The Microcosm

by Maureen Duffy

  ‘Cigarette.’

  He took one from the packet, lit it and gave it to her. She would never let him put it between her lips but reached out and took it from his fingers, and to him this was somehow symbolic of their whole relationship. She allowed him so far and no further. The last recess of herself was never given up. And she would have said that this was how it should be, that there should be an element of mystery in a relationship like theirs. She would be eternally courted; give herself, yet no conquest was absolute; she was always to be taken again.

  ‘Just because you’ve been hurt once.’ But he knew his words made no difference.

  In a way of course she was right. She intrigued and held him. But at the same time he was teased and tormented, made insecure, thwarted in his struggle to subdue and bind her, to reach in and seize her at the core of her self and feel the full satisfaction of unqualified possession. ‘My pride of course; that’s what’s really hurt.’ She could reduce him to a small boy again, unsure of himself. ‘It is alright? Do you love me?’ And then she would make a man of him by her surrender and her claim upon his protection and support.

  ‘Everyone asked after you.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  He described the evening, stage by stage, watching her as she smoked, feeling his desire tighten as his eyes traced the fine shoulders, the beginning of the downward curve of the breast.

  ‘Jill fell asleep in the car coming home. She’d had quite a drop. Got a bit touchy. Judy was playing about as usual.’

  ‘You always make excuses for her.’

  ‘And for you too. I said you weren’t well.’

  ‘I’ll just go away. Then you won’t have to.’

  ‘I’m the one who should go away.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing. Nothing of my own.’

  He turned his head away, his sense of inadequacy drowning him. He was nothing, could do nothing for her because she would not let him. His love by itself was not enough for her. She wanted all of him as he wanted all of her, but neither was free to give it anymore. There were too many separate years behind them. He heard a bird murmuring sleepily outside and it increased his sense of isolation, his despair that the human condition resolved itself to two people wandering apart in the darkness when they needed only to reach out their hands to each other.

  ‘I only want to be happy like other people are. I see them just being together and I envy them. I shouldn’t have to envy them.’

  He wanted to say to her: ‘And if I never saw her again, never went places she and I used to go together, do you really think it would make any difference? Don’t you understand we’re not like other people? We can’t do things like that. It isn’t all cut and dried. If we did that there would come a time when we too would go wrong, when we’d despise ourselves and each other for being small and mean. We must be bigger than that if we have anything worth having at all.’ But all he said was ‘I love you. Why can’t you trust me. It will be alright.’

  ‘I love you too.’ She was crying now.

  ‘Don’t cry darling. I can’t bear your crying.’

  ‘You’ll get cold sitting out there. Come to bed.’

  He crawled under the bedclothes and lay staring up at the ceiling. The silence grew between them like a tangible thing. He knew he would be the first to break it. It had always been so, with Rae, with Jill, and back as far as he could remember, because his was the greater need, the greater fear of the irrevocable loss. He turned towards her, stretched out an arm and drew her round unwillingly to face him. Holding her against his chest, he kissed her hair and tried to soothe her.

  ‘Hush now. Here, have my hankie. It’s not very clean. It’ll be alright.’

  Gradually as he held her her crying stopped and they lay there quietly in each other’s arms. ‘Like lost children,’ he thought with a wry twist of his mouth in the dark. ‘The Babes in the Wood.’ The bird twittered again beyond the window. ‘And why should she trust me when she’s seen me betray, destroy once already.’

  ‘We’ll both go away for a little while. A few days by the sea. Have a look at how the Spring’s been getting on without us. Would you like that?’

  She nodded her head, the tears coming more slowly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m very well.’

  ‘It’s alright darling. I do understand really. It’s just sometimes I don’t know what to do. It’s always better when we’ve talked about it.’

  He lay awake for a little while after she had fallen asleep, listening for the bird, conscious of her body curled beside him. His arm fell asleep before he did. He raised her gently and moved it from under her and she murmured and drew closer to him again. He felt his stomach tighten but turned on his back, following a meandering thread of thought that led down into sleep. ‘Covered them with leaves. Better than earth. Keep off the rain. Did you know it rained? Raining on the railway tracks Carl, there’s that bird again.’

  ‘MISS STEPHENS, Miss Stephens!’

  As soon as you get inside the door. Lord behold us and if they only knew.

  ‘Miss Stephens, can I have the key of the blue games cupboard please?’

  ‘Miss Stephens can you umpire our match against 2b at dinnertime?’

  ‘Miss Stephens, I can see no provision for 4a’s swimming period on their timetable at all.’

  ‘Steve, the head wants to see us during first period. It’s about that kid who slipped and hit her head last week, Sandra Filchard.’

  And the protests rise and break against the tongue. It’s not my problem, my fault. Wasn’t there. Not guilty. Not mine, no.

  ‘As head of the department, Miss Stephens, you are, of course, responsible. You should have seen.’ Not there. No, not there.

  ‘Miss Stephens, 3c have pinched all the courts.’

  ‘When can we start tennis, Miss Stephens?’

  ‘I love Miss Stephens.’

  ‘But I shan’t love you for very long, Rosemary, if you scrawl all over the board before any member of staff has a chance to use it. And anyway my name is spelt with a ‘v’ not a ‘ph’ as you should know by now. After three years in this school one might expect you to at least know how to spell the names of members of the staff. You can write them all out for me in alphabetical order, in your best handwriting, with their forms and subjects, just to refresh your memory. Bring me the list in the morning. Who’s board monitor for this week? Mavis, clean the board please, and put up the date and your first period. Latin? Well it had better be in Latin then, hadn’t it. We don’t want Miss Evans to think we’re absolutely ignorant in this form. The rest of you stop the chatter and get out your hymn books. Have you found yours yet Sylvia? Then share with Connie.’

  ‘Shall I bring you the list this evening, Miss Stephens, if I’ve finished it?’

  ‘No thank you, Rosemary. I don’t want Miss Rushton after me because you’ve been doing it under your desk during history. Tomorrow will be quite soon enough. I think I can bear to wait til then.’

  That child has all the makings of a masochist already. When she’s a bit older she’ll be crying out for someone to whip her. Unless it’s all a deep laid plot, an excuse to hang around after school and walk me to the station. Must have seen I haven’t got the car today. Matt’s right. It’s nothing but a biscuit tin. God knows what the bloody hell’s wrong with it now. ‘There’s the bell, girls. Is all the dinner money in? Who’s absent? Right, all talking stop now. Line up for prayers. Quickly now or we’ll be last in again. Come along Rosemary. You’ll survive.’

  ‘Miss Stephens, why do we have to go in to prayers if we don’t believe in God?’

  ‘To hear the notices.’

  ‘Why couldn’t we just go in at the end, then?’

  ‘Rosemary.’

  ‘Yes Miss Stephens.’

  ‘Have 3b gone yet Thelma? Follow on then. Quickly girls before 3c get in first. And remember, I shall personally break the neck of any girl Miss Evans catches talking.’

  ‘Supposing she doesn’t catch us, Miss Step
hens?’

  ‘Rosemary.’

  Bang goes my free period for today. Mary was a fool. Should have reported it whether the kid thought she was alright or not. Always thinks they’re malingering. Sandra isn’t that kind of child. Ought to know that by now. Still, she never takes the trouble to find out. They’re all the same to her. Too tough by half. Can’t stand hard bright women. Not a soft spot in her, except when she’s with a man. Goes all soggy. Take me I’m yours. The woman’s place and all the pap the women’s mags hand out. Just for the prestige, the social status. I’ve got a man. Pity the poor fool she hooks.

  The kids don’t like her either. Takes all the fun out of it. Just another lesson, another period, to be got through before out and freedom, tellytime, boytime, dancing, playing records, gossip; just another period.

  Doesn’t understand that either. How much they suffer. Won’t let them off; even that poor little bitch Julie. Tortures of the damned. Has her out on the pitch in all weathers.

  ‘Miss Stephens, I’ve got my period. I can’t go in today.’

  ‘Miss Stephens, Elizabeth’s not well; she’s gone to the sick-room.’

  ‘Miss Stevens, can I have an aspirin?’

  ‘Need I do P.E.. I’ve got a headache.’

  ‘Miss Stevens, Julie fainted in prayers.’

  All that blood and pain, and fear so the human race can go on. Boys get off lightly; wet dreams and itchy fingers. Fear or resentment in the girls, I suppose, constricting the muscles; cramp. Yet they’ve most of them got boy friends, look forward to getting married, having children. Normal, whatever that may mean.

  Not like me. See now, of course, what it was, not wanting any of those things. Trapped by your own body. All you’d always wanted to do shoved back into a corner, made dream stuff in a moment. Trapped in a role that’s alien to you. Condemned for life in the bars of your own flesh.

  But these kids? Maybe they feel they should; a sort of traditional female initiation rite. Forerunner of childbirth. Or perhaps it’s just to get attention, feeling insecure at being pushed forward into life. No, not me. I’m still a child. Mother! We’re all mother substitutes. Poor white faces. Maybe it’s just chemistry.

  The Samuels looks rather splendid this morning; Chinese style, high mandarin collar, green and silver brocade. It’s a beautiful face, like Bertrand Russell the bone structure and that wild white hair or what’s-her-name in Jane Eyre, Miss Temple. Repose or is it conscious control? Wonder if she is? Sublimates, I expect. Handsome, intelligent. Mrs. Masters is potty about her even though she’s got a husband and two children. Wonder if she realises. And husband Jack, what does he think? They went on holiday together last summer on an archaeological dig. One of those great emotional relationships with queer overtones. Everyone terribly high-minded and intense; not daring to admit the truth. Be shocked if you told them. Couldn’t face it. End of beautiful friendship. Magnificent throat, Elsie Masters. Pre-Raphaelite, muscular and smooth. Tendency to goitre, I suppose, but rather fine, all the same. ‘Thy neck is like an ivory tower.’ Not my type, though.

  Hymn no. 281. As long as it isn’t one of the ‘Praise Him, praise Hymns’. Go on for ever. Must remember not to look at Rosemary Ellis if there’s anything about love in it or she’ll think I’m interested. Difficult though; always stands on the end of the line where I only have to lift my head to catch her eye. Glad I’m not attracted to the kids. Too many problems. Have to get out if you were like Matt. But then, most of us are looking for our mothers so kids wouldn’t interest us. Matt’s different. Congenital type? Could be. ‘Lead us Heavenly Father, lead us,’ Seems harmless enough.

  ‘World’s tempestuous sea.’ A lot of people see it like that. What does Matt call it? The House of Shades. The lonely ones. Afraid people will find out, outcasts; guilt too of course. Funny idea that of the scapegoat. Is that what we are for society?

  ‘Thou didst tread this earth before us,

  Thou didst feel its keenest woe.’

  Often wonder if he was. Must have been something or wouldn’t have been complete. Not man. Scapegoat. ‘And the disciple whom Jesus loved lay in his bosom.’ ‘Follow me,’ and they left their wives and families. ‘Lovest thou me?’ Bisexual, of course; Mary Magdalene as well. Fundamental principle of life and all that. Where would all the charm and vitality have come from otherwise; the power flowing out, healing, drawing the people, resurrecting. Not asexual; too cold.

  ‘Love with every passion blending,

  Pleasure that can never cloy.’

  Very nice too. Mustn’t look at Rosemary. Not at all a bad prospect. What we’re all looking for, I suppose. Only here and now. Not pie in the sky. The perfect relationship; the one that doesn’t come unstuck after a few months. Too many casualities, too much first aid, patching up wounds, soothing sore places, teaching the injured to trust again; twisted broken lives.

  ‘Thus provided, pardoned, guided,

  Nothing can our peace destroy.’

  And there it all is in the proverbial nutshell. Provided. Provided what or with whom? ‘The Lord will provide,’ they used to say but what do we do in the meantime. Sit with hands folded in patient resignation amen or fix yourself on an occasional one night stand. And then supposing nothing comes along or when it does you’re too jaded, hooked on easy sex, drifting dazed between shots and reality passes you by on the other side? So you’re back where you started with work and play: the rich full life, badminton and tennis, home to mother every other weekend, the club on Saturdays with not too much to drink, the occasional dance, the spectator uninvolved. Play it cool. Maybe I’ll end up like the Samuels, aloof, controlled and very much run after, cock of some little hen roost of a girls’ secondary grammar, too old for tennis but with plenty of rewarding interests, courses in child psychology and walking holidays with a friend in the Tyrol.

  What’ll she have to say to me this morning and whose side am I supposed to be on, anyway? Must listen to the lesson or shan’t be able to ask the kids about it and one of them’s sure to catch me out. Rosemary I expect. Wearing sometimes having someone so closely attached. Doesn’t miss a move.

  ‘Nothing is so beautiful as Spring.’

  The old girl certainly knows how to pick them. How much sinks in and how much is right above their heads? They’ll never have a chance like this again most of them, the old liberal-humanist tradition in education, and yet so few of them can accept it, turned against it from the start by materialist propaganda. All that raw human stuff subjected to the daily stamping and dyeing of telly, newsrags til they come out true to mould; commercialism pandering to them for their spending power, records, clothes, make-up, giving the baby candy til its little stomach won’t take anything else and it lolls its slack, pudgy body on the doorstep, blown out like a sheep tick, too lazy to run out and play while the nice kind old gentleman makes off with its piggy bank.

  ‘Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy.’

  Hard sometimes to see the kids in that light with their sharp knowingness, clouded too soon these modern times. I bet there aren’t more than two intact maidenhoods in the whole of 5b and 5c put together. Wendy Rawlings there with the great dark circles smudged under those wary eyes, tart-tight skirt and her blouse fit to bust. The marks of Saturday night to Sunday morning still not scrubbed off that white child’s face and what looks like a bruise on her throat. Sharp teeth the current boy friend must have. Still, we’re lucky on the whole, not many actual pregnancies and most of them manage to leave before it’s too obvious.

  Harder to tell with the other sort. Statistically, four per cent out of a school of eight hundred, that’s about thirty ought to be queer, which makes, divide by five years, fives into thirty, six a year, one and a bit in every class. But then it wouldn’t show for certain till they’d left. Too much social pressure from the others to follow the normal pattern and you can’t tell with the younger forms anyway because they’re full of crushes, part of ordinary growing up. Interesting to speculate though. Reckon I could
pick out one or two in the fifths and sixths. That’ll be the day when I walk down the stairs at the club and come face to face with one of the old girls. Not that it’d matter I suppose. We’d both be in the same boat. No sense in either of us rocking it. Maybe I’d even be able to help. Ease her through the difficult stages so many seem to go through when they think they’re the only ones in the world and wish they’d never been born at all. What was it that kid said to me once? Something about feeling that everyone was pointing her out in the street and whispering about her. Eyes everywhere. Thou God seest me.

  Innocent enough they look now, heads bowed. One or two sets of eyes open here and there. Rosemary’s of course. Two little devils in 2b nudging each other. A moment’s peace before Millie strikes up her rousing march and we all shuffle out to battle.

  ‘Shall we go straight in and get it over and done with? There might even be a fragment of my lone free period left over after.’

  ‘Okay. I don’t know why you have to be dragged into it though.’

  ‘Oh you know the old girl always believes in making it a matter for the whole department rather than something personal. Makes for solidarity. United we fall.’

  ‘I feel such a fool though when there’s someone else there. I’d much rather she just tore me off a strip and that was that.’

  ‘So would we all.’

  The door’s open just slightly as always so that no one passes by without feeling that they’re observed unless a conference of great weight is taking place inside when the whole school goes on tiptoe. Knock gently with one knuckle and wait for a voice.

  ‘Come in.’ Soft spoken, carefully pitched. ‘Ah Miss Stephens and Miss Barter.’

  ‘You wanted to see us Miss Samuels?’ Like one of the kids.

  ‘Yes. Would you mind coming in and closing the door. I’m sorry to take up your time like this but it is rather important.’

  Outside a sudden squall throws the trees about. Inside a thin sunlight gives the room an appearance of calm and repose. She has beautiful hands and knows it. As she turns the heavy down on her upper lip catches the light. What was it Matt was saying about having to shave every day?