senses. He folded his arms and looked at the screen. After a while, he was quite sure that he had seen the film before. He recognised crocodiles launching themselves into the muddy river and monkeys behaving satirically in trees. The story he could not have distinguished from many others so much the same – the humbling by love of a too rebellious young woman – and it was drawing towards its reassuring conclusion that, even if she triumphs over the rigours of the jungle, no woman escapes the doom of her sexuality: a satisfactory conclusion; no surprise to anyone.
Films never surprised Laurence, who sat through all of them in a daze of acceptance, not looking for them to have reference to any life he had known – school, or home, or Aldershot;certainly not that revelatory glimpse of life at Len’s in Ports-mouth. Although the cinema could never surprise him, his surroundings often did, and he was now astonished to find that the girl beside him, whom he had forgotten while he was adjusting himself to the film, was leaning heavily towards him, as far away as she could gather herself from the man on her other side. The air seemed to throb with uneasiness. Laurence could see the back of the man’s hand against her thigh, his foot groping for hers. Both man and girl looked almost desperately ahead of them at the screen: he to disguise his intentions; she, Laurence was sure, to hide her humiliation.
‘Would you like to change places?’ he suddenly asked.
Once, at school, he had extricated a younger boy from an unequal and bloody fight. The look of gratitude, the upward glance of relief and disbelief, had sickened him. Irritated by pity, shamed by feelings of grandeur and reluctantly appalled by the child’s suffering, he had for ever after avoided him, though the expression in his eyes he could not banish. The young girl looked at him now in the same way, but this time he felt excited and almost reckless.
They exchanged seats. He enjoyed enormously a feeling of having dominated a situation. He sat up very straight, his arms folded again across his chest. He looked stern and protective. The man beside him slumped away, sighed, and presently got up and went out.
When the lights came up for an interval, Laurence stretched his legs and yawned, taking no notice of the girl, as if to assure her of the disinterestedness of his chivalry. Organ music swelled up and he began to hum.
‘Thank you ever so much,’ the girl said primly.
He turned and smiled. He had never felt so confident.
‘You get more embarrassed than anything,’ she explained.
Under her eyes, her skin was a foxglove colour with goldenfreckles. The rest of her face was thickly powdered. All the same, holding her opened handbag up high so that she could peer into some cracked glass on its flap, she began to touch herself up with a grubby puff. Looking down over his shoulder, he observed the brisk, dispassionate way in which she repaired imaginary damage. She reminded him of Len’s young lady; but younger, more timid, prettier.
Philly slept until the afternoon. When she awoke, she was afraid, as she was always afraid of any alteration in her day. The roughness of the blanket in which she was wrapped frightened her. The light on the ceiling was not the light to which she usually awoke. Shadows, falling differently, gave a different look to the room, and she could not explain this to herself. Rose, not Emily, sat at the window. She turned her head, hearing Philly whimpering, and came over to the bed.
‘Are you better, darling?’ she asked in her bright, unloving voice.
Philly put her face pettishly to the pillow.
‘Do you want to get up?’
‘Shall I dress you?’
‘Would you like tea in bed?’
Her questions were like neat flicks of a whip, and they cut her, as well as her daughter, so that she longed to return to inanimate things – the scrubbed afternoon kitchen; trays ready for the drawing-room; kettles to be filled.
Philly had turned her
Films never surprised Laurence, who sat through all of them in a daze of acceptance, not looking for them to have reference to any life he had known – school, or home, or Aldershot;certainly not that revelatory glimpse of life at Len’s in Ports-mouth. Although the cinema could never surprise him, his surroundings often did, and he was now astonished to find that the girl beside him, whom he had forgotten while he was adjusting himself to the film, was leaning heavily towards him, as far away as she could gather herself from the man on her other side. The air seemed to throb with uneasiness. Laurence could see the back of the man’s hand against her thigh, his foot groping for hers. Both man and girl looked almost desperately ahead of them at the screen: he to disguise his intentions; she, Laurence was sure, to hide her humiliation.
‘Would you like to change places?’ he suddenly asked.
Once, at school, he had extricated a younger boy from an unequal and bloody fight. The look of gratitude, the upward glance of relief and disbelief, had sickened him. Irritated by pity, shamed by feelings of grandeur and reluctantly appalled by the child’s suffering, he had for ever after avoided him, though the expression in his eyes he could not banish. The young girl looked at him now in the same way, but this time he felt excited and almost reckless.
They exchanged seats. He enjoyed enormously a feeling of having dominated a situation. He sat up very straight, his arms folded again across his chest. He looked stern and protective. The man beside him slumped away, sighed, and presently got up and went out.
When the lights came up for an interval, Laurence stretched his legs and yawned, taking no notice of the girl, as if to assure her of the disinterestedness of his chivalry. Organ music swelled up and he began to hum.
‘Thank you ever so much,’ the girl said primly.
He turned and smiled. He had never felt so confident.
‘You get more embarrassed than anything,’ she explained.
Under her eyes, her skin was a foxglove colour with goldenfreckles. The rest of her face was thickly powdered. All the same, holding her opened handbag up high so that she could peer into some cracked glass on its flap, she began to touch herself up with a grubby puff. Looking down over his shoulder, he observed the brisk, dispassionate way in which she repaired imaginary damage. She reminded him of Len’s young lady; but younger, more timid, prettier.
Philly slept until the afternoon. When she awoke, she was afraid, as she was always afraid of any alteration in her day. The roughness of the blanket in which she was wrapped frightened her. The light on the ceiling was not the light to which she usually awoke. Shadows, falling differently, gave a different look to the room, and she could not explain this to herself. Rose, not Emily, sat at the window. She turned her head, hearing Philly whimpering, and came over to the bed.
‘Are you better, darling?’ she asked in her bright, unloving voice.
Philly put her face pettishly to the pillow.
‘Do you want to get up?’
‘Shall I dress you?’
‘Would you like tea in bed?’
Her questions were like neat flicks of a whip, and they cut her, as well as her daughter, so that she longed to return to inanimate things – the scrubbed afternoon kitchen; trays ready for the drawing-room; kettles to be filled.
Philly had turned her
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