by James Barlow
It wouldn’t have happened at all but for the weather. I suppose life and death and the other things hang on threads like the weather, a word, a glance, which end of the street the postman starts at, whom Providence places as your neighbours and friends … Today the weather was perfect: a completely blue sky, and out of the breeze, the sun as warm as summer. I do not know where we went to – although we are now able to label a few places as belonging to us. We were quite alone in a field that sloped, from the top of which we could see the lane winding back to the small red car and, miles away, a railway train.
R. had asked me to bring cups and plates. Everything else he brought: there were sandwiches, cakes, cherries, strawberries, two flasks of tea, and ice-cream in a third; finally, a bottle of sherry for when the sun went down and the chilly evening came. I don’t know how R. crammed it all into the car. We just talked in the sunshine and then R. loved me. We were in a hollow as warm as an oven. He whispered such gentle explanations and love to me that I began to forget everything slowly – everything in the world except him. But even when the other things had gone – awareness, memory and much of conscience – and there was only his face and eyes and pleading words I tried to refuse. ‘But we’re going to be married, aren’t we?’ R. asked. ‘Must we wait for a bit of paper before we’re sure that your God approves of our love? Olwen, we’ve so long to wait.’ I tried to be calm. ‘Do you mean you want to marry me?’ His hands were already exploring and I, becoming clay for his hands to mould in whatever way they willed, knew that I wanted all of him. Calmness and logic were impossible and to refuse his love insulting. I’ve refused for so long and he has been so patient. Perhaps all men really do it. Perhaps Tom does despite his anger. R. said, ‘Of course I intend and long to marry you.’ (Oh, such words ! ) ‘So what’s the harm?’ And I just looked at him, made a quick prayer and let myself go; he knew it and whispered, ‘Darling, I knew you would!’ He was a little violent (he bit my shoulder), but I was in such a state I didn’t mind any pain. Poor Evelyn, and yet she must have known it once … Oh, God, don’t be angry with me because I love him. I love You too …
Tuesday, June 28th.
It was stifling in the shop today. I was glad to have the afternoon off because of that, apart from the agony of meeting R. We were very busy this morning and I had a curious dizzy spell; I thought I was going to faint. Mrs H. made me sit down for a while; she was quite apologetic and told me to slow down a bit. As if hairdressing was half as strenuous as nursing! It must have been the heat. All this wonderful weather will lead up to the most terrific storm. I only hope it doesn’t come on a day when I meet R.
He had another un-birthday present today – some black stockings. Insisted that I put them on straight away, although they didn’t match my costume at all; I had to go to the Ladies’ in the Dragon; did feel a fool. The agony, I wrote accidentally, but it is true: a kind of frenzy. We are like the weather – the gentleness of spring has gone and the hot blast of summer is too much for me sometimes: I want the spring back. I would never have thought that anyone could get me into such a state. R. delights in loving me until I’m slightly insane with longing – longing and dejection. For how sensual he is! Doesn’t he love my heart any more? Do your hair this way, he says; then do it that way. Wear silk stockings. Wear nylons. Wear net stockings. Wear black undies, blue undies, green undies … Oh, Roy, can’t you reach the zenith of sensuality and pass beyond it to the real me? I sometimes cry, but heaven knows what about. I’m sure love could never have been like this for E., who, R. tells me, was always nervous and thin. Is that why he delights so much in the physical part of our love? Not that I don’t share it; I am a healthy beast; God forgive me for it. I think I see now why there has to be pain in the world, and wait for mine in despairing enjoyment.
I am happy, but not at all satisfied. Everyone seems different when one’s in love: not nicer, but slightly hostile. Perhaps it’s because I have to lie. I can’t even tell dear Hazel all of it, and sometimes when I evade her more direct questions she looks at me in something like resentment. It’s the same with the two girls at work. They seem jealous because I’m so obviously in a world of my own. Perhaps people resent genuine happiness because there is so little of it. It makes me feel so absolutely alone. Perhaps I’m not so happy as I thought. There is not one single person who knows all about us. I’ve been home to Wales twice since I met him, but it was subtly different. I had to be on guard against those who, loving me possessively, wanted to hear about my every activity. I must write to Peggy, and tell her all about it. She’s the one person who would understand.
Friday, July 1st.
I wrote to Peggy and she came tonight. It had been months since her last visit, and I was so pleased to see her. But not for long. She said the change in me was startling – I was fatter, rosier, and have a certain look in my eye. I told her what had caused it, and instead of sharing my joy Peggy was angry. I burst into tears, but she was relentless. Why should she criticize me after the things she’s done? We drank our bottles of beer and smoked our cigarettes and were almost silent. Then she tried to lecture me: a bit of fun’s a bit of fun, but what you’re doing is dangerous, etc. I told her it wasn’t just amusing to us and questioned her own behaviour. She waved that aside – it didn’t matter! – and pleaded with me. It was awful. When she left I had to beg her not to write to Mama. She just looked at me and said, ‘Doesn’t that prove exactly what I’ve been saying?’ It was hopeless – she just didn’t want to understand. I shall cry myself to sleep. Now R. and I are absolutely alone.
Tuesday, July 5th.
Just as I thought. The storm broke today, almost at the moment I left the shop. We had to go to the pictures, the first time for weeks. It was rather nice really just to sit and hold hands. He loved on my original terms of tenderness for a few hours. The rain was still heavy when we came out, but the thunder had stopped. I was glad, because I’m scared of it. In the evening R. drove for miles and miles. I’m sure he was looking for somewhere dry, but there was nowhere. In the dusk he turned into a lane and we stayed in the car. Then we lived on his terms, despite the discomfort, until we were both tired. There was a leak in the hood, but he took no notice. He never does.
Tuesday, July 12th.
I was ill again this morning. There can be no doubt now. I could scarcely breathe I was so afraid. I wish I had someone to talk to. And I wish so much that I had told Mama about R. How am I going to do it now and convince her that it’s beautiful? She will be unhappy, and Dada and Tom will be angry.
What I am really afraid of is losing R. I do not mind the baby. I shall love it because it’s the fruit of our love. But I can’t imagine R. being anything at all except gallant and passionate. He loves me (and love itself) so much that he might be angry at the possibility of a third part of our lives. He despises the humdrum, everyday things. And even if E. died today – she’s terribly ill, R. says; he has that worry already – our marriage would be uncomfortably soon after her funeral.
Tuesday, July 19th.
I intended to tell R. last week, but didn’t; I wanted to again today but did not dare. He was so full of things in opposition to the ordinary. I am reluctant to take the chance of losing or even altering my happiness. But now there’s no doubt and he will have to be told. I wonder why I’m so scared as well as so worried? Perhaps he will be delighted. It would be what we intended after our marriage, so why not before? At least the world doesn’t pour scorn on people like us today. We are bound to make a few people unhappy, and because they are unhappy we are sure to be affected and upset too, no matter how enormous our love is.
We went to that little spot on which we made love for the first time that day in the spring. In the same hollow the sun was warmer than before – my legs are brown. I asked R. to be gentle – it was impossible to stop him altogether – and he was slow and tender. Because I was not in such a state as usual I was detache
d and able to watch R. in his happiness. How he looks at me in his excitement! That was when I should have told him. Funny the way that little vein throbs at the side of his head. The excitement, I suppose.
Monday, July 25th.
Tomorrow we are going to Almond Vale and I must tell R. It is every day now and I should leave work. I think I will give Mrs H. notice tomorrow, and if, when I’ve told him, R. is angry, then I can leave the week’s money and go straight home. I don’t know why I should even imagine he might be angry and refuse his responsibility – my health makes me slightly odd, I suppose – but if he did I want the relief of going home to Wales. They would forgive me in their love. Oh, God, forgive me too. Don’t be angry. Don’t take him away altogether. I know that what I’ve done is terribly wrong, because it’s an enjoyable sin and the most tempting (and knowing that it is adds to my guilt). But I haven’t hurt anybody, and I won’t give my baby away. Not even for him …
Chapter Six
Tuesday, the twenty-sixth day of July, was, in Birlchester, one of those cloud-covered, sultry, exhausting days on which world wars commence, violent quarrels flare up and even the mildest of people have irritable headaches. At the seaside the same temperature applied, but its humidity was absent and the heat was relieved by a sea breeze. Old ladies were able to have a light breakfast, move to the promenade in coats and with small dogs, and even complain of the cold chill in the air. Younger ladies, without coats, indeed without much clothing at all, were able, after a refreshing sleep, to contemplate the violent activities of tennis and swimming. In the lifeless air of the industrial city things were different. There was no breeze, for there was no atmosphere; nobody had slept well: in the moist, oppressive glare of morning even the nicest girls found that they were sweating, and contemplated a day’s work at a typewriter with solemn irritation. It was a day on which one was defeated before one began; it was yet another indictment of the industrial way of life.
Olwen Hughes, twenty-six years and six weeks old, five foot six inches tall, nine stone seven pounds in weight, blue eyes, auburn hair, medium build, IQ adequate, emotional Protestant, trained sanatoria nurse, trained hair-stylist, moles on left arm and right shoulder, unmarried, more than two months pregnant, had slept badly and in short patches during the steamy night. She had dropped off to sleep several times, only to awake sweating and to kick off the blankets and sheet; falling asleep again each time without their cover, she had reawakened later shivering. She stepped out of bed, slightly miserable, as usual burdened with the unhappiness of her particular sin, aware that this was not going to be a pleasant day. Work in the sweet, overpowering, sickly atmosphere of the hairdressing salon had to be followed by an explanation to Roy that he was going to be a father. Inevitably there was going to be unhappiness in the day. The time of happiness was passing; that of responsibility, and perhaps punishment, approaching. Olwen drank some cold water and fought off the desire to be sick. Hazel, whose day sometimes started as early as five-thirty, had already left. Olwen ate a small breakfast of corn flakes in milk, some bread and butter, drank two cups of tea and then trod downstairs. A letter had arrived for her from Wales. She read it, sitting on the stairs in slight dizziness, scanning the innocent, unaware words of her mother. That was another agony to be endured and inflicted. Her mother had not heard from Olwen for two weeks; she was not complaining, only pleading to hear. Olwen was moved to the first emotion of the day beyond the slight grip of horror in which she had awakened. At that moment she felt absolutely no emotion towards the man called Roy Harrison; she knew she would later in the day and in his presence, but at the moment she was filled with a longing for the love without complications of her mother: it could be relied on to forgive, even to plead with others to forgive.
Mrs Wilson appeared along the tiled hall. ‘Hello, Olwen dear. The post has come?’
‘A letter from my mother.’
‘Nothing for me?’
‘No, Mrs Wilson.’
‘Ah, well, no bills either. It’s going to be hot again.’
‘I didn’t sleep well.’
‘Nor me. You look a bit pale.’
I’m a little miserable today,’ Olwen said. ‘Something in the letter. And I didn’t sleep much.’
‘Conscience, I expect,’ said Mrs Wilson.
Olwen stared at her. ‘That and the heat,’ she agreed, and walked slowly to the door. ‘I wish I could go to Wales today, Mrs Wilson, if you’ll forgive me saying so.’
‘You’ll go for the Bank Holiday?’
‘Yes. Perhaps before. G’bye, Mrs Wilson, dear.’
Olwen walked the half-mile to Olga Harper’s shop at a leisurely pace. The air was already warm and dusty; bus tickets and scraps of paper swirled in the gutters at the passing of each vehicle. Men stared at Olwen as she walked, slowly and deep in thought, along the pavements: stared at the auburn hair, the gentle face and the swelling breasts, and then turned again to the headlines of their papers. It had been a quiet twenty-four hours; not much had happened to upset them. A famous person had died of senility. Someone (in America, of course) had married someone else who possessed sixty billion dollars. A film was being made of another pornographic novel. A Communist had escaped to become a Catholic; a Catholic had decided to become a Buddhist; a famous politician had gone right over to the opposite Party. A jet fighter had blown up and its pilot had been killed. A man with a piece of wood had struck at a leather ball all day to the exasperation of at least half a county. A famous person had said that the times were difficult. An actor had been accused of homosexuality with another actor. An actress with three children had in the Divorce Court admitted adultery with four men. Rain with thunder was expected in London and the southern counties. In the Midlands it would continue close, possibly with thunder during the night.
At ten-thirty, between two hairdressing appointments, Olwen said to Mrs Harper, ‘May I speak to you?’
‘Speak on,’ said Mrs Harper. She lighted a cigarette and puffed smoke furiously. ‘My God, what an airless sort of day.’
‘Privately,’ Olwen requested, blushing slightly.
There were two girls standing near, sipping drinks of tea rapidly. They stared curiously as Olwen made her request. They did not know or understand Olwen very well: she was not talkative; she was interested but not excited by films; she set an example of hard work which they reluctantly had to follow; altogether, it seemed to them, she fancied herself to be a cut above them.
‘All right,’ said Mrs Harper, and led the way into a small partitioned part – the office. As she closed the door behind them she asked, ‘What’s up?’
‘Mrs Harper, I want to leave.’
‘Oh, God, no, not you, Olwen.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Olwen.
‘But why?’ asked Mrs Harper. The first suspicion entered her mind. ‘You’ve had a better offer? You’re going into the city centre?’
‘No. I just want to go home.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ protested Mrs Harper. ‘I’d like to go to bed for a week. Got family trouble or something?’
Olwen blushed deeply, at first misunderstanding her question. ‘Something like that.’
‘It’s a bit bloody rough on me,’ complained Mrs Harper. ‘Those two sluts won’t do a stroke if I’m not here. Can’t you wait a few weeks until I get somebody?’
Olwen shook her head. ‘No.’
‘You’ll stay until the holiday?’ It was ten days off.
‘Of course.’
Mrs Harper had been thinking, which meant thinking about herself. ‘You’ll have to do this afternoon. You can’t have that if I’ve got to go and look all over the place –’
‘I can’t stay this afternoon.’
The gash mouth twisted. ‘You want it all your own way, don’t you?’
‘I would,’ Olwen said, ‘but I have something te
rribly important to do this afternoon.’
‘Important!’ sneered Mrs Harper. ‘Well, don’t come asking for references, that’s all. If anyone lets me down –’
‘I don’t want any references,’ Olwen said. She began to move to the door.
‘Wait a minute!’ Mrs Harper said. She was obviously angry. It was because she saw that she was unable to hurt Olwen; and this indicated how unimportant the job at Olga’s had been to Olwen; it implied a snub at Mrs Harper herself. For a moment Mrs Harper had seen her importance in another’s perspective. She picked up an exercise book, flicked its pages and then said loudly, ‘I can do your appointments for the next week. I don’t want anyone here who doesn’t want to be here. How do I know what you’d whisper in customers’ ears?’
‘Mrs Harper, you know –’
‘Spare me the righteous indignation,’ Mrs Harper rasped, exultant at the sudden blush and the glistening in Olwen’s eyes. I’m a business woman. Here’s a week’s money. Goodbye, Miss Hughes. See if you can get six ten a week elsewhere.’