn’t attempting to cheat either. ‘I told them that someone else said my prayers for me. Listen!’

  She was listening intently: they were in the target area: the smallest sound could throw the earth off its axis. ‘Yes, Stephen?’

  ‘Tell me what it’s all about. You know, don’t you? I thought that because you hadn’t been anywhere and I had, that I knew better. But it’s not like that, is it? Why should I value anything in the world besides yourself? What’s the point of it all?’

  There was nothing to show what the point was except the light behind the eyes. It was still there: the light of the world: the thing that had loved her. Love would be the last thing to die. Oh God – if there is a God, and if You have not in disgust diverted Your love to another, more worthy planet, and if You are concerned about this particular case, and if You think I am a worthwhile instrument, give me the words to use. I have the time and I think he has the time and the understanding, but I need the words. Was it too late for the words? Did he need them anyway? I know nothing about him, Olwen thought, except for his life here. She said, ‘I don’t really know. I don’t think we are meant to know. It would give us an unfair advantage. Perhaps it’s a sort of trick, Stephen – a very complicated trick, quite beyond us, and not necessarily hostile.’ Her eyes glistened and it needed a tremendous effort not to weep. ‘You could only try, my dear. Perhaps that’s what we have to do. And you were angry at the right things.’

  A trickle ran down from Taylor’s mouth. There was the smell of death in the room despite the open windows. Taylor seemed to accept her words. ‘Will you think about me?’ he asked. It was his last plea: there would be no one else to think of him, but that would not matter now.

  ‘I’ll think about you,’ Olwen said; the tears could not be checked; they flowed in silence.

  Taylor had turned with effort to look out of a window. Beyond the confines of the brick buildings and the perimeter fence was the world. The buses moved past too noisily and dirtily. The passengers stared out without humour or pity. Dust and grit blew newspapers about. There were ugly houses and lamp-posts to be seen in the hygienic glare of the sun. Unseen were the other, more disturbing things: the dive-bombers and the pulped meat of the recently killed; the fights for pig-swill in the prison compound; the ugly sound of rifle-butts on flesh; some girls at Le Havre who had given a disgusting exhibition of perverted and abandoned femininity; the raping of young people and the killing of old by men believed to be comrades; the relations who were afraid to visit this hospital; the long needle drawing the liquid and the doctor yawning at its ordinariness … It had been a bad world for him – no one believing in pity – but he did not wish to leave it. This nurse who was a child and a woman would never know what she had done. To tell her would necessitate revealing the other, ugly half of the world. Why inflict it on her? She had a wise innocence; it did not need horror and pain to persuade her that she was right. Someone had come out of the medical block and was crossing the lawn.

  ‘Sister’s coming,’ he said.

  ‘Then I must go,’ said Olwen.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, looking back to the starched apron, the rolled-up sleeves and the two gold safety-pins in the uniform, the rounded face and the startling hair. If one can believe in human beings one can believe in God; it had been the first step which he’d found so difficult. He was grateful for her tears. ‘I’ve got to go soon myself.’

  ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ Olwen said, and touching him briefly, she fled.

  He died in the night; someone else was with him; Olwen felt it as an act of unfaithfulness; she lay awake, knowing that death must be near to him, but at one o’clock in the morning she fell asleep. She did not hear the plea of his bell in the duty room and the trot of feet along those stone corridors; the frantic summoning of the doctor and the last, useless, choking struggle. Many of the patients awoke: it was like a prison at 9 am on the morning of an execution: everyone was in some way aware. They heard the feet and the urgent discussions, the screams of animals in the darkness of the grounds, but nothing of Taylor. Yet they knew that he, too, had died.

  Olwen came on duty, tired, afraid, exhausted already, to be greeted by someone who did not know about Stephen’s love with the comment that he was dead, out of his misery, and wasn’t it a good thing really, as there’d never been much hope? Olwen wept without explanation. Afterwards a revulsion set in. She knew a great longing to be free of sickness and fear. The war was long over, anyway, and the casualties buried. She thought about it for days, but once the idealism had been injured it became inevitable that she would leave. She was twenty-two years old and eager to live a normal life. Peggy was quite realistic about it. ‘Five quid a week!’ she said. ‘Grab it as quickly as you can.’ And once Olwen had set inquiries in motion Mrs Dawson could not make the arrangements quickly enough for her. They were made with all the urgency of a funeral.

  Chapter Four

  The bell rang, allowing cold, unsweetened spring air to flood into the hot sickliness of the shop. A few things trembled: flowers swayed in a vase, smiling faces on paper wavered like reflections in a distorted mirror, and one of these coiffured advertisements fell to the floor. There was no sound of voices – of course, Olwen realized, Mrs Harper is out. There were no appointments due; expecting the caller to be some woman who desired to arrange one, Olwen stepped out of a cubicle to see who had called. The visitor was a man. He carried a briefcase of good leather – five guineas, she thought; it must have cost at least that. The man was very well dressed: good shoes (another five guineas), a heavy overcoat (thirty guineas), a tweed suit, bottle-green trilby, gloves – why, she thought with a flicker of internal amusement, he must be worth a hundred pounds as he stands. It was then that she noticed that he was a youngish man, not the usual middle-aged traveller, and that in his military face was an equally analytical gleam. The man was standing there in a rather poised attitude and staring at Olwen as she approached. There was a very slight alteration in his expression as she neared him – a variation in the type of analysis – but it was too instantaneous for her to define what the alteration had been. She blushed slightly because her white overall was in use now for the third day and was a little shabby; furthermore, a strand of hair had fallen over her forehead. But as she reached him she could see that he regarded her with polite approval, though even this made her slightly uncomfortable.

  ‘Good morning,’ the man said. ‘Is the proprietress in?’

  The stare did not falter and even though it was polite it contained an intensity. The man was thirty-five, possibly less, had a fresh, boyish complexion, darkish, and large, sentimental brown eyes.

  Olwen said, ‘I’m sorry, but Mrs Harper is out until this afternoon.’

&n
bsp; ‘I’m from the Perfecta Soap Company,’ the man said. ‘We’re considering extending –’

  ‘I think you’d better see Mrs Harper,’ Olwen said. ‘Would it be any trouble to call again this afternoon?’

  ‘It will be a pleasure,’ he said.

  Olwen blushed mildly again and looked away. ‘I can’t guarantee that Mrs Harper will be –’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ the man said. He paused. ‘I’ll have some lunch while I wait. Can you suggest somewhere?’

  ‘There are a few cafés along the main road,’ Olwen said. She smiled. ‘They’re rather full of ladies. Are you in a car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there’s the Dragon,’ Olwen explained. ‘It’s about three miles along the main road towards Almond Vale.’

  ‘Is that where you go?’

  She blushed now in sheer embarrassment. ‘No.’

  ‘Would you care to?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That was an impertinence.’

  The words eased her embarrassment slightly. ‘It’s not that,’ she said, although it was. ‘I only have an hour.’

  ‘But if you went by car?’

  He had tricked her with words, but she wriggled still. ‘I go with a friend,’ she said untruthfully.

  ‘Bring your friend with you,’ he suggested. ‘I have to come back here, haven’t I?’

  ‘I don’t think I should,’ Olwen said. ‘I mean, I don’t know you.’

  ‘My name’s Harrison,’ he said. ‘Roy Harrison. I don’t know you either, of course, but how else can I ever know you? But I understand how you feel – indeed, I admire you for it … I don’t know what made me ask – it’s not a thing I’ve done before …’ He smiled with a stiff sort of affability. I’ll ask you some other day.’

  ‘You make me seem mean,’ Olwen said. ‘I don’t wish to be –’

  ‘Well, why not come?’ he said. ‘You know my name and company. It’s broad daylight. I shan’t eat you. You don’t need to come again.’

  Olwen laughed outright. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But I shan’t be able to meet you before one.’

  ‘Where shall I meet you? Here?’

  ‘No,’ said Olwen. ‘Not here.’

  ‘At the corner?’

  ‘All right. By the lights.’

  ‘Couldn’t I know your name?’

  ‘It’s Hughes.’

  ‘Please don’t think I make a habit of taking attractive customers to lunch, Miss Hughes. It’s just that –’ But he did not specify what it was. ‘I think you understand.’

  ‘I don’t really,’ Olwen said. ‘But you can explain it to me at lunch. You mustn’t think I go to lunch with representatives either …’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ Harrison said. ‘That was a reason why I asked you.’ He began to withdraw, resting a gloved hand on the door handle. ‘I hope I’ll see you at one o’clock.’

  Olwen went back into the cubicle, where an impatient customer flicked the pages of Vogue. She was slightly astonished at her own behaviour. Yet there was a certain amount of truth in what Harrison had said. There was no other way of meeting him. She hoped that she had made her refusals sufficiently strong and numerous to counter any implication that she was being ‘picked up’. But then, he was surely not that sort of man; there had been quite a distinguished calm about him, no impertinence. She felt a pang of apprehension at the idea of lunching at the Dragon. It was a hotel outside which large cars parked, where there were held expensive dances and other functions; where the women were more likely to be models than shop assistants and ex-nurses. It was not her world at all. It was not even a world she wished to enter.

  The man called Harrison was sitting in a small red sports car when Olwen approached the crossroads at one o’clock. He tooted the horn as Olwen neared. ‘Hello, Miss Hughes. I’m glad you decided to come after all.’

  ‘I very nearly didn’t.’

  ‘I’d have understood,’ he said, and smiled the controlled smile again. ‘But I’m so pleased that you did. I think we’re both a little surprised at our behaviour, but there’s no reason why two people shouldn’t lunch together, is there?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Olwen said. The explanations and apologies embarrassed her because she still felt some misgivings. She changed the subject. ‘What a nice little car.’

  ‘Not a bad little bus, is she?’ Harrison said. ‘Does over seventy. Hop in, Miss Hughes.’

  As there was no door, there could be no careful way of climbing in. She noticed that he glanced quickly at her legs as they were revealed; he did not stare, but after the quick glance looked completely away. It was a long time since she had been in a car, and the ride for that reason was enjoyable.

  Inside the assembly room of the Dragon were a score of people seated at about a dozen tables. Most were middle-aged businessmen, but a few thirtyish women were present, dressed with humiliating smartness. A handful of people were gathered at the bar, laughing among themselves. Harrison purchased Olwen a sherry without asking. ‘I know you’ll refuse to drink if I ask you,’ he said, ‘so I took the liberty of not asking. It’s a very good sherry. Straight from the laboratory,’ he concluded, and Olwen had to laugh with him.

  They ate slowly and talked in embarrassed gusts. Olwen was troubled now because, looking across the table at his attentive face, it was impossible to doubt that Harrison was married. Why, then, did he want to bring her to lunch? Was he a man who liked to be surrounded and admired by girls? She put nearly the whole thought into words: ‘Mr Harrison, you are married, aren’t you?’

  His complete poise seemed slightly penetrated. ‘What a curious question. How did you know?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t,’ Olwen said. ‘It was just that you seemed the sort of man who would be.’

  ‘I think I know what you wondered,’ he said. A long pause while he seemed to collect words. ‘You see, my wife is extremely ill.’ Olwen was unable to keep the concern from her face; if she acknowledged that one should stand by the marriage vows, perhaps even more did she believe that one should not desert the sick or ugly. Harrison seemed to understand this, for he explained at once, ‘Mentally ill, Miss Hughes.’ His large brown eyes stared mistily at a vase of flowers: always send flowers, perhaps he thought: or did he think of the dignity of wreaths? ‘I hoped for a long time that she would recover, but I was fooling myself. She’s a complete stranger, Miss Hughes, a madwoman, ugly in every way. She will never recover. But I’ve stood by the past that we shared until the moment I met you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Olwen said.

  Harrison paused for some time and then continued: ‘They give her another year. It was an injury, you see. I don’t like to talk about it … Look, Miss Hughes, we’ve known each other for an hour and a half, but I like you and I can’t disguise that. I saw you in that shop and for the first time in two years the agony ended. Evelyn went out of my mind – I don’t think I’ve really seen anyone for those two years. You see, in this way you have helped me. But let’s talk about you now. How did you come to be in a hairdresser’s shop?’ His tone and question implied that it was the wrong place to be: she did not belong: she should have been in an office or a library or parading in front of a camera: it was flattering, but snobbish …

  ‘I was a nurse,’ Olwen said. ‘About four years ago I nursed a man I liked. He died and a sort of revulsion set in. I had an offer – because of my hair, you see – and so when Stephen died –’

  ‘And that’s why you haven’t married?’

  Olwen looked away, not able to meet his eye. ‘I’ve met others since then, but never anyone –’

  ‘You see,’ Harrison explained, ‘I thought the same thing about you: that you seemed the sort of girl who would be. Naturally, although not entitled to, I wan
ted to know.’

  Olwen smiled. ‘Well, now you know everything.’

  ‘Oh, no, not everything,’ he said persuasively. ‘I don’t know your Christian name.’

  ‘You’re not really entitled to know it.’ She added shyly, ‘It’s Olwen.’

  ‘What an unusual name,’ Harrison said. ‘Names always are appropriate, don’t you agree? They always fit. My wife was beautiful, too. Her name is Evelyn.’

  ‘It is a nice name.’

  ‘It fitted her so well. But not now … You must come from Wales, Miss Hughes.’

  ‘My parents are still there.’

  ‘Then you live alone?’

  ‘No,’ said Olwen. ‘With another girl, Hazel. She shares a room with me.’

  ‘Is she a hairdresser?’

  ‘No. She’s a bus conductress. Rooms are very expensive, you see, so I agreed to share one.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Harrison, ‘it’s company. I know what loneliness is like.’

  When they left the hotel a quarter of an hour later, he said to her: ‘Miss Hughes, I have enjoyed your company. May I meet you again? I’ll accept any terms you wish to make.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Olwen. ‘Do you really want to?’

  ‘I do,’ Harrison said. ‘There’s nothing frivolous about me. Look, tell me what you’ve decided when I come to see your employer this afternoon.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Olwen said. ‘Mrs Harper would be angry if she knew that I had come here with you.’

  ‘Do you think I should call on her at all? Would it embarrass you?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better not.’