at the thought that her own house might contain the very sort of book she had been looking for, and later that evening, after writing her usual letters to the children, she began reading it.
She was quickly absorbed by the story and soon discovered why it was thought to be racy. Betrayed by his wife, the elder Sorrell devotes his life to providing for his only son, often taking lowly work in order to do so – he polishes shoes in a provincial hotel, he becomes a gardener. Reflecting on his wife Dora, he remembers ‘She was not a bad woman, only a highly-sexed one, and [he] had never satisfied her sex and its various desires …’ This in itself was enough to shock Tory. What on earth was such a book doing in the house? Whose was it? Her father’s or Mrs Head’s? And what did Sorrell mean by ‘various desires’? She read on. Unfortunately, the language never went into any more detail. Sexuality was acknowledged but never described. The younger Sorrell, as he grew up, seemed to see women, perhaps in the light of his mother’s life, as beastly seductresses, who exercised an unholy fascination and possessed a damnable beauty. ‘I can’t help it, Pater, but women are the very devil …’ When he does meet a more agreeable woman, Mary, a seller of theatre programmes, Tory became hopeful that a sex scene might follow, but was rather disappointed when it came, describing Kit ‘plucking the red fruit from time to time, to find the juice of it sadder and less sweet’. Shortly afterwards Mary was flattened by a bus.
Tory found herself examining that phrase – plucking the red fruit – over and over again. She wondered how juice could be sad. Plucking the red fruit, she supposed, meant kissing, but which part of the body? The lips, one must suppose but, then again, maybe the sad juices came from other places. Dare she think that low? Dare she write to Donald, ‘ I would have you pluck my red fruit, dearest (and I don’t mean my lips) .’ Would that do?
She tried reading more. She went back to the library and looked up more of Warwick Deeping’s books. She found one that sounded promising – The Pride of Eve , which sounded like something scandalous starring Bette Davis and brought to mind temptresses in dark lipstick. It lacked a ‘For Adults Only’ stamp, however, and she was greatly disappointed when it turned out to concern the plight of a struggling female artist and her relationship with a married man who adores flowers. Tory soon realized that all the sex in the novel was contained in the flowers that filled the married man’s garden. The censoring librarian had either missed this or had deemed floral writhing an acceptable substitute for sex. It was a metaphor that appealed to Tory. Almost immediately she tried applying the technique herself.
Darling, imagine me as a sagging crimson rose that wants watering. Imagine yourself as a gardener, walking up the path to my dry rose bed, with a watering-can, full to the lip with water. Now think of yourself pouring your water over me, imagine the beads of it falling into the crimson folds of my petals, seeping right down into the centre of my flowerhead. Imagine me drinking it all up, quenching my great thirst on your thousands of white pearls …
Tory wasn’t quite sure what she had written there, and even as she posted it she pondered over what, exactly, was happening between the gardener and his rose. It had seemed simple enough to start with. But she shrugged off the meaning, satisfied and astonished, even, that she had managed, without using a single rude word, to write something so erotically charged. Moreover, the writing itself did something quite peculiar to her. She felt a warmth in the lower parts of her body, so sudden and intense that it quite shocked her. She had to go to the ewer and baste herself with cold water.
But she dreaded Donald’s reply. It came as swiftly as usual, and was quite unforgiving:
I did not ask you for an essay on the art of
She was quickly absorbed by the story and soon discovered why it was thought to be racy. Betrayed by his wife, the elder Sorrell devotes his life to providing for his only son, often taking lowly work in order to do so – he polishes shoes in a provincial hotel, he becomes a gardener. Reflecting on his wife Dora, he remembers ‘She was not a bad woman, only a highly-sexed one, and [he] had never satisfied her sex and its various desires …’ This in itself was enough to shock Tory. What on earth was such a book doing in the house? Whose was it? Her father’s or Mrs Head’s? And what did Sorrell mean by ‘various desires’? She read on. Unfortunately, the language never went into any more detail. Sexuality was acknowledged but never described. The younger Sorrell, as he grew up, seemed to see women, perhaps in the light of his mother’s life, as beastly seductresses, who exercised an unholy fascination and possessed a damnable beauty. ‘I can’t help it, Pater, but women are the very devil …’ When he does meet a more agreeable woman, Mary, a seller of theatre programmes, Tory became hopeful that a sex scene might follow, but was rather disappointed when it came, describing Kit ‘plucking the red fruit from time to time, to find the juice of it sadder and less sweet’. Shortly afterwards Mary was flattened by a bus.
Tory found herself examining that phrase – plucking the red fruit – over and over again. She wondered how juice could be sad. Plucking the red fruit, she supposed, meant kissing, but which part of the body? The lips, one must suppose but, then again, maybe the sad juices came from other places. Dare she think that low? Dare she write to Donald, ‘ I would have you pluck my red fruit, dearest (and I don’t mean my lips) .’ Would that do?
She tried reading more. She went back to the library and looked up more of Warwick Deeping’s books. She found one that sounded promising – The Pride of Eve , which sounded like something scandalous starring Bette Davis and brought to mind temptresses in dark lipstick. It lacked a ‘For Adults Only’ stamp, however, and she was greatly disappointed when it turned out to concern the plight of a struggling female artist and her relationship with a married man who adores flowers. Tory soon realized that all the sex in the novel was contained in the flowers that filled the married man’s garden. The censoring librarian had either missed this or had deemed floral writhing an acceptable substitute for sex. It was a metaphor that appealed to Tory. Almost immediately she tried applying the technique herself.
Darling, imagine me as a sagging crimson rose that wants watering. Imagine yourself as a gardener, walking up the path to my dry rose bed, with a watering-can, full to the lip with water. Now think of yourself pouring your water over me, imagine the beads of it falling into the crimson folds of my petals, seeping right down into the centre of my flowerhead. Imagine me drinking it all up, quenching my great thirst on your thousands of white pearls …
Tory wasn’t quite sure what she had written there, and even as she posted it she pondered over what, exactly, was happening between the gardener and his rose. It had seemed simple enough to start with. But she shrugged off the meaning, satisfied and astonished, even, that she had managed, without using a single rude word, to write something so erotically charged. Moreover, the writing itself did something quite peculiar to her. She felt a warmth in the lower parts of her body, so sudden and intense that it quite shocked her. She had to go to the ewer and baste herself with cold water.
But she dreaded Donald’s reply. It came as swiftly as usual, and was quite unforgiving:
I did not ask you for an essay on the art of
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