He was a man.
Sam threw himself on the bed and patted the covers. Slowly, Anne came to the bed and lay down beside him. He pressed himself against her, and warmth pulsed through her body. “Move away Sam,” she said. “You can hold my hand.”
They lay side by side on the bed, smoking. The cigarette calmed the delightful betrayal of Anne’s body, and she smiled to think how easily she could hide her desire from Sam. And how unable he was to hide his.
As the cigarettes burned lower Sam moved closer, and she felt the need to renew the conversation about the party, to preempt further manifestations of his passion. Should she mention the conversation she had had with his brother? Perhaps not — Sam had chosen to believe Daniel when he denied asking her out. This still stung, but she had no idea how to raise the subject without fragmenting the fragile happiness between their entwined fingers on the bed. Instead, she asked him to tell her more about his family, aware even as she did so that even this request could result in an argument. But Sam smiled and closed his eyes in a ruminating sort of way, lulled into a feeling of security and love by the soft body against his.
“I judge my family as if they are not a part of me. I see a big, strong, nouveau riche family from a limited background. I feel contempt for their lack of education, for their obsession with money. They think of nothing but money. Today, I cannot bear to spend an hour in my mother’s company. Yet I am frightened to death of her.”
“Surely she adores you,” Anne whispered. She felt the hesitation in her own voice, and it irritated her. Was it because he spoke so well that she felt her words might seem silly in comparison? Or was it because she wanted to explore what Daniel had told her about the family without mentioning his name and felt she was being deceitful in a way Sam would despise?
“She does adore me. They are all inordinately proud of my every accomplishment, my high marks at public school, getting an exhibition to Cambridge. Yet these things have distanced me from them. I reject them and their fiscal fixations. I reject their lack of spirituality. You should see their unseemly manner of observing the great holidays. They fast on Yom Kippur and spend the whole day lying around moaning and groaning about how hungry they are. The whole point of the fast is to open your mind and pray so you can forgive your enemies and apologize for the wrongs you have done others. It is a mockery to concentrate on the rumblings of your belly! That is the way the whole world is going. Nobody is spiritual anymore. The new God is Money. The baseness of the world is embodied in my family. That’s why I love you. You are so free of rapaciousness. You are so open to spirituality.”
He kissed her, and she lost herself in the pleasure of his warm, full lips for a moment before pulling away. “I expect your family wants you to get top marks in university, don’t they?”
“Nothing less than a first will satisfy them. Their expectations are a great burden.”
“But why do you care, if you think so badly of them?”
Sam stroked her back, “You would have to meet my mother to understand. She is formidable. I can mock her from afar but in her presence I am jelly. She would poison my life if I didn’t get a first. She might even poison me literally. When will you let me make love to you, Madelyn?”
“Why do you call me Madelyn?”
“Anne is a good name for a boring person. Anne does not represent your soul. Henceforth you are Madelyn.”
A good day, I had a letter from home and have decided that in May I will a) write, b) dance c) learn Italian. Money? That would appear to be a problem. I must drink more … water. Had six hours sleep today and mood is consequently horrible. I walked into a chemist’s shop this morning and bought 50 benzedrine. He was flustered and made me sign a little book; obviously didn’t know if he was allowed to sell to nurses yet didn’t want to refuse. Sam phoned me up and said he had just looked at a photograph of me and that Madelyn is the most beautiful woman in Cambridge. Madelyn. It has such a nice ring. I am torn between the desire to ask Sam how he dare change my name, and wishing I had thought of it myself. I realize I’ve always hated Anne. What a dreary name. But I shan’t change it to Madelyn, there are many names to choose from. Celine? Athena? Rocelyn? Bathsheba? Margherita? Muriel? Michelle? Monika? I like the names starting with M. I like Madelyn. Shall I really adopt this name? Should I reject it, even if I like it, in order to show Sam that I am boss? Of course I am boss, of my own name. Yet how his control delights me. He is so much man, he is so…bestial. It is true that John is not a man in the same way. Sam’s violence did revolt me at the time, truly it did, but something about it excited me as well. Is it terrible to admit this? I am attracted to the animal in him; he is so unlike everybody else. The power of the alpha male. Women are supposed to be attracted to that kind of male; we must propagate the species, the strongest must survive. We are animals like Sam said. There is nothing wrong in my reaction, yet Sam must never know of my weakness. He is noble, yet bestial at the same time. Moya Dusha, my mentor and my brute. I lie beside him and smell the male smell of him and I luxuriate in the difference between the sexes. John doesn’t smell like that.
“My name is Madelyn,” Anne announced to the woman in labour that evening, “and I am assisting the midwife during your birth.”
“From now on please call me Madelyn,” Anne said to her three roommates the next day, when she entered the kitchen for her morning cup of tea. Lavinia and Greta sat at the kitchen table, while Louise stood at the stove, cracking eggs into the saucepan.
Lavinia was a mousy little thing who rarely opened her mouth, though she smiled often. She was afflicted with an eye that cried all the time, little tears constantly wound their way down the side of her nose. Hence her habit of smiling, to counteract the impression of unhappiness.
Anne/Madelyn stood by Louise and watched the bacon piling up on the side of the pan.
“Successful birth last night?”
“The woman’s fifth. Slipped out like a raw egg. I could have done it myself.”
“After two weeks on the job?”
“This particular woman could have birthed without any help at all, as it happens. She just strained a couple of times and out it popped. A little boy of seven pounds one ounce. Looked around once as if to say, where am I, then opened his mouth and howled for an hour straight.”
“I wonder if they all think that. It must be a bit of a shock. Stop sniffing the bacon in that revolting fashion, Anne. I’ll make you some.”
“My name is Madelyn.”
Greta flipped the paper over, “We heard you the first time.” Her face assumed a long-suffering expression. “I suppose it’s your pompous ass of a boyfriend who suggested you change your name to Madelyn? Do you know how weird and controlling it is to change the name given to you at birth?”
“Oh come on. Do you think Little Screamer’s parents last night had a special name for him? She asked me my father’s name, she was so desperate to avoid wracking her brains for the fifth time. Most names are on-the-spur ideas. They cannot take into account the character or physical traits of the grown-up person, and they are often unsuitable.”
Louise placed a plate of bacon and eggs in the middle of the table, and they all fell to with gusto.
“One egg each, two slices of bacon!” Louise bellowed, deftly retrieving an extra piece of bacon from Greta’s plate. “I hate to admit it, Anne, but I agree with Greta. It’s strange to change someone’s name. It’s as though he’s taking you over.”
Greta glared across at Anne/Madelyn. “It’s not so strange Sam calling you something else. Lots of men do that. What’s strange is your going around trying to change it officially. Are you desperate to please him or do you just want to give that impression?”
Anne returned her glare without rancour. She was aware that her morning looks were a constant source of irritation to Greta. Her skin was fresh-looking and her tousled hair looked even better than when she brushed it. Gre
ta had a lovely figure, but had once confided when drunk that a pretty face was more important. Because of this, she dismissed everything that Greta said as biased.
“I don’t want to discuss everything endlessly all the time. My name is Madelyn. I would appreciate it if you could call me by my new name, but if the name ‘Anne’ is too entrenched in your minds don’t worry about it.” Anne lit a cigarette and continued her meal between puffs. Smoking during the meal was unlike her, and Louise changed the subject by claiming Greta always took the largest egg, while Lavinia was always left with the smallest, which meant they were all guilty of indescribable greed. And was that survival of the fittest, or just survival of the greediest?
Sam prepared lunch and we had salad, chicken and frozen strawberries, washed down with sherry. Then Philip and his latest arrived and we went onto the river in a punt, all drunk. I fell in while Philip was punting. I was too exhausted to swim, so I let my clothes and shoes fill with water in order to sink myself. I didn’t really want to sink myself, I wanted everybody to jump in and save me. Meanwhile, Philip punted on, presumably imagining that I was enjoying myself. I didn’t sink, but I could have, and nobody would have noticed. I began to weep in the water. In the end they came back for me and Sam hauled me out onto the bank and covered me with a blanket. I was led home, still weeping. In the evening I went to a concert.
“I am officially changing my name to Madelyn,” Anne told Sam. They were sitting side by side on the hard leather sofa in his rooms, having just come back from a weak rendition of Hamlet. Sam liked to discuss the merits and demerits of all the actors and scenes in detail, and Anne was learning to be discerning too. This had its downside. Once she began to judge the performances, she could not enjoy the entertainment in the light-hearted way she used to.
Sam beamed. “You know, I’ve always disliked the banality of the name ‘Anne.’ and I invested a lot of thought in the perfect name for you — one which would reflect your beauty and pay tribute to the pure simplicity of your unconscious mind. Madelyn is an uncommon name with a touch of foreign glamour, yet it is not pretentious. At first I imagined calling you Madelyn as a term of endearment, using it enough in my own head to oust ‘Anne’ as my main mode for addressing you. But my dear Madelyn, I did not imagine you would adopt the name. Doesn’t this indicate that the name touched a chord of recognition in you and therefore is appropriate? And more importantly, doesn’t it indicate that you take my preferences seriously, that your acceptance of the name is a sign of love?”
“Well Sam, one doesn’t change one’s name every day at the request of different lovers. I would say it shows your importance and influence in my life.” Anne was pleased that Sam accepted this step as a proof of her love. She knew Sam was always looking for proof that she loved him more than anyone else in her bevy of followers. While she, knowing that Sam loved her, always looked for signs that this love would bear him to the altar. If he encouraged her to take a step that changed a facet of her identity for the rest of her life, didn’t it prove that he intended their relationship to last? Only wives changed their names.
She leaned over and kissed him, and slipped her hands under his shirt, fondling the matt of curly hair underneath. He was surprised and stroked her hair tentatively, waiting for her to lead onto the next step. This was annoying, since Anne wanted Sam to intuit that this was the real thing, the seal of their union, and take the lead in the proceedings, as a man should. After what seemed to be, in her opinion, a long kissing session, she finally took his hands and thrust them under her shirt, hoping that this gesture would clarify her acquiescence, thus giving him confidence to take the reins.
It did.
Afterwards, when his heavy body reclined against hers, exhausted after its transports of joy, she tried to get a sense of the enormity of what she had done. She wanted to feel elated, proud, intimately interwoven with this man beside her. But instead the one utterance her mother ever made in reference to sex rolled around and around her head: ‘A much over-rated pastime.’
SEVEN
The failure of the world to change profoundly After Sex was disappointing for a brief time, before Madelyn ceased to think about it. No lightning bolts, no rosy hue imbuing the world, no magical changes to their relationship. Sam was invariably tender and loving before and after, but the in-between times remained as fraught with arguments and silly rifts as ever. Sex made no forays in other aspects of life either. Enjoying herself remained the central goal of every free day and as many hours in-between work as she could exploit. Various young men continued to dance attendance on the pretty Madelyn. Even if they recognized Sam’s significance, what of that?
At least sex could now be blamed for those periods when she felt unaccountably gloomy.
Felt rotten for several hours in the afternoon. Is it because I have given myself to Sam? I was sitting on the sofa sewing, my gloom was so deep that, try as I might, I could not speak. We went for a walk in the wind among the daffodils and had tea. In the evening the house was full of people and someone brought champagne and we drank and ate chops and eggs. Afterwards Sam made love to me on the bed and cursed virgins, he said he would never marry one, a) because they have false ideas of marriage and themselves, and b) they are inclined to be bourgeois, middle class, underdeveloped and lacking in vitality and individualism.
Madelyn relieved her dissatisfaction by berating the previous generation’s absurd attitudes towards sex. “Why did they make such a fuss about it?” she asked Louise. “It’s so insignificant. Physically it’s minor — one part of the body fitting into another part, like hands clasping. I hope I’m not being too vulgar for you, Louise. Is this embarrassing?”
“I hope you’re taking prevention measures.”
“I am a midwife-in-training, thank you Louise. I’m quite aware of that side of things.”
“Great. That means you’re using diaphragms and condoms, instead of relying on methods that don’t work, like timing, for example.”
“If you understand timing and use it correctly, it works well.”
“Oh God. You’re a double fool.”
“You mean I’m both a fool for not using protection and also a fool for making love at all? So underneath you’re one of the old class. You think it’s wrong to make love to somebody you love, which hinges on the belief that it’s a big deal. I can’t tell you how unimportant it is. A grossly over-rated pastime. You should know so you won’t have any expectations.”
Louise came over and hugged her. She was not given to affectionate gestures and a glaze of tears filmed Madelyn’s eyes. She tried to keep them from spilling over. She didn’t want Louise to think she was crying for grief at what she had done, because she wasn’t, only because it was so insignificant.
“You must be careful. It’s much easier to have sex than to bring up a baby. That’s not an over-rated pastime!”
Madelyn knew. She visited mothers for several weeks after their deliveries, checking the health of the babies and the mothers. The physical healing could take several days. Difficult labours left the woman’s vagina lacerated and swollen. But physical suffering was usually conquered within a week. Even the thirty-hour labourers would be pottering around, assuming their housewifely duties once again. It was the psychological impact of a first baby that surprised Madelyn most, the dazed expression on the faces of new mothers. Drunk with exhaustion, driven half mad with the demands of this new morsel of humanity.
“Feed the baby at four-hour intervals,” Madelyn would tell them, “I know it’s hard when she cries, but she’ll get used to it. There’s no need to feed more often than that.”
Some mothers kept the babies in bed with them, feeding them half guiltily whenever their screams became hysterical. But the four-hour mothers fared worse, lying rigid with misery as their babies cried, incapable of sleeping, battling with their instincts.
Most new mothers were in shock. They held onto Madelyn’s visits
like a lifeline. She visited once a day for two weeks, and twice a week for another month. Often they stood at the window, gazing in the direction where her bicycle would appear. They bombarded her with questions about the baby, even as she daubed healing ointment on their own lacerations.
“Is he gaining weight? He eats so little. I’m sure he doesn’t swallow much when he sucks on the breast.”
“He’s a fine, healthy boy. A beautiful baby.”
“He’s wonderful when you’re here, but he seems to cry so often when I’m alone with him. Do you think he’s bored?”
Madelyn would strain not to smile.
“He’s just been in your womb for nine months, where there was nothing to see or do. This whole world is incredible to him. How could he be bored? It’s normal for infants to cry a lot.”
But their worries would go on and on, as their bloodshot eyes swelled through tears and lack of sleep. It seemed like a horrendous existence.
Oh, Madelyn knew.
Sam and I went to a wonderful picnic on the riverbank during the hottest part of the day. Sam brought crabs, boiled eggs, cherries and a bottle of wine. He puts his whole love into the preparation of meals for me, his entire artistry. After a bathe in the river we returned and had sandwiches and cider on the bridge before going to see Macbeth. When we came home we made love and I was like a stone, cold and dead. I smoke, drink, make love too deeply, my mind is becoming fuddled and my speech slurred and yet … I grow more beautiful.
After a row with Sam he left in a huff and I took an exorbitant amount of sodium amytal, which I had taken from the ward. I was awoken the next day at midday by Sam’s large nose beneath the bedclothes.
Madelyn couldn’t wait until she was fully qualified to deliver babies by herself. Working with senior midwives was always difficult, but she especially disliked large, blonde, Scandinavian Helga, who was relaxed to the point of laziness. This might have been a pleasant foil to Madelyn’s bustling activity, had Helga chosen to appear before the head of the baby crowned. ‘I might as well be doing the whole thing by myself,’ Madelyn thought, marching back to the patient’s house after her third phone call from the pay phone down the road.
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