anguished attachments, and this was nearly always the way I intended it to be. I say nearly always because I do sometimes have these odd dreams. The dreams are of no interest in themselves, but they leave me wondering where they came from. In dreams I bear children, sink smiling into loving arms, fight my way out of empty rooms, and regularly drown. I wake up in a state of astonishment, and sometimes of fear, but I banish the memory of the dreams, of which no one knows anything. Telling dreams, like blaming one’s parents, or falling in love and making a fool of oneself, comes into my category of forbidden things.
And yet the ghastly Teddy, who was obviously even more used to this kind of thing than I was, but fortunately rather out of date, had singled me out. I felt almost ashamed until I realized that he was one of those old-fashioned men who think that a liberated woman is fair game and that she will only want a little masculineattention in order to turn back thankfully into the unreconstructed model. He probably thought he was being rather kind. Had I accepted his invitation I should no doubt have been subjected to a certain amount of propaganda, the same propaganda he had been using all his life in order to get women to change their minds, but virtuously backed up by a desire to make me see the light. Seduction to him would always be disguised as conversion, and I had no doubt that somewhere along the primrose path he would utter the words, ‘There’s a good girl!’ For with his grey conscience, he would look for easy conquests and turn them to good account, i.e. his own. And in some disreputable way this would be a matter for congratulation all round. I laughed when I recognized the stereotype, and wondered why it had taken me so long. I would know how to deal with the Colonel if he ever made the same mistake again.
Therefore I walked, in the muggy evenings, with the trees now dusty, the scent of petrol on the exhausted air, the streets enclosing me safely in their grids, their squares, their crescents; I passed on lightly in my landlocked freedom, my feet skimming the grey pavements, my hand occasionally stretching out to pluck a grimy leaf, my head quite free of reminiscence. Sometimes I covered miles in a single evening and returned home exhilarated rather than tired, rejoicing in the fact that I had found my old self intact, my wary enlightened self. The more I walked, the lighter I felt. I rarely saw the passing landscape. Most of the time I walked with head bent, hands in pockets, looking up only at occasional traffic lights, when I sensed rather than heard the bulk of an approaching bus, or when brought to a halt by a crowd of people emerging from a cinema. I liked these anonymous evenings and my feral wanderings: I liked to eat carelessly in Italian cafés with steam covering the windows, or drink coffee in the curious lounges of tourist hotels. Sometimes I would buy my supplies inthose Asian shops which are the last to close, and in which the exhausted owner, his eyes ringed with darker brown, would extend a languid hand to remove my purchases from my wire basket: some washing-up liquid, a packet of tea, two grapefruit and a couple of foreign newspapers. I would postpone my return to the flat for as long as I could: only when I trudged up the many stairs would I realize how far I had walked. But my exertions always ensured a good night’s sleep, without dreams of any kind.
It was a quiet summer. Eileen was on holiday in southern Turkey, so Robin and I manned the shop together. We got on extremely well, largely because neither of us spoke much to the other; our routines were so established, and we had known each other for so long, that there was not much need to speak. His odd appearance never bothered me, although customers often took him for some sort of caretaker. He dressed very formally in suits that looked as if they belonged to someone else and were vaguely crushed; I dare say he got them
And yet the ghastly Teddy, who was obviously even more used to this kind of thing than I was, but fortunately rather out of date, had singled me out. I felt almost ashamed until I realized that he was one of those old-fashioned men who think that a liberated woman is fair game and that she will only want a little masculineattention in order to turn back thankfully into the unreconstructed model. He probably thought he was being rather kind. Had I accepted his invitation I should no doubt have been subjected to a certain amount of propaganda, the same propaganda he had been using all his life in order to get women to change their minds, but virtuously backed up by a desire to make me see the light. Seduction to him would always be disguised as conversion, and I had no doubt that somewhere along the primrose path he would utter the words, ‘There’s a good girl!’ For with his grey conscience, he would look for easy conquests and turn them to good account, i.e. his own. And in some disreputable way this would be a matter for congratulation all round. I laughed when I recognized the stereotype, and wondered why it had taken me so long. I would know how to deal with the Colonel if he ever made the same mistake again.
Therefore I walked, in the muggy evenings, with the trees now dusty, the scent of petrol on the exhausted air, the streets enclosing me safely in their grids, their squares, their crescents; I passed on lightly in my landlocked freedom, my feet skimming the grey pavements, my hand occasionally stretching out to pluck a grimy leaf, my head quite free of reminiscence. Sometimes I covered miles in a single evening and returned home exhilarated rather than tired, rejoicing in the fact that I had found my old self intact, my wary enlightened self. The more I walked, the lighter I felt. I rarely saw the passing landscape. Most of the time I walked with head bent, hands in pockets, looking up only at occasional traffic lights, when I sensed rather than heard the bulk of an approaching bus, or when brought to a halt by a crowd of people emerging from a cinema. I liked these anonymous evenings and my feral wanderings: I liked to eat carelessly in Italian cafés with steam covering the windows, or drink coffee in the curious lounges of tourist hotels. Sometimes I would buy my supplies inthose Asian shops which are the last to close, and in which the exhausted owner, his eyes ringed with darker brown, would extend a languid hand to remove my purchases from my wire basket: some washing-up liquid, a packet of tea, two grapefruit and a couple of foreign newspapers. I would postpone my return to the flat for as long as I could: only when I trudged up the many stairs would I realize how far I had walked. But my exertions always ensured a good night’s sleep, without dreams of any kind.
It was a quiet summer. Eileen was on holiday in southern Turkey, so Robin and I manned the shop together. We got on extremely well, largely because neither of us spoke much to the other; our routines were so established, and we had known each other for so long, that there was not much need to speak. His odd appearance never bothered me, although customers often took him for some sort of caretaker. He dressed very formally in suits that looked as if they belonged to someone else and were vaguely crushed; I dare say he got them
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