Patrick White - The Eye of the Storm

She was part of the plan his fingers had worked out scientifically, and which, finally, was their plan. He only tore one button from where it was rooted in his pants.

In more conventional surroundings of sand and sea, their bodies never startled, but here against this hectic green their skins seemed a blinding, naked white. Immorally exposed at first, she was at last forced to ignore it.

But muttered incidentally, ‘What if somebody comes?’

‘Mmm?’

‘That child with the lizard — we might influence her whole life.’

Not conceived along with their plan, the little girl was discarded. ‘A cruel kid — anyway.’ Flora Manhood remembered between gasps.

She began to moan for something else as he drove her deeper into the yielding mattress of pricking grass.

He sat up high above her. She was in love with the way his chest divided, till looking along her nose she became elsewhere riveted. She might have devoured her lover-tyrant if it hadn’t been for having to face Elizabeth Hunter’s grinning gums, her blind yet knowing stare.

As soon as he allowed, she extricated her softened body, on principle, from the torpor of half-thoughts and flesh in which she could have continued lying.

‘You’re all crisscrossed, Flora, about the bum — it’s the twigs — and stained with green.’

‘What have you done to me?’ she moaned, trying to look over her shoulder at her quilted buttocks.

‘Isn’t it right?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t that what we came here for?’ Col too, grinning up at her.

‘Someone may see us,’ she began again.

When they were only half dressed they were drawn back against each other; but now it was as if he was the child they had made together, her big child buffeting her breasts, and she couldn’t love him enough.

‘I don’t know what comes over us,’ she said when they were decent.

‘That’s what we do know, and you won’t admit it,’ he answered quietly.

Along the road, near where they had parked the car, they found a house with a sign which read DRESSED POULTRY SNACKS BOILING WATER AS REQUIRED. The woman, in one of those long timeless cotton frocks, said she could fry them some eggs, if that was what they fancied. She brought them a dish of small, whole, eggshaped tomatoes. There was tea, from a brown enamel pot, in thick white cups.

While they were eating, the long woman hung around. She would have liked to talk. After covering the weather, she tried out a current murder case. But your mouths were too full to contribute.

‘Arr, dear,’ the woman sighed. ‘It’s lovely to drive around on yer own — when you’re young,’ she added.

Dribbles of egg were congealing with fat on the empty plates.

‘No family yet?’

Col nearly swallowed the last egg tomato.

Because his mouth was full, and anyway, this was a woman’s situation, you had to make the best of it. ‘No family. This is only a friendly outing.’

The woman’s eyes had begun searching for the ring immediately after dropping her brick; she was blushing up her scrawny neck and along her leathery jaw. ‘I would of thought,’ she said, ‘but when it comes to some things, not everybody knows their own mind.’ Already slouching away from her mistake, she muttered above the sound of her sandshoes, ‘Kiddies make all the difference.’

Col said too cheerfully when they were again in their car, ‘A lovely day at Noamurra! Know what it means?’

She didn’t of course.

He said looking at her, ‘“Man and wife”.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

She did, though: Col knew everything; herself an ignorant girl off a North Coast banana farm, who took up nursing to catch a husband and then didn’t want one.

They drove. At one point he put a hand between her thighs as though trying to show he owned her. If she didn’t throw it off it was because she was again lulled by the road.

‘There’s the concert Thursday,’ he reminded.

She turned away, speaking out of the window, at the scrub, the rocks. ‘I don’t know what you want me at concerts for.’

‘Because I like to have you with me.’

‘But I don’t know how to listen to music. All that Mahler ! All I can do is think of other things at music.’

He didn’t seem to feel it mattered. ‘That’s fine. Go on thinking, Flo, and some of the music’ll rub off on your thoughts.’

But he made her feel empty: the paperbacks, the records, knowing what Noamurra means. What had she got to offer Col, except her body, and her unborn children? Oh God those would come popping out of her like peas if she didn’t keep her wits about her.

She might have felt content, so full of sun, and fried eggs, and Col; she might have snoozed if it hadn’t been for the little children climbing on her lap kneading her breasts dabbling their lashes in her throat crimping her skin into the smiles she wouldn’t allow herself to show how much she longed to take their golden cheeks between her teeth to test for love.

‘Had a good nap?’ he asked.

‘I wasn’t sleeping, if you think I was,’ she answered, just like Mrs Hunter.

‘You’ve been flopping like a half-filled sack most of the way to Hornsby.’ And he squeezed her knee to annoy her.

Flora Manhood could have used the whole evening, elbows on the sill, hands folded against her cheek. She might have slipped the moment before from the attitude of prayer to one of dreaming, above the empty, faded park, above the traffic noises, facing the cut-out of convents on the skyline. Whatever else, she wouldn’t like to be a nun. Better than anything she would have liked to be nothing, or a dream through which she let down her hair into the evening like in that opera Col told the long hair her lover tied to a tree and she was caught. But what lover? Someone unknown walking out of the park at dusk, perfect to almost not existing. But wouldn’t she be caught? Yes, always!

The little tingle tinkle was coming from the bell the old thing kept beside her bed. Disgusted by the inevitable trap into which her own thoughts had led her, the nurse was now positively anxious to collaborate with her case. She adjusted her veil as austerely as Matron would have wished, and stepped out along the passage towards the still fretfully tinkling summons.

Almost twirling on the balls of her feet as she entered, Sister Manhood announced, ‘We’ve been neglecting you, haven’t we, Mrs Hunter? Now we must make up for it.’

So good-humoured: you wondered where the catch was; prepared for something else, Mrs Hunter could not match her nurse’s volte-face. ‘I don’t suppose we can expect you permanently on the mat, but we don’t pay you to ignore us — Sister.’

Sister Manhood ignored what was, after all, only a pinprick from Her. ‘I’m at your service, Mrs Hunter. Anything you care to command.’ She moistened her fresh lipstick with her tongue; she knew she must be looking pretty, though the old thing wouldn’t see that.

‘I want you to sit me in my chair.’

‘Do you think you’re up to it today?’

‘I must be. I must be sitting in my chair — for — for his arrival.’

The nurse wheeled the chair, a functional contraption in chrome and leather, through that finicky rosewood and silver jungle.

‘First my gown,’ Mrs Hunter reminded; only she could remember the moves in their correct order.

The nurse fetched the gown, of crumpled, tarnished rose brocade. At some time or other moths must have got into the sleeves, edged with what Flora Manhood believed were real sables. The garment’s tattiness could not lessen her respect for its intimations of original splendour.

‘Don’t be careless with my arms, please,’ Mrs Hunter warned. ‘Trained nurses have little idea how the human anatomy works.’