Her Victory (20 page)

Her breasts responded when she placed her palms over them. They had never been big, though she loved them because stroking the warm circle of corrugated flesh around the nipples calmed her. During a bath she could lift and soothe each in turn, and love the body that belonged to her alone. No longer sleeping with someone she didn't love, she felt herself more attractive in the sight of other people when walking the streets. Going to the shops, a grey-haired elderly gas-fitter with a well-lined face whistled softly from a tent erected over a hole in the pavement. He was being ironic, aiming his call at her, even cruel, for a man of his age would wolf-signal anyone, though on the way back he was standing on the pavement, and had looked with more serious interest as she had passed.

Imagining things! But who would want her? It didn't even matter. When she put on the table-lamp her body that she had never much considered lengthened in shadow. The body had cared for her, and rarely made her ill. Aches didn't matter. Pains would go away before a day was out, and if they didn't, and you fainted or screamed, then something was wrong, though it might only be ‘a bit of a turn'. She had ignored her body because it hadn't belonged entirely to her, so perhaps she was still lucky to be alive on suddenly acknowledging that at long last it did.

Her white stomach had softened. She crossed arms and caressed each shoulder, she and her body in the same world at last. She would walk more, and decide what work to get. You couldn't live for ever in London, so there must be something for her to do, and if not, there was a bigger world beyond, providing she mustered the energy to push into it.

Such speculations were not material to go to bed on. Her fingers parted the inner lips, and smoothed in a rhythm till an indescribable feeling convulsed her. But she resisted the impulse to rub until the end, suspending her fingers till normal breathing came back, when she drew both legs into the chair before closing her eyes.

The only wall beyond the shape of her own body was the enclosing border of her mind, within which she was beginning to perceive secrets till now concealed, yet still not to be clearly divined in case they sowed chaos and nothing else. Frightened, she would be satisfied with no more than a glimpse of those secrets, hoping that by the time full clarity came she would be willing and strong enough to accept them. From dying alone at the brick-end of a tunnel, like a coward evading all problems, she was recovering within her own warm tent of self-love. The final act was, for better or worse, impossible to resist. Intense and prolonged pleasure drove out shame, and was overwhelming.

Startled by someone treading up the stairs, she quickly put on her dressing-gown. Whoever it was was either vast in weight or carried heavy luggage – and must therefore be a man. The landing floor creaked. Suitcases thudded on to the boards, and keys jingled. He muttered in anger while sorting out the one that mattered. She put a hand over her breasts, as if to stop her heart bursting. He was a few feet away, and she couldn't be sure that the key wouldn't be pushed into her lock, and the door swing open. She stepped across and put on the latch, though any firm tap would smash the lot. What would she do if he did? Fight, scream, cry for George, and raise the street with sounds of murder and mayhem? She felt apprehensive, inexplicably guilty, but no real fear.

He cursed at so many keys packed into one bunch, and perhaps, she thought, at not having used the vital one for so long. In the darkness he couldn't sort them out. She heard a match strike, and hadn't known that such prolonged swearing was possible. He had burned his hand.

The key went into the lock. His door hit the wall, and he dragged the suitcases in. The almost biblical rhythm to his cursing both fascinated and appalled, yet made her less fearful, since the
tone
of his voice held no threat. The slamming of his door vibrated the house.

She was afraid to get into bed. He was moving about. She felt as if he had no right to do so, wanted to knock on the wall and tell him to turn his radio down but, as if he had picked up her thoughts, the noise decreased to become hardly audible. Unlike other nights, sleep seemed neither important nor necessary, even though it was past midnight and she had to be out early in the morning. The day had been good, and she didn't want it to finish. But she got into bed and, on waking up, couldn't remember a time when she had gone so quickly into oblivion.

22

She put a spoonful of coffee and two of sugar in the dry mug, and boiling water sent a tideline to the top, and was too hot for her lips. She took orange juice from the cupboard, some bread, a pot of jam and a saucer of butter. She went downstairs to the toilet in her dressing-gown, leaving her door open. If anyone was so poor as to want whatever was inside they were welcome. The radio was still on in the next room, but only at the same low pitch as last night. He had either gone to sleep and forgotten it, or he liked such moaning through his dreams.

The orange juice was sour, and went down the sink. She threw the crushed carton into the cardboard wastepaper box. Her small wireless sent out the five-minute news in a Donald Duck squawk: industrial stoppages, terrorist assassins killing innocent people, an air disaster, a financial scandal, a by-election with the Tories back, and a pub-yard slanging match between Russia and China, loud-mouthed notifications that had no reality, unless it was you being bombed, shot, kidnapped or burnt to death. If it happened to you it would only be news to other people, and therefore the sort of story you could well do without.

She switched off, and wrote a shopping list on a piece of cardboard: food to be bought, a newspaper to scour for jobs, tampons, a roll of wide sellotape (no, she had got that already), and more coins for the gas, though there was a demon jar full of them on the shelf with angled blue eyes, crooked lips, and fair hair.

The sky was clear, a cold day good to walk in. She would get ten pounds from her post office account, leaving a hundred and thirty. When it whittled to nothing she would not apply for National Assistance. It was worse than death to go begging at government offices where you filled in forms and had all sorts of questions asked. She'd heard Bert, Alf and Harry laughing over it many a time. That's what it must be like to be a beggar, because people in such places always turned you into one. They might not want to, but it was their job, and that's what happened. If you could no longer stand on your own two feet there was only one way to take care of yourself.

Impossible to find ease in the world, but she enjoyed her coffee, and bread and butter. She couldn't go out, even though she also needed a new tub of cold cream to put on her drying skin; but would look at the changing sky while staying in her own safe body. Or she would appear her most responsible at the interview for an office job. Not much chance. They would want a young girl whose legs and bosom they could stare at while she typed. Get work in a chemist's, stationer's, newsagent's, or maybe in Selfridges. She had noticed women the same age, shape, height and aspect as herself – a bit more style perhaps, but that wasn't hard to acquire. Yes; madam, can I help you? Would you kindly put that pair of knickers back on the counter (and that nice Indian headscarf – or is it Italian?) or go to the cash desk and pay for them?

The room spun. She stopped dancing. She put on her best underwear, her smartest skirt and blouse, and zipped up her leather boots. On turning to her favourite mirror nothing looked back. She combed her hair, losing a strand of grey among the brown. If George's mob came on a thieving expedition she would call for the floorwalker and have them chased off. That tall one there: he's got ten tubes of lipstick in the inside pocket of his overcoat. Yes, that's him. Looks like a ferret – or will soon enough. The poacher's pocket, I think they call it. Full of stuff he's stolen. If I don't, and they get caught, they'll swear I said it was all right for them to loot. Then I would get hauled to court. Oh yes, I saw them. I saw them once in fact at a fancy-dress night at the Railway Club, when Alf went – no, it was Bert, of course – decked as a tall woman with a battered face and short grey hair wearing a fur coat. He walked across to George and showed his white satin blouse, and stockings held up by suspenders. The men chaffed him, and the women said how handsome
she
was, and later when everybody got drunk he did a striptease down to his jockstrap, and then changed into ordinary clothes which Alf had brought in a plastic bag. They kicked the women's clothes around the hall, a frolic which ended by Harry getting into a fight with the man who ran the place.

She put ten coins in the gas. Cold in here. She took the extra-wide tape and stood on a chair to close the window. Don't like it. She ate a hearty breakfast when the game was up. The day couldn't be finer for a trip to Ancient China. The transparent paper stuck to her wrist, but she pulled the band free and pressed it firm between wood and wood to keep out the air. In a few weeks it wouldn't be possible. Better now than never. Don't like it here, but where could she like it except nowhere?

She stepped down, satisfied at the job, and threw the empty reel on the floor. The curtains were drawn flick-flick and the light put on. Don't cry, don't cry, or you'll wash out the sky. To write a letter would take what life was left, and she couldn't wait. There was too much to say, and what she couldn't explain to herself was no use telling George or Edward, who wouldn't want to listen. There were too many tales in the world, and too many people who didn't want to hear them, so what was the world for except to get out of?

She was happy. Never been happier. She sang, picked up the brush and dustpan to make sure the mat in front of the fire was so clean you could eat your dinner off it. It was a hap-hap-happy day. That's what she had come down to, whether it was wrong or not. It would be squalid to do it at home. She would do it in peace. That's why she had left. Save all the bother.

She put on the multi-coloured woolly hat and faced the mirror. She couldn't smile. The hat wouldn't do for such a day, so she hid it under the pillow of the made bed, and hoped it wouldn't come out and insist on being where it was supposed to be. She didn't want to, and not look nice. Only her best was good enough. She had been brought up always to be clean and look smart when she was going wherever it was and for whoever she was setting out to see.

None of the hats suited her today. Not a single one. Wouldn't have to matter. Perhaps it wasn't the occasion for a hat, and in any case there were some things you couldn't be bothered with at such a time, though she admitted it was a pity, and wasn't it about time she got going, otherwise it would be too late and she might not do it, and then where would she be?

There was no trouble. The floor was an easy comfort to her back as her bones dissolved and lay restful and flat after a hundred years of breathing. The bars of the gas fire were cold from their all-night holiday when she had warmed herself in bed with dreams that hadn't left her alone. Her hand reached and turned the tap full on. If it seemed the only thing to do, why not do it? Didn't like it enough to stay anywhere. The hiss was comforting.

PART TWO

Home from the Sea

1

Tom resisted god-damning it when the strap of his suitcase snapped, for such words did no good. Laying everything on his bunk he found a spare belt which, though thin, would hold. During the last few minutes of peace on board he sat with knees apart and quietly smoked, listening to the
Fidelio
Overture and thinking that such music heralded a fine bout of freedom.

Signed-off and paid-up, and through the Customs, who took nothing off him, he went ashore and had supper at the Bull Hotel. Three of the crew were already eating. Tom nodded, and got a smile from one who then turned to go on talking with the others.

The roast beef was like damp cardboard, and all the vegetables (including the potatoes) tasted the same and were too soft. He drank a pint of beer for better nourishment, though neither did that satisfy. The cloth napkin was well ironed, but not perfectly clean. A lifetime spent on the lift and fall of knotted planks was over at last, a fact that might have been something to write home about if he had ever had one except the kind that was called an orphanage.

The waitress brought a double whisky, which he had not asked for. She pointed to the other table, and the men looked at him. ‘A goodbye drink for you, sir!'

A white rain blistered the pavement, and thrummed on the station roof. Water made him thirsty, and water made him piss, except when underfoot and full of grit on pavement, wharf or station platform. Luggage at his feet, and mackintosh open, he reached for his wallet. The sea is a place where angels fear to tread, and he supposed even Jesus just about made the shore.

‘A first-class ticket to London – single.'

No, I'm not going for a dirty weekend, he might have added, nor have I been here for one. I keep a monk's berth in town for my excess clobber while I'm at sea, but that's none of your monkey business, shipmate.

There was no ‘First-class to London? Yes sir!' but a pudding-faced stare and cash slapped down to emphasize that the ensuing silence could go on for ever for all he cared. A Force-Niner pushing from behind had made a hard ride up Channel, and meant no easy job sliding into that concrete embrace of mother earth. You can push around the shoulder in the wind's teeth, but it's another matter when you get kicked at speed like a football to make that turn to port through the eye of a needle. But the Old Man had done it as he always did. They were in, and he was out, had chosen to make his last trip at fifty. From now on land and idleness would be his lot, and he anticipated filling the emptiness with only the good things of his choice.

You could laugh at dirty weather on land, watch its worst from behind the glass of a train window. He set his cap on the next seat, folded his mackintosh and put up his cases. The padded shoulder-bag containing sextant, deckwatch and short-wave radio, needed no more but never to be parted from, stayed by his feet.