John Braine - Room at the Top

The next two months were - at least, when I was with Alice - entirely happy. We stopped being lovers; we became husband and wife. Of course I always gave her what in our private language we described as a fine piece of china; but that was almost incidental now. The security, the calm, the matter-of-fact tenderness which came from her - that is what was important; that, and talking to each other and having no dangerous corners or forbidden subjects. We never hid anything from one another, we really talked; our words were something more than animal noises or counters in a social or financial or sexual game.

I continued to take Susan out after the Civic Ball. I had no hope now of marrying her; but I saw no point in letting her go. She was my weekly shilling on the pools, my selection at random with no hope of winning. And I suppose that to run two women at once rather tickled my vanity; and to take her out at all was still a satisfactory way of spitting in the eye of Jack Wales and the rest of them.

I didn't really enjoy making love to Susan now. Once she was wound up, so to speak, she never stopped. Even when we were on a bus or in the street she wanted to hold hands or for me to put my arm around her waist. And when she thought no one was looking she'd take my hand and press it against her breast. Once the novelty had worn off, it was wearisome. It hadn't the proper end; no matter how deep our intimacies - and in some ways I knew her body better than Alice's - she still stopped short at the crucial moment. If Alice hadn't been my mistress, I'm certain that I would have forced her to give me what I wanted. As it was, she was the sweetmeat I toyed with after the main course - delicious, pure, light with youth's spun sugar, but unimportant, neither real nor nourishing.

There was a compensation: with Susan I recaptured my youth. I joined the RAF when I was nineteen and grew up far too quickly. At an age when a kiss should have been Technicolored excitement, not seriously in one's inmost thoughts to be connected with the acrid physical tumults of adolescence, I was in a field near Cardington with the WAAF's red cookhouse hands expertly unbuttoning me: "Ee, Ah doan't think tha's done this often afore, luv." I recaptured my youth, that is, as far as it could be recaptured. The sky didn't seem on the point of exploding, I didn't have that feeling of nearly dying with joy at discovering how wonderful female bodies are - the children's games we played were full of magic only if one believed in magic.

It seems surprising now that I should have got away with it for so long. Alice knew that I was going about with Susan; but she didn't to outward appearances let it bother her.

"She's a baby," she said to me once. "You'll soon tire of her. Try not to hurt her, that's all, darling."

At the time her attitude puzzled me. It doesn't now. She was sure that Susan wouldn't marry me, and she was sure that she could hold me. She wasn't going to waste her strength in fits of jealousy; she would simply wait for the inevitable break-up. It happened rather differently than she had anticipated, however.

The last evening under the old dispensation I remember as one remembers the party on the eve of the mutiny, the play seen a couple of hours before the earthquake. It was a warm evening and I was lying in the bed too lazy to put my clothes on; Alice came into the room wearing a black taffeta dress. She rustled down beside me.

"Do my buttons up at the back, honey."

I did as she asked, my eyes half closed, feeling with every tiny gold button snapped into place that I too was being fastened closer and closer to her.

"You'd better dress," she said. "Elspeth'll be here before we know where we are."

"Alice, dress me."

"You sensual old ram, you," she said happily. "Would you really let me?"

"Why do you think I asked you?" I put my arm around her; the smooth roughness of the taffeta against my bare skin made me shiver with pleasure. "Come on. I want to be cherished and made much of."

She dressed me with a nurse's efficiency. I closed my eyes, smelling the goodness of her sweat and the sunshine-in-the-breakfast-room smell of her lavender water.

"I like being looked after," I said.

She looked pale and her mouth was set tightly. "I can't find your socks."

"I feel as if you'd left your hands all over me. It's wonderful - "

Her face wrinkled up and she slumped across the bed, weeping noisily.

"I want to look after you all the time, Joe. I want to do everything for you and cook for you and mend your socks and clean your shoes and dress you if you want dressing and have your children - "

"I want it too."

Her face was across my feet. The words were muffled; I couldn't be sure what she said. "I'm too old for you. It's too late." I felt the warm moisture of her tears on my feet.

"Let's go away together," I said. "I'm sick of meeting you like this. I want to sleep with you - remember?"

"This is tearing me up inside." Moving up beside me, she pressed my hand fiercely into her belly. "I'm empty. I lie awake at nights aching with emptiness. I wake up and I'm alone and I walk round Warley and I'm alone and I talk with people and I'm alone and I look at his face when I'm home and it's dead - when he smiles or laughs or looks thoughtful, it's as if different strings were being pulled or different lights had been ordered - " She giggled, clasping my hand and driving her nails deep into it. She drew blood, then released her hold, looking at me wildly. "I'm hysterical, aren't I?"

I shook her gently. "You find my socks and make me some tea. I love you."

"Yes. Yes I will." She retrieved the socks from under the dressing table and brought them over to me. "I've washed your feet with my tears," she said. She brushed them lightly with her hair. "Washed your feet with my tears and dried them with my hair."

She put on my socks for me and laced my shoes. Then she went out of the room. She stopped at the door as if she'd been hit or as if a hundred-mile-an-hour gale had sprung up and she were bracing herself against it. Then she put her hand to her belly very slowly. "Give me my bag, Joe."

I ran across to her. "What is it, dearest?"

"Nothing at all." Her face was tense with fear as if the gale, inch by inch, were driving her over the edge of the cliff. She swallowed two tablets from the bag and I felt her body relax. "Don't look so worried, Joe. It's only an illness peculiar to women. I won't die."

"But you only - "

"There's more than one kind, precious. Just you sit down and wait for the tea." She kissed me on the forehead. "I do love you, Joe."

I sat on the pink-and-flame chintz bedspread, surrounded by the photographs and the glass menagerie and the scent sprays and the potpourri vases and the flowers and the copies of The Stage and Theatre Arts , feeling empty myself, knowing in a flash what it was to be Alice; it was as if I myself had that pain in my belly, as if, by an effort of will, we'd changed bodies.

After supper I left the flat before her, as usual. Striding along in the dim corridor with its silence as different from real silence as a barbitone trance from natural sleep I thought suddenly: There's no need for me to leave her. Going down the spiral staircase I kept hearing her words: I want to do everything for you, I want to have your children. It was possible, it was real; I could be with her all the time, we could become as firmly rooted and as good as my father and my mother. We could enter into marriage, not just acquire a license for sexual intercourse - I was old enough to cease chasing phantoms, to enjoy Now in its true colours, not spoiled by the silly iridescence of dreams.

As I came out into the street I felt a tap on my shoulder. I wheeled round. It was Eva Storr.