by Wayne Price
I was interviewed in the back room of Driscoll’s by the petite, blonde, forty-something manager, Mrs Campbell. I can picture her now, removing and folding her gold-rimmed glasses before starting the interview. She read the questions from a clipboard and ticked boxes as she went. And do you smoke? she finished up by asking.
No, I lied.
Good. She ticked a final box and looked me up and down, lips pursing. Well, you seem clean and smart and strong enough to do any lifting. Start at seven tomorrow – that gives an hour for training.
Seven, I confirmed, and made instinctively to shake her hand, confusing her.
At first I was allowed only to re-fill the shelves, label stock and clean the floors. The shop had three long narrow aisles, a till near the exit and a video rental section at the back so it wasn’t difficult to find ways of making myself look busy when Mrs Campbell was watching out for me. If she was safely out of sight in her office, I smoked at the back door or loafed around in the quiet aisles with the part-time assistant, a badly acned, gangly seventeen year old who spun long, improbable stories about his ready supplies of hard drugs and his links with the local criminal underworld. That was Angus Grant. When Angus wasn’t around, I flirted with the girl on the till, Jessie Frayn. Hardly a day went by without me offering to polish the plastic name tag pinned over her small left breast or snapping my duster at the highland cow she kept as a mascot on the till-side counter.
Jessie was a pretty, lively-faced brunette of sixteen, and a dwarf. She stood no taller than three-four or five, I would guess. Sharp-witted and cheery, she gave me plenty of encouragement to tease her. The real attraction, though, was her self-possession, the deep reserve I quickly sensed in her, hard and hidden under all the tolerance and self-deprecating laughter. I wouldn’t have put it into words at that time, but there was a correspondence, it seemed to me, between the compactness of her body and her stubborn defences. Sometimes, when I pushed the teasing too far, I caught a glimpse of a more vulnerable core, but only a glimpse, and I could never be sure. The congruence made her seem somehow complete and self-sufficient, armoured against me in a way I’d never encountered in a girl before. When I left the shop each evening she slipped from my mind as clean as water through a net, but while she was physically present, a captive audience, perched on the cushions of her check-out chair, I circled and probed at her, body and mind, rearranging her moods as if she was a puzzle of blocks laid out to test me.
As the weeks went on, I found myself more and more often joining Jessie in the back room where she was allowed to spend ten minute coffee and toilet breaks on quiet afternoons, Mrs Campbell minding the till. The room was stuffy and windowless, over-furnished with a three-drawered, forest-green filing cabinet, a dark wooden desk where Mrs Campbell spread her paperwork, and a couple of lapsed armchairs. Two taps and a tiny sink with a draining board backed onto the staff toilet next door. When the flush was pulled, the taps in the back room gurgled. I liked the claustrophobic intimacy of the place. Jessie would sit in one of the broken-down armchairs, her feet barely brushing the worn carpet; I’d perch myself on the edge of Mrs Campbell’s desk and entertain her, sometimes passing on one of Angus’s gangland fantasies, sometimes recommending films or literature to her, neither of which she knew much about. Always towards the end of these performances I found myself nestling my coffee mug over an almost painful erection.
At the end of the fourth week Mrs Campbell told me I could get a small raise if I helped with the accounts and stock-taking. Later, as if to reward my willingness to take on the extra responsibility, she poured me a coffee in the back room. Tell me a bit about yourself, she said. You’re leaving after the summer, aren’t you?
In early August Jessie took a week off sick. Without her to tease I spent more time helping Mrs Campbell with the accounts while Angus kept the till. Late one afternoon in the back room she confided how and why her marriage was failing.
I shouldn’t be talking like this, she admitted, but you’re the only sensitive person I see nowadays. You’re a thinker. A feeler. I’ve had enough of the other kind, she whispered fiercely. Enough! She took a deep breath and sighed it out. It’s your age. You’re unspoilt, she said, suddenly flat and matter of fact again.
On the Friday after closing, she led me into the stock room.
Afterwards, she seemed disappointed. She was brisk in the way she snapped her pants and tights back over her hips and seemed almost angry as she smoothed her black skirt flat over the fronts of her thighs. But then, I remember thinking, she’d been brisk in rucking the skirt up in the first place.
Was that alright? I asked. In the dark grotto of the stock room my voice sounded foreign to myself, and I remember wishing I hadn’t spoken.
Yes. She smoothed her hair, avoiding eye contact. Silly boy, she said.
The next Monday Jessie was at her till again. On my coffee break with her that morning I found myself almost shy with the pleasure of having her back. Jessie too seemed galvanised. She waited for me at the door of the back room while I used the toilet, then nudged me as I squeezed past her. Her shoulder slipped from my hip and tilted into my groin, resting briefly on the hardness already there. Make us coffee, she said, as open-faced and happy as I could ever remember seeing her. You’ve got to spoil me – it’s my birthday tomorrow, she announced, following me in and falling back into her seat. She raised her arms as if to celebrate, and I noticed with a strange feeling of pleasure that they hardly cleared the low back of the chair.
Is that why you’re buzzing?
Why else? she said, blushing.
Later, I smoked at the back door with Angus. Just behind the shop a tiny burn trickled along a pebbled ditch and in fine weather we’d escape to its bank for as long as we could get away with, kicking pebbles into the water and finally flicking our cigarette butts into the clear stream. A concrete culvert, its round mouth a yard or so in diameter, took the burn under the buildings to an outlet on the sea wall. Whenever Angus was scolded by Mrs Campbell, which was often, he would hawk and spit out his frustration into the water between streams of smoke. I could have this place burned down, man, he would tell me. Burned to the fucking ground. I just need to give the word, ken? On calmer days he’d tell me that a fat albino rat had its nest a little way inside the culvert, though of course I never saw it. Moby Dick, he called her. A big white bitch rat, man, he’d insist, leading its fucking babies. He’d shake his head, ruefully.
I saw you leave with the boss the other night, Angus muttered, now. She patted yer arse when you walked off, man.
I laughed and tossed the last of my cigarette into the ditch.
He sighed. I tell you so many things, man. Things that risk my fucking life, ken? And all you do is play high and fucking mighty with me. He shook his head, disappointed, the way my father might have. I mean, fuck’s sake, just tell me how you did it, he said.
For Jessie’s birthday I lifted some vodka miniatures and a bottle of cola on my way to the back room. She was waiting for me but her good mood of the day before had passed. She sat behind the desk on Mrs Campbell’s revolving chair and stared accusingly at me.
Of course, I thought: Angus had told her. I fixed the vodkas and we drank quickly, the conversation stilted.
You know what Angus asked me yesterday? she said, using her hands on the desk to swivel the chair first one way then the other.
No. What? I said, bracing myself.
He wanted to know what was the right name for people like me – midgets or dwarves.
I started to laugh, then realised she wasn’t joining in and stopped. What did you say?
I said what you call things doesn’t make them what they are.
I think I did laugh, then. Aye it does, ken, I said, mimicking Angus.
She levelled a sudden hard stare at me. Well. At least he wouldn’t say it the way you would, she said, and I knew with a strange sense of revelation that underneath the teasing and desire we were enemies, really, and I wanted her small secret body m
ore than ever.
She looked away, silent for a while. Our life expectancy’s normal, she said abruptly, slurring a little after the vodka.
Oh, I said, confused.
People think it isn’t, she said, and grimaced. I don’t feel very well. Shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. Help me off this stupid chair, she said. I hate falling.
I finished my drink and took hold of her under the arms. It was the first time I’d touched her properly, feeling the firmness of the flesh under her shop blouse, and when I lifted her I was surprised at the weight. I’d expected her to be no heavier than a child but there was an adult density to her frame that caught me unawares and for a moment nearly unbalanced me. Turning, I lifted her higher, with some effort, and set her down on top of the filing cabinet.
Whee, she said coldly, you know how to show a girl a good time.
I stood still, indecisive, the flat soles of her shoes butting against my chest. I wondered if she could feel the knock of my heart through the soles. The thought stirred up something morbid in me and I swayed back from the contact.
I feel dizzy, she said, closing her eyes, and I glanced down at her legs sheathed in black nylon, projecting over the edge of the cabinet. On an impulse I took hold of her ankles, cupping them on the undersides, just touching the first bulge of the calf muscles beyond them. When she said nothing I slid my palms onto the roundness of her legs, struck by the solid, compacted strength there.
She opened her eyes and leaned forward to take hold of my forearms. Are you fooling with Mrs Campbell? She jerked the words out, as if short of breath.
No, I said. Why?
Because if you are, you shouldn’t be playing around like this. Her fingers tightened on my arms.
Like what? I said, forcing my palms along her short calves to the backs of her knees. Trapped in her narrow work skirt her legs could hardly open more than a few inches, though for a moment I felt her strain to part them wider. I tugged her towards me.
No. Lift me down now, she said.
That evening, before leading me into the stock room, Mrs Campbell told me she had decided to let Jessie go.
What for? I blurted guiltily, remembering the vodka.
She shrugged. Angus is fine on the till now, and I know it’s terrible of me but I can’t stand to look at her day in and day out. She sighed. Angus is very slow, but he’s coming along, isn’t he?
A little later, for the first time in our affair, Mrs Campbell undressed for me. She brought a blanket in from her car and laid it on the stock room’s concrete floor, then straddled and milked me so expertly I came with noisy, helpless, gasping sobs that she tried to muffle with her palm.
That was amazing, I whispered afterwards, stretched out alongside her, breathless in the warm gloom.
Good, she said and sat up, feeling around her feet for her clothes.
A month passed after Jessie was laid off, and then in my last week before leaving for London she called me. I was in my bedroom, already choosing and packing, surrounded by books, record albums and folders.
I was wondering if I could borrow some books. The ones you used to tell me I should read, she said. She paused, then added defensively: I can post them back to you, if you let me know where you are.
Of course, I said.
I could cook for you, she said, before you go. Friday, if you want.
I’d like that, I told her.
When Friday closing came I told Mrs Campbell I had to visit a relative in hospital and couldn’t stay late.
I didn’t ask you to, she snapped, and I knew I’d lied poorly.
Jessie’s flat was in a quiet corner of the town’s housing scheme, a cul-de-sac that I remembered using for reversing and parking practice when learning to drive two years before. It was the first time I’d been anywhere near there since, and now, in the mellow, late summer light I felt faintly nostalgic at rediscovering it.
She answered the door almost at once and I followed her into a small, brightly lit kitchen off the hall.
A casserole of some sort was simmering on the electric hob. To reach it, Jessie climbed a red plastic step, the kind you see in the children’s sections of libraries. She stirred busily, avoiding eye contact.
Do you share? I asked.
Uh huh. My sister. She turned to me finally, got down off the step and slid it with her foot to a set of cupboards. That’s why everything’s at your height. If it was my place I’d have things more convenient.
As she spoke I realised that I was obscurely disappointed by the familiar scale, the ordinariness of the things around me. What had I hoped for? I wondered.
Don’t watch me cook, she said. Can you pour me some wine?
Do you want to see the books? I said.
She nodded. Later though. Go through and watch TV if you like – I’ll bring the food when it’s ready.
All along the hall and in the living room small, dark oil paintings hung against the pale walls. They were completely abstract: either planes of thick, gloomy colour – greys, browns and greens, mainly – or more or less geometric shapes against lowering backgrounds. They were very ugly.
Where did you get the paintings? I asked when she brought more wine for me.
She laughed. I painted them, she said. Do you like them?
I don’t know. I don’t think I understand them.
You’re not supposed to. Most people who see them hate them. She moved to peer more closely at the nearest. I like it when they annoy people. That’s why I paint them, I think – to irritate people. I don’t know. I haven’t painted one for months now. She shrugged. Since I met you, she added suddenly, her voice dipping. She went back to the kitchen.
After eating we sat and drank while Jessie asked me about the books. Were any of them poetry? she wanted to know.
No, I said, surprised. I didn’t know you wanted poetry.
Not just poetry. But maybe one of them could have been poetry.
Sorry, no poetry, I said. The curtains in the room were wide open and by that time the late summer dusk was already turning into night.
You’ve read all of these? she asked.
I nodded.
She picked up one of the paperbacks and stared hard at the cover. It makes me feel stupid, she announced.
What does?
That you’ve read so much more than me.
What time does your sister come in? I asked.
She’s away tonight; on a training course. Jessie leaned forward and poured herself another full glass, draining the last of our third or fourth bottle of wine. You’re going away soon, aren’t you?
I nodded.
To be a lawyer.
That’s right. I remember the ambivalence in her tone, and still can’t judge if it was mocking or envious. It stung me, anyway, even through the drink, and I fell quiet.
She drank a little more then pushed herself off the couch and went through into the hall. I sat brooding for a time, then got up and made my way to the bathroom, weaving through the dark.
There was a step in front of the toilet, a white plastic moulding, and another at the foot of the washbasin. After using the toilet and rinsing my hands, I examined myself in the mirror. My face felt clumsy and numb. When I tried out different winning expressions I seemed to keep repeating the same half comical, half sinister leer.
Back in the hall, Jessie called to me from one of the rooms opposite the kitchen. The door opened onto her bedroom and she was in bed, sitting up pale in the dark, the sheets pulled high to cover her breasts.
Come in. If you want, she said.
I nodded.
She watched intently as I undressed, staring through the gloom with open curiosity. As soon as I sat next to her, naked, she slid down the bed and took hold of my erection with both cool hands, bringing a yelp from me that made her giggle. Are you a virgin? she asked, once we’d both settled.
No, I laughed.
She pressed closer, opening her legs over the long muscle of my thigh. I don’t mind. It’s
better if you know what you’re doing. She began moving her hands, slowly and still in tandem.
When she said she was ready, I rolled on top and reached down to guide myself.
Hurting? I asked, seeing her wince.
Yes.
I hesitated.
No. Go on, she gasped.
Her eyes were tight shut now, and free from her stare I remember studying her face. It was unpleasantly white, and closed like a fist. I remember thinking of the early days of summer and wondering at all the times I’d puzzled over her privacies. They were clear to me now; plain and simple after all. With a grunt I was through, Jessie shrieking as she broke, then moaning with a strange, distant sound as I fell into my rhythm.
I left after midnight. At the edge of the scheme I crossed the High Street and made for the sea-front though it wasn’t the quickest way home. An early autumnal westerly had picked up off the Atlantic and it buffeted me as I walked. Striding into it I let my arms fall loose at my sides, waiting for the feeling of lift as each gust urged them outwards. I felt weirdly pure: weightless and cleansed of all confusions, all complications. I was leaving, leaving, leaving. I could have flown into the air, a scrap of paper in the wind. There was no depth to life, I remember thinking suddenly, and it seemed like a moment of final clarity and truth to me, the great lesson of my long, trivial summer. There was a shifting, fascinating surface to people and the things they felt and said, but underneath it all was just a stony simplicity. Life was like the burn behind the shop, I thought as I leaned into the wind, drunk and grimly happy; a little stream no deeper than its skin; mirrors over a pebble bed.
I didn’t notice Angus until I heard my name called from the promenade bus shelter.
Where you heading, man? Angus was hunched in a dark, heavy trench coat. A wedge of greasy hair blew across his face and he scooped it back theatrically.
I gestured vaguely, stepping into the shelter.
He held out a small flask of spirits.
I shook my head and Angus shrugged before taking a nip from it.