by James Barlow
Mrs Burgess, as at first I had to call her, came to the travel agency in October, 1939. Her husband was understood to be a major who had been called to duty with the Territorial Army the month before. She had been a model until a few years previously, and I was able to dig out photographs of her from magazines – very interesting they were, too – long before I knew her. She was thirty-three, but looked ten years younger. Her arrival created a minor sensation, but within two weeks she was accepted by those clerks who had not yet been called up.
I awaited my call-up with indifference, certainly not with enthusiasm. Six feet tall, twenty years old but looking more, full of confidence but able to hide it, I had yet to seduce a married woman. Marriage seemed to me automatically to turn a woman ugly, but, looking at Myrel Burgess, I knew that the only thing to hold me back would be fear of any consequences. My confidence evaporated somewhat when she took not the slightest notice of me; indeed, she took not the smallest notice of anyone beyond what her work required. She was tall, slim and dressed in quiet perfection. To some she might even appear thin, and she did nothing with her clothes to show a sensual appearance, yet I knew from the photographs that her shoulders were perfect, and although her breasts were small she had long, heavy thighs. Her face was the most beautiful I have ever seen: it was the pride in the face that one wanted to humiliate. She had a gracefully-shaped head; she could wear earrings effectively; her hair was black, and even the spectacle of the back of her head excited me. She appeared sculptured, indifferent and slightly arrogant: it was impossible to imagine her being silly or prosaic or crude: I wanted her in something akin to anger: she was a challenge.
Mrs Burgess read a lot, and one day I commented on a book. ‘Oh, you’d like it,’ she told me. ‘It’s just the thing for a young man.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘The war.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘the war.’
‘You don’t feel strongly about the war?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘My husband’s in the Army,’ Mrs Burgess said. ‘I have to feel strongly about it.’
‘I suppose you think I ought to be in the Army.’
‘No.’
‘But if your husband ought to be …’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You implied it.’
‘I didn’t imply it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m saying the wrong things.’
‘You’re not.’
‘Well, I don’t feel I dare say any more.’
‘I know you daren’t,’ she said. ‘You mean that the only other possible implication is that I don’t want my husband home. Well, I don’t …’
‘Then I have said the wrong thing.’
‘Not at all,’ Mrs Burgess said. ‘I’m sure you won’t shout it round the office. We’re not very happy. It’s quite a common experience, I believe. You really must read the novel,’ she concluded, dropping the subject.
I did – that same day; and I would have commented on it during the following day, but in the morning a naval officer entered the agency and asked to see Mrs Burgess. After a rapid consultation with the manager, Mrs Burgess left the office with the officer and did not return that day.
The next day I asked her to lunch.
She did not bat an eyelid, and neither refused nor accepted. ‘Where do you go?’ she asked.
I told her and she inquired, ‘Is the food good?’
‘It’s quite passable,’ I said.
‘Then I’ll come,’ she said. ‘Shall I meet you outside?’
I said evenly, ‘We can go farther afield if you prefer.’
‘We haven’t the time,’ she said. ‘Besides, why should we?’
There was no answer to that without some admission of my motives; and I had to learn more about her before I could speak of those.
And in the middle of lunch she seemed to have read my mind, for she said abruptly, ‘What are your motives?’
I was shaken. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, what do you live for?’
I wanted to give an answer which would please her, but, looking into her calm blue eyes, I could not fathom the workings of her mind. ‘I live for the sake of living,’ I said truthfully.
‘Are you happy that way?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘I don’t think I’ve been happy since I was a child,’ she said.
‘But you have everything …’
She sighed. ‘Oh, yes, everything …’
‘You don’t have to be modest,’ I said, ‘and I know you’re not a fool. You must know you’re beautiful. You seem to have money. You’re not ill, are you?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Perhaps if I had less. Surely there’s something.’
‘Something?’
‘Some point in all this – life.’
‘Whatever it is, I don’t expect anyone’s found it,’ I said, and laughed with all the charm I could. ‘There’s a war on. Seize the life and squeeze the pleasure out of it before it’s knocked out of your hand.’
‘Is that what you do, Roy?’
I turned on the modesty, the shyness, the boyishness. ‘I’m afraid I do. You know, don’t you, that I’m only twenty?’
‘And I’m thirty-three,’ she said. ‘I wonder why I tell you that?’
‘You know that I like you,’ I said candidly.
Mrs Burgess moistened her lips. ‘I’m a serious sort of person, Roy,’ she said. ‘I’m not a flirt or anything like that.’
‘I know,’ I said, and then smiled again. ‘You know, you had me badly frightened with that naval officer of yours.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, Alex. He’s my brother.’
Outside on the pavement, before we separated, she touched my hand. ‘Don’t get called up too soon, will you, Roy?’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want that.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t want it either. Mrs Burgess, what’s your name?’
‘It’s Myrel,’ she said, and touched my hand again, this time in caution. ‘But not in the office …’
I took her to the restaurant on the next day, but she was distant, cold, barely civil; she ended by paying for her own lunch. She remained the same for several days until I asked over lunch, ‘Myrel, what’s the matter? Would you like me to leave you alone?’
‘No,’ she said, smiling tenderly. ‘That’s the difficulty. I’m having conscience trouble, that’s all. It’s not doing my digestion much good.’
‘You still love your husband?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m quite fond of Basil, but I don’t love him.’
‘Then what is it?’
She said with difficulty, ‘Well, I still believe in marriage.’
‘Why not?’ I smiled. ‘It’s an admirable institution.’
‘It’s part of an admirable institution,’ she said slowly. At the time I didn’t know what she meant, but it must have been all this religious stuff. ‘Roy, there’s a rather special dance at the Regal Hotel tomorrow night,’ she went on quickly. ‘It’s in aid of something. Will you take me?’
I gasped. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Well, that’s settled then,’ she said. ‘No reason why two people shouldn’t dance, is there?’
And, of course, there isn’t. But in the middle of the evening Myrel said, ‘Oh, God, Roy, I feel miserable. Take me home.’
‘I’ll get a taxi,’ I said.
In the taxi I held her hand and then caressed her because she was weeping. It was touching to see such a flawless, calm, beautiful woman trembling, but I knew my victory might be near: hysteria in women presages surrender or a quarrel. In tenderness I asked about her health, the possibility of a chill or a
headache, and explored all other avenues until it was obvious her trouble was merely love or conscience or both. ‘I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,’ I said. ‘Like a model.’
She was tender after her tears and in the face of the compliment: after all, she was thirty-three. ‘Do you?’ she whispered – it occurred to me that she was merely nervous in anticipation. ‘How far have you been looking for beautiful women? Wigan? Exeter? Monte Carlo? Day returns to Colwyn Bay? Didn’t you know I’d been a model?’
‘What made you give it up?’ I asked, and she smiled at the ‘unintentional’ compliment.
She lived in an impressive block of flats. ‘How cold it is,’ she said inside. ‘Turn the gas-fire on, Roy, while I make a drink.’ When she returned from the kitchen she said, ‘Guess what this is?’ I stared at the drinks and she answered herself: ‘It’s cocoa. No drunken orgies in my flat.’
Myrel had a small bottle in one hand. She shook out two tablets on to the palm of the other.
‘What are those?’ I asked.
‘My good-night pills.’
I took them from her quickly. ‘Please don’t take them yet,’ I insisted.
She stared at me plaintively: impossible to know what thoughts were behind the pointed face. ‘You mean you want to stay the night?’
I actually blushed. ‘I can’t stay all night. You know I’m only twenty. My parents-’
‘Never mind about your parents,’ Myrel said. ‘What about you? I can’t understand you …’
I attempted to embrace her, but she resisted. ‘I love you,’ I said.
She stared into my eyes so that I had to turn away. ‘Does anybody really love anyone else at your age except themselves?’ she asked. ‘It takes years of practice to forget self.’ (She always talked like this; she read too many books for an ex-model; she was an odd mixture of sex appeal and blue-stocking.) ‘You’re too confident,’ she explained. ‘You act as if you’re quite used to entering flats with married women while their husbands are away in the Army.’ Her bitterness was unjustified, for the invitation had been hers.
‘I’m not a love-sick school-kid,’ I said. ‘Why shouldn’t I enter your flat, anyway? You asked me, didn’t you? We’re having a cup of cocoa, aren’t we?’
Her laughter was out of proportion to my humour. I seized her by the shoulders and found that she was trembling. ‘What do you bother me for?’ she said. ‘You don’t care about me. You admire yourself.’
‘I do love you,’ I said. ‘I’m dizzy with it. I couldn’t be drunk on cocoa, could I?’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Myrel, it’s true,’ I pleaded. ‘What do I have to do to prove it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, and seemed suddenly to collapse in surrender. ‘Don’t take any notice of me. My husband says I’m neurotic.’
‘Then he doesn’t love you.’
‘Then, can I drop my obligations?’ she asked, more to herself than me.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh, you fool,’ she said. ‘You’ve no wisdom at all. You’re going to learn it at the end, not the beginning. I’m talking about my conscience and the institution of marriage.’
But when I carried her limp body into a bedroom I found a gas-fire already burning.
I left two hours later and walked along the cold pavements in the utter darkness thinking about her. Never had I known anyone like her. What I had previously enjoyed as a game, a bit of fun you could, with persuasion, inflict on fools in the back of a car, Myrel promoted into a turbulence of such intensity that I was exhausted. I saw that with application it was a new way for me to enjoy the game. But one must remain slightly detached, aware of the silly incongruities that occur before and after passion; one must never become emotionally involved, like Myrel, or one was lost in surrender to one person. To induce that utter abandonment has since then given me the main pleasure; and when one induces it in a creature of inhibitions and credulities like Olwen, then one approaches ecstasy.
Myrel had given me a key. ‘Come at any time,’ she said. When I explained that to be away from home overnight would be difficult she said, ‘Then come on Sunday mornings. It’s not as if we go to church any more, is it?’
I climbed the steps to her flat one bright Saturday, carrying a suitcase, ready to repeat for the fourth time a manoeuvre which had succeeded thrice before. This was simply to inform my parents that I had gone to see Blake in Wiltshire; apprise Blake of the manoeuvre; obtain the train fare from my parents, and then walk two miles and spend the weekend with Myrel!
Inside the hall of the flat I recoiled at the sight of a khaki greatcoat which was hanging there. I was on my way out when a man’s voice boomed, ‘Why, come in, my good fellow. I was half-expecting you.’
It was, of course, Basil – the first and only time a husband ever caught me! ‘How do you do?’ I said. ‘I just called because I thought Mrs Burgess might care to accompany me to a dance.’
Basil was a tall, beefy Army officer, thirty-fivish, who looked much too unpleasant to be the husband of someone like Myrel.
‘Come in, Roy,’ Myrel’s voice called. Then, as we came into the flat, she continued, calmly enough, ‘No dancing, I’m afraid, Roy. Basil’s only forty-eight hours.’
‘Unexpectedly,’ said Basil, ‘An unexpected forty-eight hours.’
‘This is Roy,’ said Myrel. ‘We work together.’
‘Quite,’ said Basil. ‘I appreciated that instantly.’
‘Where are you stationed?’ I asked.
The attempt at civil conversation had to be made. The man could not possibly know what had been going on for the last five months. He might suspect a few cinema shows, a kiss under the mistletoe at the office party, but nothing more. Nobody, I felt sure, looking at the quiet, poised Myrel, could imagine the agonies she was capable of – perhaps not even this man.
‘Oh, I can’t tell you that,’ said Basil. ‘You might be the enemy. Somewhere in England. I may be going abroad soon; skiing, they tell me.’
‘How nice for you,’ drawled Myrel. ‘You always were good at that.’
‘Skiing?’ I queried. ‘Why?’
‘God knows why,’ said Basil. ‘You mean where, don’t you? Don’t you read the papers?’
‘Oh, you mean Finland.’
‘I mean Norway,’ said Basil. ‘How deeply you must be in love. I know exactly how you feel. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? So poised on all occasions.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Myrel.
‘I expect you want to know where you stand,’ said Basil.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said.
‘I’m an Army officer,’ said Basil. ‘Know the facts of life. You wish to marry Myrel, don’t you?’
‘Basil, don’t be tiresome,’ said Myrel.
‘If you want to marry her, that’s all right,’ said Basil. ‘Won’t stand in your way. Wait a little while and I may be killed. You can do it honourably then …’
‘Oh, God,’ said Myrel. ‘All this repertory because we have lunch together.’
‘We haven’t much time,’ said Basil. ‘I’ve only forty-eight hours. Let’s skip the preliminary lies and get down to cases. Suitcases, in fact. Be so good as to open the suitcase, will you?’
‘What for?’ I asked.
‘If it doesn’t contain what I think it does, then this is ridiculous.’
‘It contains pyjamas,’ I said. ‘After the dance I’m staying at an hotel.’
‘Sorry,’ said Basil. He turned to Myrel. ‘I really am sorry. I would like to have been ridiculous. Now, where shall we go?’
‘What for?’ I asked.
His pose of cynical disinterest dropped. ‘What the hell d’you think? I’m going to
knock your smug face in …’
He was jumping to conclusions without proofs, so I prolonged the bluff to the very end. I pretended to appeal to Myrel: ‘Tell him he’s mistaken.’
‘God!’ said Basil. ‘A coward too. Myrel, you’re an awful fool.’
She was weeping. ‘I tried very hard,’ she said between sobs. ‘I didn’t want to. Don’t hurt him, Basil.’
I said, ‘We’ll soon see who’s the coward.’ I was taller, but the officer was heavier. It was a brief, humiliating fight which took place in the hall out of Myrel’s sight. I was only a kid and I thought officers were gentlemen; but Basil’s first blow was well below the belt and I was in agony. After that Basil could do as he liked. Quite early in the mêlée I forgot where I was. I could hear Basil grunting and cursing, but was conscious mainly of the pain. I staggered slowly to a corner and refused to fight: it was the only thing to do: he might have injured me permanently. He felt a real hero, shouted, ‘Get out!’ and, swallowing blood, I found myself crawling down to the street.
Hours later, after I’d cleaned up at the railway station and had a few drinks, Myrel came to our house. Fortunately, I answered the door. She stood in the hall, pale, beautiful, and, for the only time that I knew of, untidy. We did not touch each other, but stood like strangers a few feet apart.
Myrel said, ‘He’s gone back.’