Only one thing for it, he thought, grasping his erect penis in his hand. At least it’ll send me off to sleep.
His mind turning recent pleasures into porno films, he played them again on his closed inner eyelids.
He smiled.
Everything was falling into place.
December 1964:
Point of Contact
Jack Smeaton stood on the pavement, pulled his overcoat more tightly around him, stomped his booted feet, kept out the cold. He studied the piece of paper in his hand again, matching the address on it to the one in front of him. Hoping there was a mistake, knowing there wasn’t.
A nondescript street in Fenham. Stone and brick Edwardian houses mostly turned into flats for multiple occupation. The heart of studentland.
He stamped his feet again, putting off what he had to do. Sharon would have told him not to do it, had he asked her. Although Sharon would more likely have said nothing.
Communication had virtually ceased between them. No contact, emotional, mental or physical. Now exchanging only the merest pleasantries, a façade of normality for Isaac. He knew what was happening with Ben Marshall, knew it was more than just work, but he couldn’t stop her, couldn’t confront her with it. Because if he did that, his whole carefully built life would come crashing down like a flimsy house of cards. And he couldn’t take that. So he said nothing. Impotent.
He checked his watch. Nearly six o’clock. The dark, early-winter night made it appear later. The snow struggling to fall was turning to city slush in the gutters.
Jack pocketed the paper, walked reluctantly up the short path, rang the bell. He waited, hoping there would be no answer, but the door was soon opened. The girl was blonde and surprised looking. He obviously wasn’t whom she was expecting.
‘Hello,’ he said, feeling old and bashful in her presence, ‘is Joanne at home?’
Chambers seemed to click and something seemed to open in the blonde girl’s mind. She smiled at him.
‘She might be,’ she said. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Jack Smeaton. I’m a friend of hers. Well, friend of the family, really.’
‘Come in.’
Jack followed her inside. She closed the door and went upstairs to look for her, leaving Jack alone in the hall. He looked around. The house appeared to have been colonized. Older, heavier wall coverings and furnishings had been covered over with posters of art exhibitions and concerts plus rock and pop groups. Mick Jagger’s insouciant sneer sat opposite a cheeky-faced Paul McCartney down from a severe-looking Steve Winwood and Spencer Davis.
‘Hello, Jack.’
Jack looked up. Joanne was coming down the stairs smiling, yet slightly puzzled. He didn’t blame her. Jack returned the greeting.
‘Didn’t expect to see you here,’ she said.
‘No,’ said Jack, ‘I bet you didn’t.’
He looked behind her, saw the blonde girl hovering on the stairs, curious.
‘I need to have a word with you,’ he said, ‘quiet, like. Is there anywhere we could go?’
Joanne glanced to her side, saw her flatmate, took his hint.
‘There’s my room. Follow me.’
She turned, made her way back upstairs. Jack followed. As he passed the blonde girl, she gave him a smile he could have interpreted several ways. He chose to ignore it.
Joanne reached the landing, opened a door.
‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘Sorry about the mess. Make yourself at home and I’ll get us some tea. Milk? Sugar? If we have any.’
Jack smiled. ‘Milk, no sugar, thanks.’
Joanne returned his smile. ‘I’ll not be a minute.’
He heard her footsteps descend the stairs. He looked around. The student décor continued. Pictures of pop stars, posters for art exhibitions. Joanne seemed to favour the Beatles. Sheets and blankets were all over the bed, a heavy textbook open on top. Reading in bed. He sat down on the unmade bed. It still held an imprint of her warmth. Jack felt a strange thrill course through him. It was the first time he had been in another woman’s bedroom since he had been married.
He looked at the floor. A portable Dansette record player held three singles. The Beatles, the Animals, Otis Redding. On a dressing table was the usual assortment of jars, sprays, powders, by the far wall paints, sketchbooks and frames. Something drew his attention. Propped against the wall was a canvas with an abstract design on it. The colours were bold at the sides and edges, fading towards the centre. From the blocks of colour came appendages, some fluid, some more cubic, all seemingly trying to cross the white divide in the centre of the canvas, link up with those on the opposite side. They were all failing to do so: their colours faded, their shapes lost definition. Caught static and still, never to connect.
Jack crossed to the painting, studied it. It was either very good or very bad, he thought, because it gave him some kind of frisson. He thought he understood it, felt it touch him.
The door opened. Joanne entered, carrying two mugs of tea.
‘Here you go,’ she said, handing one to him.
He took it. ‘Thanks.’
She set hers down on the dressing table, drew a cigarette from a packet. Something French, Jack noted.
‘D’you want one?’
‘No, thanks. I don’t smoke.’
She lit it up with a lighter, smiled.
‘Don’t tell Mam and Dad.’
Jack returned her smile. ‘I won’t.’
He looked at her. Jeans and a baggy jumper couldn’t hide her maturing figure. Her hair was long and tousled, partially tied back by a length of silk. Barefoot, she sat on the bed with her legs curled under her. She wasn’t a little girl any more.
‘Sorry,’ said Jack. ‘It’s Friday night. You’re probably getting ready to go out.’
She shrugged, smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
He looked away from her, trying to find the right words to say what he had to. She studied his expression, mistook the direction of his gaze for art criticism.
‘What d’you think?’
He looked up, slightly startled. ‘Sorry?’
‘The painting. You can tell me. I’m a big girl now. I can take it.’
‘You did it?’
Joanne laughed. ‘Don’t sound so surprised. I am studying art. They expect us to paint, you know.’
Jack turned back to look at it. ‘I like it. A lot.’
Joanne uncurled her legs, crossed to his side, exhaled cigarette smoke.
‘It’s called Communication. Points of Communication originally, but I shortened it. Obviously.’
Jack nodded. ‘That makes sense.’
Joanne looked at him and smiled. The years of education and sophistication seemed to fall away, and she was an eager little girl again, happy to receive a compliment.
‘You get it?’ she said.
‘Course,’ said Jack. He pointed towards it. ‘At least I think so. These bits here, and here, are trying to reach across and touch each other. But this … this void … is that right? This void … they just fall in there and fade away.’
Joanne looked at him as if seeing him properly for the first time.
‘Is that right?’ he said.
‘Spot on,’ she said.
‘You look surprised.’
‘I’m amazed. At college they told me it was derivative. Just aping Victor Pasmore’s style without any of his inspiration. Even the title, Points of Communication, just a rip-off of his Points of Contact series, yeah?’
Jack looked blank. Joanne continued.
‘They said it had no originality or spark, or anything.’
‘Then they’re wrong. I like it.’
Joanne laughed. ‘You’re welcome here any time you like.’
Jack took a deep breath. ‘Not when you hear what I’ve got to say.’
The smile froze on Joanne’s face. A look of puzzlement replaced it.
‘I think you’d better sit down,’ said Jack.
There was n
o chair in the room, so she sat back down on the bed. Jack didn’t want to stand to say what he had to say, so he sat next to her. The enforced intimacy made him feel uncomfortable. He hadn’t been this close to a woman in months: for all the touching he and Sharon had done, they may as well have been in separate beds. He tried to concentrate on what he had to say.
‘Your mam and dad have been trying to get in touch with you,’ he said, ‘but since you haven’t got a phone, I know it’s difficult.’
‘I always go round on a Sunday, though. Well, usually.’
‘I know,’ said Jack, ‘but this couldn’t wait. They thought you’d want to know straight away. That’s why I said I’d come round.’
He was aware of her eyes on him. The fear and apprehension contained within. He couldn’t put it off any longer.
‘It’s … Kenny. Your brother. I’m afraid he’s dead.’
He looked at the carpet, unable to maintain eye contact with her.
‘Dead?’ Her voice sounded brittle and small. ‘How?’
‘Some kind of bug he picked up in the home. Weakened his immune system. Caught pneumonia. Couldn’t defend himself.’ Jack sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’
He felt a slight movement on the bed beside him and turned round. Joanne was nodding silently, the movement spreading out from her head, threatening to turn into a full body rocking motion.
‘Hey …’ he said, feeling he had to say something.
‘I should have been there …’ Her face was screwed down tight, but still tears leaked from it. ‘I should have been there with them … with Mam …’
‘Come on, Joanne, it’s not your fault. Kenny would have—’ he balked at the word, but said it anyway ‘—died whether you’d been there or not.’
She was still nodding, still rocking.
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I … know. It’s just … Mam and Dad. It’s …’ A huge sigh escaped her body. ‘I don’t know. I never liked him. Kenny. Not really. Isn’t that an awful thing to say? About your own brother?’
‘Not if it’s true. There’s no reason why you should like him. Just because he’s your brother.’
‘He was cruel. When we were growing up. And sly. Cruel and sly. He would always try to hurt me. Try to get me into trouble. And Johnny. Do the same to him too.’ Another sigh. ‘But I didn’t want this to happen to him. Not this.’
Jack flexed and unflexed his hands. He felt useless. He wanted to comfort Joanne but knew there was nothing he could say or do. His sense of discomfort at the closeness of their bodies wasn’t helping either.
‘Oh, God.’
Joanne was shaking her head. Jack thought it best to sit silently.
‘Oh, God.’
Jack flexed and unflexed his hands. He felt useless.
‘Oh, Mam and Dad … Mam and Dad … Oh …’
The tears continued. Jack watched steam rise and evaporate from Joanne’s cooling mug on the dressing table.
‘Oh, God.’
Jack stared at the tea. At the painting.
Communication.
‘Will you hold me, Jack?’
He looked at her, startled at being addressed directly.
‘Please. Just hold me. I want to be held.’
He edged down towards her along the bed. She moved her body towards his. He placed his arms around her, delicately, as if she was Dresden china, and she allowed herself to sink into him, her head on his chest. He rested his arms about her. She encircled his torso with her arms, pulled him to her.
His sense of discomfort increased. He felt her breath on the skin of his neck, the wetness of her tears. Under his arms he felt the rise and fall of her whole body.
More human contact than he had had for months.
He began to get an erection.
He moved his legs, trying to conceal it, shame and embarrassment making him blush. His wriggling had the effect of holding Joanne tighter. She responded, clung to him.
She looked up, her eyes large and red-rimmed, her cheeks tear-tracked.
Jack looked at her; saw more than pain in her eyes.
And they kissed.
Talking afterwards, neither knew which had moved first. Neither cared. Their mouths were locked, eyes closed, tongues probing, like they were trying to suck the old life from each other, breathe new life in.
Jack felt his overcoat, his jacket, being pushed from his shoulders. He undid the buttons, helped the progress. His hands went to Joanne’s clothes.
‘Slowly,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t rush this.’
Jack gently moved Joanne’s jumper up her back. Felt wool on his fingers replaced by skin. She reluctantly removed her mouth from his to allow it to come off. It did so, knocking the tie from her hair. She had nothing but a bra underneath it. Jack took in her body, her skin soft, white, young, her hair falling tousled about her shoulders, her face pretty and passion-hungry.
She was beautiful. Jack felt he hadn’t known true desire until that moment.
He reached forward to undo her bra, but she gently pushed him back on to the bed, slowly undressed him. He felt her fingers trail on his body, the first time a woman had touched him for years. He sighed. She had him fully naked and erect. Joanne undid her bra, smiled as his eyes went to her breasts, let it drop, slid her jeans and panties over her hips and off.
Their mouths came together again. Jack wanted to grab her, devour her like a starving man in a four-star restaurant.
‘Shh,’ she said. ‘Not so fast. Make it beautiful.’
He listened; reached out to touch her, stroke her. Felt the warmth, the smoothness of her skin. Enjoyed letting his fingers trace her. She returned the gesture.
The pleasure intensified. She touched him everywhere, as he had her. Soon, Jack could take it no more. He rolled Joanne over on to her back. He had to be inside her.
‘Wait …’ Her voice half-whisper, half-pant.
Joanne reached across to her bedside cabinet, pulled a small package from the drawer, threw it at him.
‘Put this on,’ she said, still gasping. ‘I don’t want a baby.’
Jack ripped the condom from the packet, rolled it on to his stiff cock. Joanne watched him.
‘Come on,’ she said when he was ready, opened her arms and legs.
Jack slid straight inside her. The condom barely muffled the sensation. He could feel her so vividly.
They both gasped, smiled. He locked his arms around her shoulders, she encircled him, limbs around his torso. They kissed. Jack moved slowly, almost delicately, incrementally pushing back the skein of her passion, allowing their mutual pleasure to increase. Joanne held on to him, he to her. He felt Joanne’s fingernails dig into his skin. Her eyes closed. He moved faster.
‘Oh …’
Her body tensed, locked rigidly around his.
She came, clinging on to Jack like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. Eyes closed, she smiled.
Jack felt the pressure build within him. He came, pulling her to him, holding himself inside her until there was nothing left but quivering aftershocks. He opened his eyes. And found Joanne’s staring straight into his.
She smiled.
He smiled back.
Contact.
‘Oh, sorry. I forgot, you don’t.’
Joanne lit the cigarette, inhaled, blew smoke at the ceiling.
‘Smoking,’ said Jack. ‘You’re all grown up now.’
Joanne laughed. ‘Well, I would hope so. Especially after what we’ve just done.’
Later, in Joanne’s bed. Both naked, covered by sheets and blankets. The fire on, a candle burning. Jack’s arm around Joanne, Joanne snuggled into Jack’s body. ‘Sketches of Spain’ on the Dansette; Miles Davis blowing warmth into the room.
‘You feeling all right now?’ said Jack.
‘About Kenny, you mean?’
‘Anything.’
Another inhale, another exhale.
‘I’m fine about Kenny. He’s been lost for a long time, really.
Should have expected something like this, I suppose.’
Another inhale.
‘Like I say, it’s Mam and Dad I feel sorry for.’ Exhale. ‘What about you? You OK?’
Jack smiled. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m not taken aback by what’s happened. University’s certainly broadened your horizons.’
Joanne laughed. They slipped into an easy silence. Content to be in each other’s company.
They had made love twice. Joanne’s housemate had noisily left the house to meet her friends, obviously angry that Joanne wasn’t accompanying her. Night had drawn in; the two of them had stayed where they were.
‘I felt a bit guilty at first,’ said Joanne. ‘The first time. The look on your face, it was like you didn’t know what had happened.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘I suddenly realized who you were. What you were. Married. And I like Sharon.’
‘Like I said, don’t worry about it.’
Joanne finished her cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray, an old tin one, obviously stolen from a pub, at the bedside. She propped herself up on one arm, uninhibited about her naked breasts, looked at Jack.
‘Are you and her not getting on?’
‘D’you think I’d be here now if we were?’
Silence fell again. Jack wasn’t good at talking about his feelings. He kept too much inside himself, bottled things up. Joanne’s silence told him he had said the wrong thing. Or it had come out wrong. But he could speak to this girl, he would try to say the right things. He took a deep breath, started slowly.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘that didn’t come out right. Sharon and I aren’t getting on. We haven’t spoken properly for months. Haven’t had … relations for ages. We’re only staying together, I think, because of Isaac’ He sighed. ‘And she’s been seeing someone else.’
‘And now you’re equal.’
‘No, that’s not what I mean … I didn’t mean it like that.’
Joanne smiled.
‘I was joking.’
Jack said nothing. The candle flickered, guttered, kept burning.
‘I think she was going out tonight. I think I was supposed to stay in and look after Isaac.’
‘Oh.’ Joanne couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice. ‘So you’ll be going, then.’
The White Room Page 20