"What, darling?"
She pulled a hair from my chest. "There, I'll keep that as a souvenir." She put her face against my chest and lay silent.
"That wasn't what you wanted to ask me about," I said. "Besides, you took it without asking."
"It's a funny question. All ifs. Look, supposing you'd met me before I married, supposing I were ten years younger - how would you have felt about me?"
"That's simple. Like now."
"That's not what I meant. Would you have taken me seriously?" Her voice was muffled against my chest.
"Yes. You know that I would. But what's the use?"
"Don't be practical, Joe. Please don't be sensible. Just imagine me as I was ten years ago. And you as you are now."
I looked into her eyes. I could see my face in her pupils, flushed, with my hair tousled. "You're looking babies," she said, almost coyly. "If you look long enough, you'll see a baby."
I had the same sensation that I had when as a child of ten I'd seen my Aunt Emily with her son at her breast. And it was, too, like the sensation I'd had when I'd intercepted looks and actions of my parents - the secret, bold look before bedtime, the hand on the knee - it was as if I'd stumbled upon something bigger than myself. Something which was uncompromisingly real, something which I couldn't avoid but which, I felt ashamedly, I was trying to avoid. There was happiness at its centre but it was a frightening kind of happiness.
"There were no lines then," she said. "And I was firm here - " she put my hands on her breasts. "Everything was ahead of me. I couldn't sleep sometimes, wondering what would happen to me - I knew that it would be wonderful, whatever it was ... No, that would be when I was nineteen. Yes, imagine me nineteen. That's the best age. I used to feel happy, terribly happy, all of a sudden, and there'd be no reason for it. And I'd cry easily but I'd enjoy it and it never made my eyes red. Would you have taken me seriously?"
"You probably wouldn't have taken me seriously."
"I'd have been silly enough for that ... I had a career then. I'd just graduated from the drama school - a broken-down place with a broken-down old ham in charge of it - the best Mummy could afford. It was a cheap finishing school, you see. Mummy hoped that I'd learn to speak and move properly there and acquire a sort of polish and a little glamour - and then hook a rich young man and retrieve the family fortunes."
"That I couldn't have done at any time. What about Alice at twenty-five?"
"Oh, I was awfully smooth. Worn smooth, I think. I'd been in London three years. It's a hellish place when you're poor - I had to keep up appearance too. I took some awful jobs when I was resting. Cinema usherette, snack-bar attendant - everything but a life of shame. But I was still young. I'd lots and lots of bounce left in me."
"You have now."
"Yes, but I have to live to a regime to possess it. I just had it then, whatever I did. Would you have liked me then, would you have been romantic about me?"
"You might still have broken my heart. How could I have helped an ambitious young actress? I'll take you as you are now."
She got out of bed. "I'll make some coffee."
"Tea would be nicer.
"Poor Elspeth," she said. "She lends us her flat and we pinch all her precious tea."
"I'll get her some more."
She wrinkled her nose and put her hands palm upward; as I watched her, her face seemed to grow male and vulpine and her nose to lengthen. "Vat, are you in the racket too?" She started to dress.
"I hate you to put any clothes on," I said.
"That's sweet of you, but I'm too old to walk about in the nude." She wriggled into her girdle.
"I like watching you dress, though." She came over in her slip and kissed me. I stroked her back; she was already a different person in the blue silk garment, smaller but already less vulnerable, more controlled. It was a little hard to imagine her as being the same person who, scarcely half an hour since, had been moaning in my arms in the last extremity of a pleasure almost indistinguishable from pain.
She moved gently out of my embrace and picked up her dress. She went into the kitchen; I heard the flare of a match and the hiss of a gas ring. I dressed quickly; by myself I felt an obscure uneasiness at being naked. I lit a cigarette, the first for two hours, and inhaled deeply.
It wasn't a big flat; the block was one of the mansions in which the wool lords of Leddersford had once lived; this room had probably belonged to one of the servants. It was furnished in a middle-class, démodé, vaguely theatrical kind of way. The big bed was covered with a mauve quilt; there were pouffes, a satin-walnut table, and a great many photographs of actors and actresses. The white carpet was very thick, and the chairs gilt and spindly-legged. There was a profusion of dolls on the dressing table; it was a boudoir, faintly naughty, rather too feminine. I felt not quite in place there, as if I'd got into the wrong room by mistake.
I went into the tiny box of a kitchen. Alice was watching the kettle and tapping her foot impatiently. "It won't ever boil if you do that," I said, and took hold of her waist. She leaned back in my arms; I put my face against hers, breathing in her scent. It was if we shared the same lungs. We were breathing deeply and slowly; I was utterly secure and warm. The kettle whistled; at that moment it had the effect of a mill hooter at six in the morning. I let her go reluctantly.
"Note," she said. "Teapot to kettle, water mustn't be left to boil. Teapot is warm but dry. Now leave for three minutes. Synchronise your watches, men; 2020. Roger?"
"Roger," I said.
Her watch was a thin gold wafer with jewels for numerals. "At least, I think it's 2020," she said. "This is very pretty but difficult to tell the time by."
"I'd like to buy you something like that." I would have liked to stamp on it. Then I reflected that, through taking Alice, I had in a sense, taken away the value of the watch; but even that thought didn't console me very much. She didn't seem to have heard what I said. "Honey, take this stuff in the kitchen. You're hungry, aren't you?"
"I'll eat anything. Iron Guts they used to call me."
"That's lovely, I'll always call you Iron Guts. Take these sandwiches in there too, Iron Guts. And the pickles. We'll have a proper do." She giggled like a schoolgirl, her face suddenly losing its harsh lines.
The bread was fresh and well buttered and the sandwiches were fried chicken, crisp and golden brown. We sat beside each other in comfortable silence; now and again she'd smile at me. When we'd finished eating she went into the kitchen to cut some more bread. I sat with my eyes half closed, sipping the strong tea. Suddenly I heard her call my name. She was standing at the bread-board with her right forefinger dripping blood.
"It's nothing," she said, but her face was white. I took her to the sink and washed her finger with hot water. I noticed the first-aid cabinet over the sink and after a little rummaging (Elspeth seemed to have been using the cabinet as a make-up box) found some T.C.P. and a bandage. I poured out a cup of tea and held it to her lips.
"I want a cigarette," she said.
"Drink that first."
She drank it obediently. The colour returned to her cheeks. I lit a cigarette for her and she leaned back against my shoulder.
"Silly of me to carry on like that. It was the shock, I think. I hate blood ... You're very competent, aren't you, Joe?"
"I've bound up worse than that."
"Joe, have you seen a lot of horrid things? In the RAF, I mean."
"Just the average amount. You soon forget."
"You look so young. Except for your mouth. Are you sure you've forgotten?"
"Sometimes something happens to bring them out. They poke out their heads and growl and then you shove them back in the cage. Why are you asking? Afraid I'm neurotic?"
She kissed me on the cheek. "You're the least neurotic person I know. It's just something I've been curious about for a long time but I haven't really known anyone whom I could ask. George wasn't in any of the Services. He has a perforated eardrum and they wouldn't look at him." She looked at me a little angrily. "It wasn't his fault."