Not Playing the Game

by Jennifer Chapman

  The layers of paper peeled away, revealing different tastes, the patterns previous occupants had chosen to live with.

  He thought of their wedding day, most particularly before the ceremony when they’d sat in the bath together and she’d asked quite seriously if he thought making love would be different after they were married. It was those times, when she seemed naïve and sought wisdom from him that were at the core of his love for her. Perhaps it was the old masterful thing although he didn’t want that all the time: he liked her equality, the sense of partnership, though it was this which they had allowed to disintegrate over the past few months.

  He dug harder into the walls, revealing the cracks that had been papered over: he’d fill them in, do a proper job before he started afresh. Perhaps he’d cry off the game on Sunday and finish the room: this muscle still ached, although just the occasional twinge. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an injury. He wasn’t the sort to get hurt.

  By seven o’clock he’d had enough and was beginning to feel that Mickey was overdoing it a bit, staying out of his way so long. She’d made her point, if that was what she was doing, and he was inclined to feel a little annoyed with her. He wanted her to come home and see what he had been doing and be pleased. They could go out for the evening, somewhere different where they’d be by themselves and could talk as they had in the past. He poured himself a drink and sat down amidst the debris of his day’s effort. He picked up the Guardian again and this time scanned some of the general news pages and features, arming himself with topics for the sort of conversation he knew she would enjoy. He liked a good, wide-ranging conversation himself.

  He watched Dallas on television and found it depressing – all that deception and hatred. By ten o’clock he gave up and went to the club.

  *

  Arthur was an accomplished cook. Throughout the years of his mother’s decline he’d had to look after all the domestic arrangements and really quite enjoyed polishing and ironing, those tasks that produced satisfying evidence of effort. Cooking he had found less absorbing until he’d decided to make an art of it, concocting delicacies to tempt and delight his mother’s flagging palate; and for Mickey that Saturday evening, he prepared a dish in the Nouvelle Cuisine style, thin strips of salmon in an avocado sauce.

  It took him some time, at the back of his calculating mind the thought that she would stay, or rather, find it more difficult to leave, when she saw how much trouble he was taking. Besides, why should she want to hurry home when she’d admitted to him that her husband had failed to return the previous night? There would be an element of revenge in her staying but it suited his purpose to allow this, even nurture it a little, although he mustn’t be too obvious, too sympathetic, or she might realign with David in the contradictory way of women. They could say all manner of things about and against their husbands but they didn’t necessarily expect or want agreement. It was wrong though, categorizing Mickey to this extent as she had never really maligned David, only sounded disappointed and sad, wistful despair at the corners of her eyes.

  Arthur’s calculation was correct, in part. All the time he was preparing the food Mickey kept thinking, this won’t take much longer. I’ll eat with him and go. She actually wanted to get home or even go to the club: she wanted to find David. She didn’t anticipate how it would be although she couldn’t imagine finding it easy to be pleasant; but she was drawn to the situation because that was where her life was, with David, or so she still assumed. And yet she stayed on in Arthur’s room, and not only because he was cooking her a meal. It was the niggling feeling that things had to be put right, Arthur made to see that she was not as she had let herself appear when telling him about the dinner dance. Oh, he’d said he’d seen through it but her uneasiness remained, although why it should matter what he thought . . . she felt impatient, but the cause was not clear.

  Arthur came away from his stove and started fussing with the table, laying it as if for a special occasion, long-stemmed glasses, candles. Mickey experienced a wave of irritation – what did he think he was doing? She would more happily have eaten from a plate on her lap. She expected any moment to hear him utter, ‘If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.’ But, of course, he did not because he wasn’t really like that at all: he only appeared as if he was, all those queer little mannerisms, the strange short-stepping walk, pedantic speech, ‘deary, deary’ sigh she’d heard once or twice.

  In truth, she couldn’t make him out but he’d become like a riddle that had to be solved for peace of mind.

  The food was wonderful and although she hadn’t thought herself hungry, she ate what she was given and drank more wine. Across the table Arthur’s eyes were no longer there, liquefied by the candle flames into the heavy circles of his specs.

  ‘You’re your own person, Mickey, if you want to be,’ he told her. ‘It’s the easy way out to be someone else’s, to be able to blame them for everything, disappointment, failure.’

  ‘You see too much but I’m not sure you are right. Surely we need other people?’

  ‘Need?’

  ‘Yes, to stop us being entirely selfish.’

  ‘But isn’t the need selfish? Better to enjoy other people rather than need them. We’re all on our own ultimately so why don’t we accept our singularity while we’re alive instead of forever trying to pretend otherwise?’

  She might have asked ‘Is that why you’re alone?’ but she didn’t because their seemingly pre-ordained roles allowed him to probe and pontificate without permitting her the same licence; and as the evening progressed she became further entangled and perplexed and unable to leave. She was Arthur’s victim although his weapon was the material she gave him, the endless curiosity with self.

  By midnight it was too late to go in search of David – or so she reasoned. It would be too much effort, too complicated to explain.

  ‘You must stay here,’ Arthur decreed. ‘You’ve drunk too much to drive.’ And the quality of the evening had been so insular and she felt so taken out of herself, that she didn’t really want it to stop. In spite of all he’d said she felt as if she’d abdicated self and in this new unreality hideous things could happen and cause no hurt.

  Naked, Arthur looked more a boy than a man. His skin was pale and there was little body hair. His arms and legs were thin, his chest slightly concave. Overall, the young body didn’t seem to match his head and face, round and old-looking, accentuated by the receding hair line and peculiar spectacles which he still wore as he stood at the side of the bed where Mickey lay. He’d drawn back the dark red velvet curtain a few minutes earlier and told her to get in the old four-poster, which she had done, without question, although removing only her outer garments. She felt strange, tingly and experimental, unsure of what to expect. Arthur had shown no interest in her undressing. He’d switched on a dimly glowing lamp near the bed and blown out the candles which hitherto had been the only light. She’d watched him undress and wondered what was in his mind. As there was only one bed in the room and this undressing was taking place beside it there seemed little doubt he intended sharing it with her; but he was homosexual, surely she hadn’t got that wrong. Perhaps it was automatic that he took off all his clothes to sleep. Perhaps there was a pair of pyjamas under the pillow. Mickey was confused. Arthur had an erection.

  He got into bed and drew the curtain. The red glow from the lamp penetrated the material so they could just see one another. He unwound the spectacles from behind his ears and carefully deposited them in a small pocket sewn into the curtain. This done he turned his face to Mickey. She thought he looked peculiarly vulnerable, unexpectedly so, without the glasses, and perhaps it was at this moment she realized she’d fallen into a trap because she knew she wouldn’t be able to refuse him; it would seem so very unkind, even ill-mannered, and she didn’t want him to think badly of her.

  A nervous shiver ran through her. There was a freakish piquance to this unlikely turn of events, something self-sacrificial tha
t horribly appealed to her. She lay on her back, quite still, and waited. She began to wish he would say something, just to break the heavy silence.

  Arthur, who knew very well what was going through her mind, lay down and closed his eyes.

  ‘Darling boy. Mother will show you what to do.’ The enclosed bed was such familiar territory – had been long before it was his alone. ‘Eyes closed and snuggle up close. There, waste not, want not. We don’t need anyone else, not you and I. We have everything in each other we could possibly ever want. The same flesh. That’s what we are. Rock. Rock. Think of me and nothing else. Think of how to please me. Yes, and that my greatest pleasure is to keep you safe and unharmed. Now kiss me, my darling, so that we can breathe the same air. Ah, so sweet and gentle. You are a good boy. And now you may suckle at my breast because that is why I have them, for you, only for you. Rock. Rock. Eyes tight shut. You must never look. Don’t cry. Just say that you love me and will never love anyone else. Say it and then you may do the last thing, the thing that will give you the most pleasure because it will cause me pain. You must! It is the way of things. It has to be done! Pain has its purpose. It mustn’t be denied. There! Didn’t I tell you. Now say you’re sorry and kiss better where you hurt. And now you say “Thank you”. Good manners are never out of place. Always remember that. Good manners are everything. You didn’t say “Please”! I just remembered. You didn’t say “Please”! Go away! Wicked boy! Out of my sight!’

  Arthur opened his eyes and saw Mickey staring up at him. His arms were stiff and straight either side of her, holding his weight. He blinked. Mickey remained still.

  ‘I’m so glad it’s you,’ he said, with inexplicable relief. ‘So very glad.’

  Mickey smiled at him but said nothing. She didn’t like speaking during or immediately after making love. It was a sort of decorum, keeping mind and body separate, and it lessened the sense of vulnerability.

  He moved away from her and curled into his side of the bed. She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. He seemed to have fallen asleep.

  This is dangerous, she thought. I don’t love him. I don’t even like him, but I’m drawn to him. I don’t put up any resistance at all.

  She lay awake for some while and in his sleep Arthur moved closer to her until his head rested against her breast, cautiously, even in sleep. He was a gentle, almost timid lovemaker, his movements about her body hesitant, as if she might have objected at any moment, the hesitation allowing space for this, almost seeking permission.

  She tried to work out how she felt, tried to think of David; and that was the most peculiar part of it all, her inability to hold on to his image. Perhaps it was a sort of numbness in the same way a shocking injury didn’t hurt at first. But was Arthur an injury and what had just happened such a shock? Wasn’t it possible that she’d considered the possibility earlier, viewed his seeming homosexuality as something of a challenge? The idea produced a wave of revulsion, but against herself this time. Perhaps she’d seized upon the situation as a means of weakening him, gaining some sort of advantage over him. Did she want him to love her because she did not love him and this would give her power and reduce his? The questions seemed to have no answers. All that emerged from these torturing thoughts was the single fact that she had allowed Arthur to gain power over her mind and now her actions and she didn’t understand why. It seemed she could no more shake him off than she could alter the course of estrangement between herself and David. She drifted off to sleep and in the morning woke to an unidentified sense of panic. She was alone in the shrouded bed and as full consciousness came to her so did reason for the panic: realization of what she had done.

  Pulling a sheet round herself she stepped out of the bed and into Arthur’s room, though he was not there. Hurriedly she got dressed, thinking all the time what she would say to David, how she might explain. Her preference was to tell the truth, leaving out that Arthur had made love to her, but David would suspect and he’d be so badly hurt. And Arthur, David might find out where he was and tackle him in some way, and Arthur was too puny beside David. It would all be quite hideous, maybe jungle law, and in the end nobody would be happy, a blight irremovably cast. No, she’d have to lie and it was her own fault if she suffered by doing so.

  The door opened, making her start, such was the state of her nerves, and Arthur appeared with the Sunday newspapers – unexpectedly, the News of the World.

  ‘Won’t you stay for breakfast?’ he enquired, seeing that she was about to leave. He sounded ‘offish’, as if it didn’t matter to him whether she stayed or not, although there was a detectable edge of pretence, the suggestion he might be upset with her for some misdemeanour of which she was unaware.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said, hastily. ‘I’ve stayed far too long already!’ It occurred to her as she said this how ridiculous it was the way people who had shared the secrets of their bodies could be so politely distant a few hours later. It was one of her inconsequential thoughts, but a device more useful in moments of stress than she fully realized.

  Arthur threw down the paper on the chaise longue and straightening up said: ‘Oh I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she questioned, wanting to get away and the lie over with,

  ‘You’ve had your little piece of revenge,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, emphasizing the second word and feeling her face go hot.

  ‘Don’t play games, Mickey! Oh, I do apologize, that’s hardly the right thing to say to you is it!’ He said this in a sneering fashion that made her feel angry and sorry for him at the same time. He had been tender in the night, abandoning completely the defensive cynicism she’d begun to notice, the insistence on ‘home truths’, though hers, never his. She knew very little about him really, he never volunteered any information about himself: she knew nothing of his background and family.

  He was very strange but she saw that he was a more sensitive being than she had supposed and that she had hurt him and possibly he was right about her little piece of revenge; although what she had done with him had seemed more like a piece of generosity at the time.

  She felt wretched and, undeniably, slightly powerful.

  ‘I’m sorry if you feel that way,’ she said. ‘I really didn’t mean to use you in that way.’

  ‘That’s refreshingly honest,’ he said, giving her a forced smile. ‘You must cultivate that. I’ve gained the impression that your life has been rather cluttered with falsehood until now. Poor Mickey, you think you have to be nice all the time. Don’t you know how attractive nasty people can be? Somehow, I don’t think you’d be experiencing the problems you have with your husband if you’d been more demanding and inconsiderate yourself. He’d be running around after you, late for his games of cricket and all the other challenging activities he favours; and when he was playing he wouldn’t achieve very impressive performances because his mind would be only half on the game.’ He sighed, indicating that it was all rather predictable and obvious, to anyone, it seemed, but her.

  He sat down by the newspaper and began turning the pages.

  ‘Off you go then,’ he said, his attention apparently engaged by the newsprint. ‘You may come again next Saturday.’

  She stood staring at him, speechless with fury – he really had to be joking. He was the most irritating little man, sitting there, as if she’d already left, one minute making her feel wretched and guilty because she’d supposedly ‘used’ him and upset his sensitive nature, and the next bestowing his permission for another visit, assuming with the inflated ego of the small man that she would want to see him again.

  She left without another word, hurrying down the narrow stairway and through the shop, past the stuffed owl in its glass case. He’d still got her money for that thing, damn him! And it was still watching her, she could feel it! Eyes everywhere, most especially Arthur’s, although she didn’t see him behind the net curtain upstairs as he watched her drive away.

  The lie she found surpr
isingly easy – maybe because by the time she got home David was just leaving for his match. She told him she’d spent the night with the girls who’d shared the flat and now lived with their husbands in the divided house. She even apologized for not leaving a note.

  David grunted at her (he was beginning to sound like the Walrus): she guessed he didn’t want a row in case it made him late.

  He did not return until after she had gone to bed and fallen asleep and the rest of the week was much the same, although David never thought of it as deliberate, not for a moment: it was simply a heavy week for fixtures.

  Mickey experienced a mild pang of remorse when she saw that he must have spent some time at home on Saturday to have stripped the wallpaper from the living room, but it was only mild: she’d rather lost interest in the house. Her thoughts were more taken up with Arthur than guilt over David. She didn’t want to think about him but she couldn’t stop. He plagued her, the ubiquitous riddle, there all the time yet remaining unsolved. She found herself picturing him in his room, moving about with his fussy little steps, watching her and seeming to see more than she wanted to be seen. This happened in court so that when it was her turn to speak she couldn’t think what the opposing solicitor had said and the chairman of the bench gave her an odd look – as did her client whose driving licence hung in the balance of a distracted thought.

  And on Saturday David was playing away and announced in advance he would not be home that night.

  ‘I knew you would come,’ Arthur said.

  Chapter Nine

  Dan Lovell had committed an indiscretion. He had taken Josephine to bed. He sensed the inadvisability of it before he succumbed but hadn’t he always been inclined towards various forms of self-destruction when it came to relationships with women?