Laura

CHAPTER FIVE

I would have my life be ever a becoming, moving towards the occurring, the self-transcending. A sound of frying reaches my ears, more blandishing to the hearing than in its oral effects. I would rather have the girl's tongue in my mouth.

A drawing room that is far too small to be called such is opened up to me through a door as mean in aspect as all else about me. The room is called, as I gather, the “living room.” How peculiar. Folding doors laid back give way to a dining space. The carpets are frayed at the edges, worn down by unspeakable feet. An occasional table purports to hide a bare patch near the side of the fireplace where someone has too often stood.

“There's fish-you like fish, don't you, always did.”

The woman appears. I cannot call her other than that. Unanswering, I gaze into the fireplace where the dust lies thick on unburned logs. Sad the scorched fragments of coal beneath. There is evidently no maid. I have nothing to reply.

“You can tell me about it afterwards, Laura, that's what you can. When he's done with you. Edward-come in and give her a buss.”

From behind her he appears, lank but tidy, a man in his thirties who sports a moustache of furtive and uncertain shape. Skirting the woman as if she were an unwanted statue or a piece of furniture moved at hazard to the wrong position, he places his arms about me in a wooden manner, his expression that of a sheet of paper that waits to be written on. A kiss neither warm nor cold is bestowed on my mouth.

“Jenny, you take her up. That dress I bought-bought special for her-you know what I mean. And the drawers and stockings.”

Edward stands unspeaking, surveying me as if I might be an unfinished carving. His hand makes a single essay about my bottom and then retires. I go forward with Jenny, as I now know her to be called. The rooms, I hope, are not all unclean. I shall bathe at the hotel.

“Have her quick upstairs, Edward, if you want. I shall say nothing. He never notices-never does.” The woman's voice. No movement occurs. We attain the landing and turn into a bedroom that encloses but a double bed of uneasy aspect, a chair, a washstand and a gaunt wardrobe. Our feet make a pattering sound upon the linoleum. For some reason the room is called “the front one.” At home we do not distinguish rooms in this way, no doubt because we have so many more.

“Undress quick.” Jenny's voice is nervous. A curiosity takes me.

“He has you, too, now?” I add the word indicative of Time in my seeking.

“Often enough, when she don't know. Oh, you and your pretending! More often than seldom when you're not here. Lor', your chemise-ain't it nice! Keep it on, oh, keep it on, do, it frills out nice. I don't know why you ask these things. It was the same at our last house.”

“Yes, I know.”

I want to be rid of her, to see myself in the speckled mirror above the washstand, but it is not allowed. My drawers removed, replaced by brown ones of inferior quality; the stockings that sheathe my thighs also brown, and with coarser threads than any I have worn before.

“You've got more curls around your thing, Laura.”

“No doubt-they have been watered more.”

“You're a dirty one, you really are. All ready, then? It'll be a nice night of it if you don't fuss. Don't tie your drawers too tight or he'll tear them.”

“I don't mind. It is rather pleasing to have them torn off. Didn't we used to, both of us?”

“I knew you remembered, you and your questions, pretending asking. You always knew how to get round me so you could have it first.”

“Jenny-if it were midnight and we were at Brighton, we could walk the beach by the chain pier in our bare feet, feel for the roundest pebbles with our toes, play with the locks of closed doors along the promenade and hear the little cries within. Then we could do it with him under the arches, all quiet, saltspray of the sea at our nostrils. Wouldn't you like that?”

“When you talk like this, Laura, I don't know what. You're not going to struggle tonight, are you?”

“I do sometimes-sometimes I don't.”

“You two come down now! He's a-coming along the street.” The woman's call. I hasten, not knowing why I do. Perhaps this is a game and I must reach a certain square on the board before he. My square becomes the dining space. The chairs are commonplace, the varnish worn. Bread already cut and buttered stands beside our plates. What a curious thing! I perceive no fish knives nor wineglasses.

“Straighten yourself, Laura. Draw your skirt up-he likes to see your knees.”

I obey the woman. Jenny imitates my movements, though not bidden to. I uncover myself to mid-thighs. Edward sits opposite with her and cannot see, though I mind not if he does. The woman bustles back and forth. Fried fish is produced on a large, flowered platter, chipped around the edges, together with a bowl of steaming, floury potatoes. The effect is nauseating. The front door has opened-heavy footsteps have made themselves known in the hall. They ascend, thump all about overhead like those of a grenadier and then approach.

“Have her upstairs? Did you? Have her?”

The woman's words peck rapidly at Edward. He shakes his head. An unease of craftiness sits in his eyes. I see no traces in him-nor indeed any hope-of the anger of which Jenny spoke. He looses it perhaps only in the dark places; hands incoherent with desire, he dare not bring into the light.

The man enters, a wraith of evident substance at my back. I do not turn. Having taken but a disdainful mouthful, and that too much, I return my knife and fork to the plate. His hands come upon my shoulders with a shock of weight. Ever be calm and receive. Descending, his fingers feel, fondle, and palpitate my breasts.

“She's all right, then?” His voice is nondescript.

“Ain't said nothing-ain't told nothing-nor to Jenny either. She don't like the food-good food it is-you can see that, you can tell she don't.”

“Been missing it, that's what she has. Been missing it, my lovely, haven't you?”

His joviality offends. His hands glide beneath my armpits where he expects perhaps to find moisture. There is none. Not yet. I am drawn up, backwards pulled, chair scraping, held at such an angle with my back to his chest that I have no point of resistance even if I sought one.

“Her skirt should have been up more.”

Breasts cupped by his hands, held helpless and inert, my eyes flare over those who sit and stare.

“Get the chair away,” he grumbles. Jenny's eyes scurry all about. My torso twists, though not violently. I am not minded to reject nor over-strongly to receive.

“I told you, Laura, you see. You wouldn't listen.” Jenny has risen, come to me, pushes the chair away and hoists my skirts to my waist.

The woman giggles, nudges Edward, nods.

No-no-no-no, I do not want. They will watch. The woman's eyes have a dirty look. I have never been watched. My hips squirm, writhe, the chair no longer my protector. I feel his bigness, his arising, against my knick-ered moon, pushed, propelled through the folded doors to a high-backed chair over which I am slung so that only my bottom, legs, are visible to them.

“Leave me!”

I grit the words and yet but in my mind. I shall not wail. Hands work at my drawers. I know them to be Jenny's, I know her breathing, the touch of her fingertips, tapered, resilient. The maroon cushion of the chair snuffles at my nose.

“Get it out for me, Jenny. Undo the buttons.”

“Oh, you're hard-he isn't half hard!” A giggle of a sort, though rather a puffball of a sound.

“All right-I've got her. Let's have you, Laura.” A growl in his voice, chasing at the heels of his words.

I am poised, at pillage, my legs straight in their brown stockings, laced boots. I see not Jenny nor Edward nor the woman, for I carry no images of them in my mind. A smack! My cheeks ripple and contract under the impact of his palm.

“Come on-get your legs open-you know I like your legs open.”

There have ever been ceremonies until now. Persuasions at the least by rote of words-masterful-quiet- by annotations and exegeses of hands moving with irresistible certainty up my legs. Silence is itself a ceremony when two move in concord. Even though I have tremored, hid my eyes, been turned about, bent over, and stilled, it has never been before others. That there might be a certain excitement in the prospect I do not in this moment deny. The moment, however, is not propitious. Insnorting of my breath. I feel his pego at my groove.

“Go on, Jenny-let Edward do it to you.”

The woman from the background speaks. Must the woman speak now? I care not for their invisible circus. A clattering of plates. Knives clink. How absurd the circumstance. A whine from Jenny: “Edward! Not so quick!”

Mouth open, I am entered, the knob thick-pulsing, surging up. My fingers on the cushion straighten, stretch. A yielding of my rubbery, my wrinkled, my receiver. A moan. I am undone upon that moan. A cry would fly from me-he rams full in, my cheeks in homage to his belly pressed. I hide my face, grimace, rotate my hips, then shamed at passion's loosing, still myself while Jenny is agog, at sea, something invisible is breached.

“I got you now-you know I got you now. Tight as you ever was. Hold still!”

Flirt-fumbling of his fingers at my quim-I, butterfly, the known, the unknown, am pinned. My prodder pants, groans-utters groans-draws out his steaming rod, re-enters, jerks. He has no stateliness nor poise. No fluttering of pigeons' wings, no gathering of aunts upon the stairs- not here-my bottom bulbing to his belly made to smack.

A knock sounds! Rattles echoe through the hall, pervade the dark suburban sanctuary of sin. A squall from Jenny, then a coarser cry.

“Oh Jesus Christ, oh gawd, oh lawks-now who'd be coming here?”

We like automatons are stilled. He hesitates in palpitating plunge.

“Edward! Get off her, off! You fool, it ain't the time for it, I'll go. Gawd, close the door, the door I tell you!”

The panic amuses. I had begun to enjoy. He, nervous, has withdrawn, as Edward has. I feel my emptiness-rise, turn, survey. Long have I wished to see the male in this condition, this pausing, this attrition. The view is sordid; not without excitement. Jenny all a-tumble totters, falls. Into a chair, her feet awry. Her face bears evidence of sin-the table an abandoned, ugly look, uncared for. As looks the man. He is in mid-life, as suspected, his prong a barber's pole of lust. His face is lined and heavy jowled. His eyes, black browed, are meaningless, dark holes in snow that crumble to the woman's quick return. She leans against the door as barricade.

“A gentleman, that's what. Says she's to go.”

“Ho yes?” He hesitates as if chewing upon the matter, then moves into the dining space, stands over Jenny, penis impudent. An insolence of superiority comes upon me as I watch. Seated, head inclined, she gapes.

“I ain't going to have it in my mouth, though, I ain't. Shut the doors. She ain't never seen us at it-you know she ain't.”

Her nod is to the woman and not I. His shirttail flaps, his trousers held. The condition of the male so seen is best not seen. It inclines to comedy, yet has its fascinations. There is a ruttishness about it which invites. Edward stands as one neither admonished nor praised, his erection viewed. I regard it not with favour. The doors are closed, I in a small space bound, smaller than our linen room at home.

“Nothing untoward happened. You wont say anything untoward happened? You was always all right before- here before you was.”

The woman tugs at my sleeve.

“My trunks must be removed. See that it is done. Summon the cabbie.”

“Nothing untoward-eh? What do you say?”

She is best ignored. Whether I leave in brown or black is of no moment. I restore my drawers more slowly than she would wish, before her going. The doorhandle rattles loose to my grasp and is not easily turned. There is grease upon it in addition to its looseness. The light in the hall is extinguished-an invasion feared. I advance without and encounter my uncle, who waits as might a postman on the path.

“They are coarse people.” Uncertainty tiptoes in his speaking.

“Shall we sit within-in the cab? I shall change upon arrival. Do you know where to go?”

A hotel close by Harrods. It is known to your aunt and I.”

“The Dover off Southampton Row would suit me better.”

“If you prefer it.” He nods, fumbles for a cigar. I have not questioned his coming, nor he my presence. He has not forgotten perhaps that he was summoned once for the birching of his factory wench.