bought a good book for my holiday, look, I’ll read you a bit of it, shall I?’ And she produced her book: it was about old people and kinship patterns in a perishing London working-class community. ‘It’s very interesting,’ she said, smiling at him, mocking him slightly, ‘really very interesting. I’ll read you a page or two and you’ll be asleep in no time, even in this ridiculous bed.’
She gestured, with one bare foot, at the eiderdown arrangement under which they were expected to sleep. ‘Poor darling ,’ she said, with sudden conviction: and he knew as suddenly (such frail knowledge and how dare one ever presume or act upon it?) that it was herself she was pitying, that she was missing him there, cold and away from him, high and perched up, not daring to flatten herself to his level, fearing to expose and make party to the situation both himself and herself. The certainty that she was missing him made him feel so much better that he grabbed at her gesturing ankle, and she let it rest upon his chest, then gradually pulled herself towards him, and then it was all right: though afterwards, as she lay there breathless, soaked in his quite unnaturally cold sweat, she did murmur, ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have let you do it, I meant not to let you, it’s probably killed you and then I’llbe so sorry, but don’t you see, I couldn’t help it? I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t help it, you see.’
‘Why should you try to help it, when I want you so badly?’ he said, trying to wipe his face on the eiderdown, wishing there were some more conventional sheet available: but his heart was pounding, his chest creaking, his throat ravaged, and he recognized that, of course, though one would still do it if one had to die instantly afterwards, one would nevertheless, instantly afterwards, much prefer not to die.
‘Regretting it?’ she asked him, as he arranged her for sleep: but even as he protested, he knew that in another year he would have admitted it, he would have merely answered, ‘Yes.’ And who knows, she then might merely have held on to him a little tighter, or possibly, not impossibly, laughed. He had faith in such developments. One had to have faith; without it, what should one do? They, those two, he and she, they had nothing else.
When he woke in the morning, he could hardly open his eyes, and he could not speak. She was awake first: she always was, the rigorous routine of home never allowed her to sleep late. For too many years now she had risen early to get the child off to the Centre, the beds made and herself off to work. He lay there with his eyes shut, listening to her brush her teeth. He felt so dreadful that he half wished they were back in London, back in the comfortable, boring, frustrating grind of the average week, smiling at one another in the canteen, sharing a cigarette at the end of a corridor when they met by chance, parting at the doorway as they returned to their respective obligations. At least they had known where they were, and a certain melancholy gaiety had become so natural to them that he knew they had both enjoyed it: they had enjoyed their meetings and their partings, their resentments, their odd outcries of despair. He felt too ill to deal with the notion of aholiday. He groaned and turned restlessly, and she said to him, ‘How are you, darling? Wishing us safe back at home?’ He moaned again. ‘If we weren’t here,’ she said, approaching him – as he was dimly aware through the shut hot red lids of his eyes – ‘if we were back there, you’d just be looking in at the office to make sure I was there. And I would be. I always am.’
‘I feel ill,’ he said, ‘and it can’t be after ten, can it?’
‘I’ve been up for hours,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
Then she brought him a glass of water and he drank it, but still felt no better: she suggested, feebly and unpersuasively, that he stay in bed for the day, but fully
She gestured, with one bare foot, at the eiderdown arrangement under which they were expected to sleep. ‘Poor darling ,’ she said, with sudden conviction: and he knew as suddenly (such frail knowledge and how dare one ever presume or act upon it?) that it was herself she was pitying, that she was missing him there, cold and away from him, high and perched up, not daring to flatten herself to his level, fearing to expose and make party to the situation both himself and herself. The certainty that she was missing him made him feel so much better that he grabbed at her gesturing ankle, and she let it rest upon his chest, then gradually pulled herself towards him, and then it was all right: though afterwards, as she lay there breathless, soaked in his quite unnaturally cold sweat, she did murmur, ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have let you do it, I meant not to let you, it’s probably killed you and then I’llbe so sorry, but don’t you see, I couldn’t help it? I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t help it, you see.’
‘Why should you try to help it, when I want you so badly?’ he said, trying to wipe his face on the eiderdown, wishing there were some more conventional sheet available: but his heart was pounding, his chest creaking, his throat ravaged, and he recognized that, of course, though one would still do it if one had to die instantly afterwards, one would nevertheless, instantly afterwards, much prefer not to die.
‘Regretting it?’ she asked him, as he arranged her for sleep: but even as he protested, he knew that in another year he would have admitted it, he would have merely answered, ‘Yes.’ And who knows, she then might merely have held on to him a little tighter, or possibly, not impossibly, laughed. He had faith in such developments. One had to have faith; without it, what should one do? They, those two, he and she, they had nothing else.
When he woke in the morning, he could hardly open his eyes, and he could not speak. She was awake first: she always was, the rigorous routine of home never allowed her to sleep late. For too many years now she had risen early to get the child off to the Centre, the beds made and herself off to work. He lay there with his eyes shut, listening to her brush her teeth. He felt so dreadful that he half wished they were back in London, back in the comfortable, boring, frustrating grind of the average week, smiling at one another in the canteen, sharing a cigarette at the end of a corridor when they met by chance, parting at the doorway as they returned to their respective obligations. At least they had known where they were, and a certain melancholy gaiety had become so natural to them that he knew they had both enjoyed it: they had enjoyed their meetings and their partings, their resentments, their odd outcries of despair. He felt too ill to deal with the notion of aholiday. He groaned and turned restlessly, and she said to him, ‘How are you, darling? Wishing us safe back at home?’ He moaned again. ‘If we weren’t here,’ she said, approaching him – as he was dimly aware through the shut hot red lids of his eyes – ‘if we were back there, you’d just be looking in at the office to make sure I was there. And I would be. I always am.’
‘I feel ill,’ he said, ‘and it can’t be after ten, can it?’
‘I’ve been up for hours,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
Then she brought him a glass of water and he drank it, but still felt no better: she suggested, feebly and unpersuasively, that he stay in bed for the day, but fully
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