"Come and help me pick my books, Joe," Eva said, taking my arm. "Our Mr. Scurrah's quite agreeable, isn't he? A trifle flabby though. It's no job for a man."
"They're not all the same," I said.
Eva felt my biceps with hard little fingers. "You're a strong brute."
"I used to box."
"Don't you any more?"
"I didn't see the point of getting bashed up for nothing and I wasn't good enough to be a professional."
"You be a professional," she said, "and I'll run away with you. I couldn't resist a big, brutal, sweaty boxer."
I glanced quickly round the Library. We'd gone over to the Drama section, an alcove on the far side of the Lending Library. No one could see us, even if they'd been looking that way.
"I thought you were going to run away with me," I said. "Just for a weekend."
"I don't know what you mean." Her voice had lost its flirtatiousness.
"You said on Sunday - "
"So that's it. Merely because I let you give me a beery kiss in the Props Room, you think the balloon's going up ... No, dear, but no definitely."
"What did you promise for?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "You seemed to expect it. Besides, I'm not sure that I did promise you anything."
I felt a spasm of lust and anger. When I had kissed her on Sunday it had seemed that everything was going my way. At last, I thought, feeling her body against me, soft and scented, clean all over, above all, expensive, I was going to have a woman who would neither weep with shame afterwards nor eat fish and chips while she was doing it. I would have done better for myself at the Dufton Locarno.
"You're a genuine flirt, aren't you, honey?" I said to her. "Hasn't anyone got really annoyed with you?"
"I only mix with civilised people," she said coldly.
I took a deep breath. Being angry wouldn't help. "Don't worry. I won't bother you." I forced a smile. "You're too attractive, that's the trouble."
There was a pause. When she spoke again her voice had softened. "Joe, you're very inexperienced. You can't get everything you want all at once. Will you remember that?"
"I'll remember," I said, not knowing then what she really meant.
6
It was the first reading of Meadowes Farm that evening. When I arrived at the Thespians the producer, Ronnie Smith, was already there. He worked in a bank, though you wouldn't have believed it at first sight. He was wearing green suede shoes, a very old pair of flannels, a yellow crew-neck sweater, and a golf jacket; with his seamed face and brilliantined hair thinning at the temples he looked like a middle-aged actor, which I suppose was exactly what he wanted.
"Hello there, Joshua," he said or rather shouted, that being part of the theatrical pose. "God, you've got a lovely part. Out of this world." He repeated the phrase with relish. "Yes, out of this world. You'll have to work though, God, you'll have to work!"
"You're scaring him," said Eva, who'd just entered with Alice. "T'lad's cum to enjoy hisen, 'aven't you, luv?"
"Hello, Eva," I said, "Hello, Alice. You look most seductive, I must say."
"That's very kind of you," she said. "Actually I feel terrible." Her voice wasn't very friendly; she certainly wasn't succumbing instantly to my charm.
At the side of Eva, who had a rosy complexion and a bouncing vitality, she did in fact look pale and haggard. She had honey-coloured hair which at that time she wore in a bun, and thin features. She had an angular fashion-plate figure, to which her big breasts didn't seem to belong; in the white sweater she was wearing, they seemed to sag with their own weight. In a way this appealed to me more than firmness; it was a guarantee of reality. I could imagine myself touching them.
I repressed the thought. It wasn't any use. I remembered Eva rubbing herself against me: You're wonderful, we must do something about this, we'll go away - a lot of good it had done me. I remembered Susan at the last Social Evening: Jack had never let her out of his sight and had whisked her straight home in a shiny new M.G. Alice wasn't for me; I might as well abandon that idea before it took too firm a hold.
I looked at the rest of the cast. Herbert Downs owned a small weaving mill, Johnny Rogers's father owned a coal business, Anne Barlby's father owned three groceries; Jimmie Matthews, the youngest, was attending classes at the Leddersford Technical College; Jimmie was going to help his daddy in the family firm, as no doubt Johnny was. Anne's big brother was learning the grocery business, of course, right from the bottom just like anyone else: Anne was going to the Leddersford School of Art which would keep her out of mischief till she got married, possibly to Johnny, whose father's business was expanding rapidly under the wicked Labour government. They all had more money than I, but it wasn't big money. It was all too easy to reach their grade, so consequently I didn't respect them very much. I looked at them gesturing freely but jaggedly as they talked in their best accents about The Lady's Not for Burning , and jeered at them mentally, one of the landed gentry watching the tradespeople ape their betters. But my feeling of superiority was short-lived; the first reading went very badly. Perhaps because I was still irritated about Eva and Susan, I made a thorough hash of my lines, mispronouncing the simplest words and emphasising almost every sentence incorrectly. We had to stop for a moment when I referred to a roadman's brassiere; I joined in the laughter but it was a considerable effort.
"D'Eon Rides Again," said Alice. "What a thought - erotic voices among the working classes." She spoke directly to me. "I am working class," I said sulkily. "And you needn't explain your little quip. I know all about the Chevalier. I read a book once."
She flushed. "You shouldn't - " she began, then stopped. "I'll tell you afterwards." She smiled at me and then turned back to her script.
I kept glancing at her throughout the rest of the play. Sometimes when she wasn't reading her part she looked plain, in fact downright ugly: her chin had a heavy shapelessness and the lines on her forehead and neck were as if scored with a knife. When she was acting, her face came to life: it wasn't so much that you forgot its blemishes as that they became endearing and exciting. She made the other women look dowdy and careless; Eva, too, I realised with astonishment.
When we'd finished, Ronnie sat staring at us for a moment, puffing his pipe noisily and fiddling with a sheaf of notes and a gold Eversharp pencil. "We'll have to work very hard, people. The play's a great deal more subtle than it appears." He took his pipe out of his mouth and then pointed the stem at me. "Joe, remember that you're an honest simple farmer. And for heaven's sake be careful about - er - articles of ladies' underwear." Everyone except me giggled. "In fact, you'd better cut that bit."
"Watch out, Joe," Eva said. "Ronnie loves cutting. You'll have no part left if you're not careful."
Ronnie beamed at her. "All plays should be cut by half," he said.
"Me and Orson Welles," Alice murmured into my ear.
"All right, people," Ronnie said. "That's it for tonight. Herbert and I will now try to make sense of the author's lighting plot."
"Would you like some coffee?" I asked Alice as she rose.
"No thank you."
To hell with you, I thought, and turned on my heel.
"You can buy me a beer though."
"The Clarence?"
"Too many Thespians there. Too clean and well lighted. They'll be installing neons soon. The St. Clair's much nicer. Dark and smells of beef and tapers."
Her car, a green Fiat 500, was parked outside. She unlocked the righthand door then hesitated. "Can you drive?"
"Oddly enough, yes," I said.