Swan River

by David Reynolds

  We ordered wine, and slow music played quietly as we smoked and talked. She told me about her father. He was quite old – though years younger than mine – and she was an only child; he worried about her and she had had to fight to leave home and live with Kate in London.

  ‘He disapproves of me.’ A small wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. ‘He thinks all these terrible things – that I stay up too late, drink too much… ’ – she waved a hand in the air – ‘…smoke too much, go to all-night parties, have thousands of boyfriends.’ She lit a cigarette, looked at the floor and shook her head. ‘Some of it’s true, of course… ’ – she looked up and touched my wrist – ‘…but not the boyfriends.’ She put her hand over mine where it lay on the table and looked down at the menu.

  I stared at her – examining her face, searching for an expression – and turned my hand over under hers so that I could feel her fingers. The black ribbon was pulling long blonde tresses away from her face to somewhere behind her ears, and hair was falling forward on to her collar bones. She looked up at me blankly – perhaps curiously. I wanted to lean across and kiss her, but instead I picked up a fork, tried to grin casually and looked down. She let go of my hand and half turned in her seat. The ribbon was velvet; its ends were cut at an angle and trailed over the hair that fell down her back.

  The place became busier and noisier; every table was occupied and waitresses dressed in black were taking orders. I copied Bonnie and ordered avocado; I had heard of them but I had never seen one. We talked about Blow Up and Dr Zhivago and Bonnie said that I must see Un Homme et Une Femme because it was ‘beautiful and romantic’. She tasted her avocado and said it was perfect; mine tasted like mushy peas mixed with oil and vinegar, but I did what she did and scraped every scrap from the skin.

  We danced while we waited for the main course to arrive. The floor was small and there were two or three other couples moving stiffly in an inhibited, early-evening way. The deejay, a man in a Donovan cap under a light at the back of the room, put on ‘Good Vibrations’. Bonnie put her mouth to my ear. ‘Our song.’ She laughed, and jerked and swayed; her tights were transparent and her legs were slim and pale. As we went back to our table, heads and eyes followed her – and one or two men glanced at me.

  We finished the wine with the main course, ordered another glass each and danced again. The music grew louder and shafts of coloured light roved the room like wartime searchlights. We danced on and when we weren’t dancing we consumed chocolate mousse, more wine, cigarettes, coffee, and Cointreau – something else I had only heard of – and talked excitedly about how to change the world by spreading peace and love, and by working towards an environment where people could find their uninhibited, creative selves. We were interrupted by a woman selling red roses – I bought one for Bonnie – and again by an itinerant photographer whom I paid to take our picture, with artificial grins and hands clasped across the table.

  Later, the lights and the music were slower – the Walker Brothers and Dusty Springfield. We drank water with our Cointreau and danced cheek to cheek. I could feel Bonnie’s thighs shifting gently against mine; I wondered whether to kiss her, but her head was resting on my shoulder and she seemed dreamy and content.

  We left at three o’clock. It was raining and we stood under the awning outside. Bonnie waved at a taxi which didn’t stop and I thought hazily about where I could get a night bus back to Chelsea. A taxi pulled over and Bonnie leaned in and spoke to the driver. I badly wanted to kiss her goodbye. She turned with her hand on the door. ‘Do you want to come back?’ She smiled and climbed in. I followed.

  The windows were opaque with condensation. She put her arm through mine and gripped my hand. I sat back, wondering and apprehensive. What was in her mind? She lived in Highgate, a part of London I had never been to and knew nothing about except that it was miles north. She knew I lived in Chelsea. How would I get back from Highgate later? This was our first date, so she couldn’t be inviting me to stay; if she was, she must like me and have an idea that it would be fun to have breakfast together and maybe go for a walk in the morning.

  I had never been in a taxi with anyone other than my mother and grandmother. As it swung round a corner, Bonnie fell against me and somehow we started kissing. Her tongue was smooth and sugary and the kissing went on and on until eventually I looked up. The taxi was moving fast through traffic lights, windscreen wipers slapping from side to side. I could see the driver’s eyes in the mirror and felt embarrassed; what would he think – these people who weren’t able to stop kissing each other? I turned back to Bonnie.

  Minutes later, she sat up and called directions to the driver. I wiped the window and glimpsed a privet hedge and a red door. The taxi stopped. We were on a hill.

  The driver gave me a big smile as he drove off. Bonnie put a finger to her lips, unlocked the red door and led me across a hall. There were rugs and pictures; it seemed like a normal house but she opened another door with a key. She put her finger to her lips again and signalled that I should follow her; we tiptoed across a dark room and through another door; she closed it behind her and clicked the light on. We were in a small kitchen.

  ‘Kate’s asleep in there.’ She whispered and pointed to the room we had just crossed. ‘There’s only one room and this, and a loo outside. Kate and I share a bed.’ I must have looked startled. She took hold of my chin and shook it. ‘We sleep head to toe – I’ll make you a bed on the floor. Kate’s going out early. Then you can come in with me and get comfortable.’ She shook my chin again, but more gently. ‘Don’t look so worried.’

  * * * * *

  With my eyes closed, I lay on a thin piece of foam listening to the steady breathing of two women. The floor was hard, and I was cold even though Bonnie had tucked blankets around me and spread an eiderdown over them. I had been awake for twenty-four hours but couldn’t sleep. My brain shifted randomly, out of my control, from memory to memory, image to image: Bonnie’s beautiful hair, the Indica bookshop, Louise’s hand on an eggshell, Bonnie’s serious face as she talked about her father, Bonnie smiling as she danced. I opened my eyes and, in time, found I could see the dim shapes of a table, an armchair and, on the other side of the room, a bed; it was large with the long side against the wall.

  I was wearing my shirt and pants. My other clothes were on the armchair. I got up quietly, put my socks back on and spread my donkey jacket over the eiderdown. I lay down and still felt cold. I wondered how long it would be before Kate went out. I could get warm then and sleep for a bit, perhaps cuddled up to Bonnie, before we got up and had breakfast – or lunch, depending what time it was.

  I was lying on my side facing the wall; someone was moving about. I opened my eyes; I must have been asleep. It would be Kate. I shut my eyes again to avoid the embarrassment of having to say hello to her. She went into the kitchen and I could hear her washing and brushing her teeth, a kettle boiling and a door opening and closing. She came quietly in and out of the room two or three times, dressing and drinking coffee. There was a long silence when I thought perhaps she had gone without my hearing the door, but there were more sounds – a zip and hair being brushed very thoroughly. Finally, the door to the hall opened and closed.

  I waited a minute or two before opening my eyes and turning over. I heard Bonnie moving. ‘Come in and get warm… Get Kate’s pillow… and tuck in the blankets.’ She sounded sleepy. I took my socks off and walked towards the bed. She was lying on her side looking at me with only her face above the sheets. I thought momentarily about my pants; I still had my y-fronts from school. My shirt was hanging over them, but I wished I had bought some of the striped briefs I had seen in shops in the King’s Road. The sheets and pillowcases were sky blue and there was a printed Indian bedspread. I moved the pillow and tucked the blankets firmly in around the corner where Kate had slept. Bonnie pulled back the sheet and I got in.

  The bed was warm and she put her arm around me and kissed me. I felt pleasantly overwhelmed as I had in the back of t
he taxi, but now there was heat and sleepiness, and I could feel the smoothness of her back and that all she was wearing was a T-shirt. She stroked me lazily, and we dozed in each other’s arms.

  Still lazily, she undid the few buttons on my shirt and suggested I take it off; I’d be more comfortable. I dropped it on the floor. We stroked and felt most of each other’s bodies, until, lifting up my head, I saw my watch on my wrist beside her hair on the pillow.

  It was a quarter to eleven and I remembered my mother. I hadn’t told her I would be out all night. She would be worried, panicking and would have rung the police. I kissed Bonnie quickly and sat up. ‘I ought to phone my mother.’

  She brushed her hair aside and gazed at me curiously. ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Yes. It’s just that I didn’t tell – ’

  ‘All right.’

  I got out of bed, suddenly feeling foolish, and walked towards the telephone. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You have to go across the road to the phone box.’ She was sitting up, staring at me and frowning. ‘That phone only takes incoming calls.’ She lay down again and said tiredly, perhaps irritably, ‘And you’ll need a sixpence… There are some on the kitchen table.’ I quickly pulled on trousers, shirt, shoes and donkey jacket and picked up a sixpence. ‘I’ll have to let you in. Ring the top bell.’

  ‘I could take the key.’

  ‘No.’ She sighed. ‘You might meet the old bag.’ She turned her back to me.

  A cold wind blew through the broken panes of the telephone box and the phone itself took the warmth from my hand. It rang for a long time before my mother picked it up.

  ‘Hi, Mum. Just ringing to say that I stayed at a friend’s – ’

  ‘I thought you must have, dear. How nice of you to call. Are you having a good time?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘All right, dear. Bye now.’

  I put the phone down and stamped my feet, stalling my longing to rush down the hill, get back into bed and get warm. I thought about what had just been happening and about Bonnie. She was two years older than me. I stopped stamping, and stared at the glass without focusing. My ideas about first dates might be wrong; and my impression that women never made the first move – the first move with any serious implications anyway.

  I pulled my jacket around me, ran down the road and rang the bell. Bonnie opened the door and sprinted back across the hall to her flat; her T-shirt just covered her bottom. Another door opened. An old lady was standing inside it, looking at me.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Bonnie had disappeared. ‘I’m a friend of Bonnie’s.’

  ‘Did you stay the night?’ She frowned. ‘I don’t allow that.’ She had straggly hair and thick damp lips.

  ‘No. I just arrived.’

  There was a pause while she seemed to examine my clothes. ‘All right.’ She shut the door with an emphatic click.

  Bonnie was sitting on the side of the bed giggling.

  I shut the door. ‘Who’s that old woman?’

  ‘Landlady. Bloody old cow.’ She giggled more loudly and made a snorting noise. ‘Shall we go back to bed?’ She smiled.

  ‘Er, sure…If that’s OK?’

  She came towards me and spoke slowly, emphasising each syllable. ‘It is O…K.’ She kissed me and pressed herself against me. Again, she spoke slowly. ‘You are so stupid.’ She stepped backwards, crossed her arms and pulled her T-shirt over her head. She turned away quickly and got into bed. I glimpsed her small breasts and saw that her pubic hair was golden.

  * * * * *

  That evening my mother wrote Christmas cards while I watched Perry Mason. She had to finish the cards that night because Christmas was in eight days’ time. She had numerous cousins whom I knew vaguely and she kept passing cards to me and asking me to write my name; I complied perfunctorily, thinking that each one would be the last.

  Della Street was stalking an ugly man in a pork-pie hat, but I was finding it hard to think about anything but Bonnie. We had parted saying that we would meet again before Christmas and I had said that I would telephone. On the tube back from Highgate I had decided I was in love with her. We now had an important bond between us and I wanted to be with her all the time. Several times that evening I had almost telephoned, but had held back; she would probably think me silly. I was intensely aware now of the age gap between us – though she thought it was only one year, a lie I would have to own up to.

  ‘What would you say if I was to say I wanted to get married?’

  My mother stopped writing and looked up at me. Her mouth was a little open, but she looked thoughtful rather than surprised. She looked down at her Christmas card and finished signing it. In one part of my mind I knew it was a daft question, but in another I knew I would never love any woman other than Bonnie; she was perfect.

  ‘I’d say that it might be better to wait a little. You are just eighteen and there – ’

  ‘Lots of people get married when they’re eighteen… or younger.’

  ‘I know, but I think on the whole it’s better, if possible, to wait. Marriage ties you to one person… for ever… for the rest of your life is the – ’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Well, you asked me what I thought, darling.’

  ‘Sure.’

  She started to write another Christmas card. Della Street had been locked in a room with bars across the windows.

  ‘Of course, I’d give you my blessing whatever you – ’

  ‘I don’t need your blessing. I’m eighteen.’

  She went back to her cards. I knew I was being obnoxious, but I didn’t know why; somehow, she made me feel irritable. I went to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and came back and asked her if she wanted one.

  ‘No thanks, dear.’ She smiled. She was licking envelopes. It suddenly annoyed me that she called me ‘dear’ and ‘darling’.

  I sipped coffee and thought about Bonnie: how beautiful she was; how free; how uninhibited; how willing, it seemed to me, to do anything.

  ‘Did you have anyone in mind? To get married to?’

  I didn’t answer. She was sitting back in her chair with a pile of envelopes on her lap, licking stamps.

  ‘Well. You don’t have to tell me.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ I was shocked by the harshness of my voice. I knew she didn’t deserve it. I lit a cigarette. I was happier than I had ever been, but I was being rude to my mother, the kindest and most equable person I knew. Perry Mason ended and the news came on; Harold Wilson had done something dull and children were being napalmed in Vietnam. ‘God! I’d like to make the world a better place.’ I stretched, and stubbed my cigarette.

  ‘You can.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I shrugged.

  ‘Probably in small ways… at first.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ I smiled tiredly.

  She started to write yet more cards. ‘You know, if you got married, you would have a responsibility to your wife and that might prevent you doing other things… like travelling or… you still might go to university.’

  I grunted. I knew she was right.

  ‘Can you sign this? It’s to Auntie Evelyn.’

  I wrote ‘David’ in the space after ‘Mary and’, and imagined piles of cards that said ‘Bonnie and’.

  20

  Half a Turkey

  Diane came over to my desk. She was grinning and showing her tiny upper teeth, and was shaking her hands down by her sides; she had been applying puce nail varnish. ‘So what’s she like?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your girlfriend.’ She laughed and shook her head as well as her hands. ‘It’s so obvious.’

  ‘Is it?… How come?’

  ‘Everything about you. You keep smiling to yourself. You’re walking differently. You keep patting your hair.’ She strutted across the room with her chest thrust out, tapping the back of her head. ‘Come on! Tell!’

  I was amazed that she knew. She said she had just been guessing, but
she had been working in offices for a few years and always watched the other people, wondering whether they were happy or not. I told her about Bonnie and laughingly confessed that I was in love.

  She sat down on the corner of my desk and looked serious. ‘Have you told her you love her?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, don’t…yet. Honestly, it’s not a good idea. Even if she thinks she loves you, she’ll be put off by you talking about love. It puts pressure on her, makes the whole thing kind of heavy. She probably just likes you, you know? And wants to have fun.’ She looked very concerned and I felt grateful. ‘Don’t say you love her for at least three months.’ She leaned forward and stared into my face. ‘I’m so happy for you… but I’m right, honest. Forget about being in love – for now anyway, and enjoy yourself.’

  I thought about this as I walked down to Finch’s to meet Pat and Dave. It was hard. Bonnie mattered more than anything. That had to be what people meant by love, people like Shelley and Keats and Graham Greene, and John Lennon and Paul McCartney.

  Pat was dismissive of the whole idea and told me not to be silly and romantic. Dave was more interested and sympathetic, and I was pleased when Pat left the pub early after fixing an evening when we would go to Un Homme et Une Femme.

  Dave hadn’t felt like I felt, but he said he could imagine it. We crossed the road to the Goat in Boots where we had a few friends, principally Peter the Pianist and Peter the Painter. Peter the Pianist was plinking the piano; he looked up and waved. Peter the Painter was a graduate art student who funded himself by selling meticulous paintings of pretty landscapes on the railings at Green Park. He had a big nose and long wavy hair and looked like Charles I. He joined us at a small circular table and Dave told him that I was in love.

  ‘Oh, no. Stop it.’ He smacked my hand. ‘It’s just misery, mate, I promise you. How long’s this been going on?’