Pat Barker - Life Class

Then he talked for the first time about the hospital. She lay on his chest and felt the vibration his voice made, not listening; not wanting to know. One word kept recurring: Lewis this, Lewis that, Lewis the other.

‘Am I going to meet this Lewis?’

He seemed surprised. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Yes, why not?’

This is where his life was now. She remembered how he’d smiled as she talked about her life in London, the painting, the exhibitions, the Café Royal, the Slade — like somebody looking through the windows of a dolls’ house.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve gone on a bit. It’s just there’s nobody to talk to here.’

‘Lewis?’ she said, her tone now frankly ironical.

‘You don’t talk about the hospital when you come off duty.’ He lay and thought, started to say something, ended by laughing. ‘Do you know, at the end of a shift we sometimes just sit in silence?’

‘You could always paint.’

‘What, a man peeing out of the hole where his penis used to be? Oh, yes, a great demand for that.’

‘No, other things. Landscapes. The things you used to paint.’

‘No, it’s all a mess, I don’t know what to do with it. Anyway, we’d better get some sleep.’

He rolled over and kissed her, and they made love again, more gently, lingering, taking time. Only at the end did he turn his face away. Afterwards, they lay back to back, their spines touching, like a butterfly, she thought. Their spines were its body, their arms and legs its wings. She could feel his hands all over her now, even when he wasn’t touching her, as if they’d left a permanent imprint on her skin. She was thinking about this, trying to find the words to express it, but it was too much trouble to open her mouth, and an instant later she must have drifted off to sleep, because when she opened her eyes again the fire was out and grey rainy light was leaking under the skimped curtains, finding the little puddles of clothes they’d left on the floor.

She turned over and found him still asleep. He’d turned to face her so the butterfly they’d made together was already broken, before she moved. She lay and listened to his breathing, a little whistle at the end of every breath. His arm was flung across his face — he hid himself, even in sleep — and it came to her that he didn’t love her at all. The conviction was absolute for about one moment, then began to soften with the strengthening light.

He woke abruptly, going from sleep to complete wakefulness in a second, like an animal alert for danger. Almost at once he swung himself out of bed. Perhaps he thought he was late for the hospital, though after he looked at his watch he came back and kissed her. She watched him dress, donning the unfamiliar uniform that clearly, to him, had become a second skin. Her hip joints ached, her lips felt bruised, she was blinking and dazed, her whole body felt different, and there he stood dressed for work. He’d opened the window wide and a stream of cold air came in.

‘I’ll see you tonight,’ he said, bending over for a final, abstracted kiss, and then he was gone.

There had to be a reason why she always remembered him in profile. Certainly, if she ever did try to paint him, he’d be turned away, searching for something — or somebody — but not expecting to find whatever it was. The loss had been long ago, and now only the posture, the expression, remained. What she loved most about him was the quality of detachment that prevented his ever really loving her.

She was nowhere near as unhappy as this thought should have made her feel. In fact she wasn’t unhappy at all. He’d hardly reached the end of the street when she jumped out of bed and started to get dressed, eager for the day that lay ahead.

She wasn’t lonely, though she hardly spoke to a soul all day. This was what she liked: being alone in a strange city, walking by the canal, smelling dank water, dead leaves and grass, staring at people in the streets and at lunchtime pushing open the door of a little café, and finding nobody there except a woman with auburn hair who smiled at her but didn’t speak. Kit was constantly in her mind, the dread of meeting him, of having to explain, so finding this almost empty café was a relief. After lunch, she sat in the park and sketched, watching, out of the corner of her eye, a group of schoolgirls in blue uniforms, who sat on the next bench and twittered together, as unselfconscious as the birds who gathered round them in expectation of crumbs. By the time they’d gone, long blue shadows were creeping across the grass, and it was time to go home.

Back in the room, though, she felt insubstaintial, the result of eating scarcely anything and speaking to nobody all day. She put her sketches away in a folder, then settled down to draw the rooftops from her window, but it was getting too dark and soon she had to stop. She was thinking about Paul all the time, but she felt peaceful, now, not inclined to pick and tear at the relationship as she’d wanted to do when she first woke up.

Round about the time she expected Paul to arrive, she heard a quick, heavy footstep on the stairs and jumped up to greet him, but it was Madame Drouet. There was a young man downstairs, she said, with a distinctly disapproving air. Oh, Elinor said. She couldn’t think who it could be, but immediately her mind filled with the dread that Kit had some how found out where she was and had turned up like an outraged husband to demand an explanation. Apart from Kit she knew nobody here, but then she remembered Lewis. Yes. But why hadn’t Paul come with him? She ran a brush through her hair and went downstairs, smoothing her skirt nervously as she reached the last few steps. She had no idea what to expect, certainly not this extraordinary-looking youth with hair that seemed about to take off.

‘Good evening,’ he said.

Oh dear. He sounded as shy as she felt, or worse.

‘You must be Lewis.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Paul had to go into theatre so he asked me to take you to the restaurant.’

‘All right. Wait a minute, I’ll get my hat.’

She ran all the way upstairs and all the way down again, wondering what on earth she would find to talk to him about until Paul arrived.

‘Is Lewis your first name or your second?’ she asked as they set off.

‘Second. My first name’s Richard, but nobody ever uses it. Well, except at home.’

‘But Paul is always Paul.’

‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’

‘I used to use my surname at college sometimes.’

‘I’ve never heard of girls doing that.’ He glanced sideways at her, curious. ‘Why did you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it was a way of saying, Take us seriously. It’s hard, you know, for girls to be taken seriously as artists. We don’t do it so much now.’

They walked a little way in silence. ‘What’s keeping Paul?’

‘He had to go into theatre. We had a rush on. Did he tell you they’ve made him a dresser now?’

She couldn’t remember. ‘That’s special, is it?’

‘You have to be pretty good.’

She caught the note of hero-worship in his voice, the way Andrew sounded, sometimes, when he talked about Toby.

‘So what do you do exactly? If you’re a dresser?’

‘You bandage them up after they come out of theatre. Some of the wounds are … quite difficult.’

‘I’ll bet.’

He looked startled, then laughed. ‘Paul’s not pleased, because he thinks now they won’t let him drive an ambulance.’

‘Which is what he volunteered for.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you? What do you want to do?’

He was striding ahead. She had to trot to keep up with him.

‘The same, I suppose. I know it’s wrong, because you ought to be prepared to do whatever needs doing most, but no, I’ve got to admit, I’d rather drive an ambulance.’