herself, painfully, with a pair of dressmaking scissors. Donald went regularly, but to where she knew not, since his work took him sometimes far afield and he would usually visit a barber local to his job. Without giving herself the opportunity to hesitate, she entered the shop. A bell tinkled above her head as she did so, and the barber looked up from his newspaper. His hair was dark and thick, and stood up on end, like a boot brush. The shop was very bright, being lit by electricity, which burnt away in three large neon tubes hanging from the ceiling.
There must be other barbers who work in this place, Tory thought. Sometimes all four must be at work, busily shearing and shaving. Did they all deal in forbidden literature? she wondered. If not, was she now standing before the one barber who did? He seemed old and sage enough to be the owner, the employer of the other barbers, in which case it was more likely he who dealt out the filth. But looking at him, he didn’t seem the sort of man to be involved in such things. He was too clean and fatherly. There was a hint of kindness in his dark brown eyes.
‘Can I help you, madam?’
She looked quickly around the shop, as if there might be a clue in her surroundings. Four mirrors, four washbasins, each strewn with shaving and hair-cutting paraphernalia, little bottles of oils and lotions with silver spouts, clustered like the bottles of liquor in a cocktail cabinet, electric-powered clippers hanging on hooks with their cables dangling beneath them, scissors, cutthroats, strops. The bitter stench of perfumed alcohol stung her eyes.
Tory had been there a minute without speaking.
‘I was just wondering …’ she stammered, her eyes drawn to a little montage of photographs that adorned one of the mirrors, of film stars in revealing costumes, long legs and coy glances over shoulders. Here was the mirror of the barber who dealt in pornography, surely. But it was not the mirror of the barber she was talking to now – she could tell it had not been used recently. ‘I mean I was wondering if you sell …’ Betty Grable seemed to wink at her.
‘I’m sorry, I seem to have made a mistake,’ Tory muttered, and left, clumsily mishandling the door on the way out so that the bell rang louder and longer than necessary.
At home she collapsed, exhausted, in her study, and noticed, for the first time, that she had been crying on the long walk home. She dried her tears with trembling hands. She looked at her parents’ engagement photo (had the expressions now changed from shock to pity?) and said to herself, ‘I will never be able to do this thing that is asked of me.’
*
The house in which she had grown up contained few books. Donald was a great reader, but he used the library. There was a small bookcase in the sitting room of volumes that were mostly her father’s. There was a complete set of Walter Scott, which she could not remember anyone ever reading, and there was a collection of poetry by James Montgomery. There were some editions of an accountancy journal, and some books of history, which, again, seemed forever unread. Tory knelt before the bookcase, fingering each volume, extracting some for a brief examination, a glance at the title page, or the first few lines of Chapter One, each of which only seemed to emphasize the rigidly correct and sexually modest nature of the prose within. Oh, Father, Tory said to herself, I don’t even know why I’m looking at your library. How could I possibly think I might find what I’m looking for here? And it was then that she came across a book she hadn’t noticed before. It was called Sorrell and Son , and the author was Warwick Deeping. She recognized the name but she had no idea what the novel was about. She only knew that it was a ‘modern’ novel, and that it was very popular. At one time she seemed to remember people everywhere talking about it, and she had the vaguest notion that it was somewhat ‘racy’.
Her heart filled
There must be other barbers who work in this place, Tory thought. Sometimes all four must be at work, busily shearing and shaving. Did they all deal in forbidden literature? she wondered. If not, was she now standing before the one barber who did? He seemed old and sage enough to be the owner, the employer of the other barbers, in which case it was more likely he who dealt out the filth. But looking at him, he didn’t seem the sort of man to be involved in such things. He was too clean and fatherly. There was a hint of kindness in his dark brown eyes.
‘Can I help you, madam?’
She looked quickly around the shop, as if there might be a clue in her surroundings. Four mirrors, four washbasins, each strewn with shaving and hair-cutting paraphernalia, little bottles of oils and lotions with silver spouts, clustered like the bottles of liquor in a cocktail cabinet, electric-powered clippers hanging on hooks with their cables dangling beneath them, scissors, cutthroats, strops. The bitter stench of perfumed alcohol stung her eyes.
Tory had been there a minute without speaking.
‘I was just wondering …’ she stammered, her eyes drawn to a little montage of photographs that adorned one of the mirrors, of film stars in revealing costumes, long legs and coy glances over shoulders. Here was the mirror of the barber who dealt in pornography, surely. But it was not the mirror of the barber she was talking to now – she could tell it had not been used recently. ‘I mean I was wondering if you sell …’ Betty Grable seemed to wink at her.
‘I’m sorry, I seem to have made a mistake,’ Tory muttered, and left, clumsily mishandling the door on the way out so that the bell rang louder and longer than necessary.
At home she collapsed, exhausted, in her study, and noticed, for the first time, that she had been crying on the long walk home. She dried her tears with trembling hands. She looked at her parents’ engagement photo (had the expressions now changed from shock to pity?) and said to herself, ‘I will never be able to do this thing that is asked of me.’
*
The house in which she had grown up contained few books. Donald was a great reader, but he used the library. There was a small bookcase in the sitting room of volumes that were mostly her father’s. There was a complete set of Walter Scott, which she could not remember anyone ever reading, and there was a collection of poetry by James Montgomery. There were some editions of an accountancy journal, and some books of history, which, again, seemed forever unread. Tory knelt before the bookcase, fingering each volume, extracting some for a brief examination, a glance at the title page, or the first few lines of Chapter One, each of which only seemed to emphasize the rigidly correct and sexually modest nature of the prose within. Oh, Father, Tory said to herself, I don’t even know why I’m looking at your library. How could I possibly think I might find what I’m looking for here? And it was then that she came across a book she hadn’t noticed before. It was called Sorrell and Son , and the author was Warwick Deeping. She recognized the name but she had no idea what the novel was about. She only knew that it was a ‘modern’ novel, and that it was very popular. At one time she seemed to remember people everywhere talking about it, and she had the vaguest notion that it was somewhat ‘racy’.
Her heart filled
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