I bet you’d look smashing in a wotchermercallit, he said.
I looked puzzled. One of those French swimming things, he said.
A bikini? I asked.
I can’t allow talk like that, so I stared coldly at him. Is that what you mean?
To photograph like, he said, going red.
And the weird thing is, I know he means exactly that. He didn’t mean to be nasty, he wasn’t hinting at anything, he was just being clumsy. As usual. He meant literally what he said. I would be interesting to photograph in a bikini.
I used to think, it must be there. It’s very deeply suppressed, but it must be there.
But I don’t any more. I don’t think he’s suppressing anything. There’s nothing to suppress.
A lovely night-walk. There were great reaches of clear sky, no moon, sprinkles of warm white stars everywhere, like’ milky diamonds, and a beautiful wind. From the west. I made him take me round and round, ten or twelve times. The branches rustling, an owl hooting in the woods. And the sky all wild, all free, all wind and air and space and stars.
Wind full of smells and far-away places. Hopes. The sea. I am sure I could smell the sea. I said (later, of course I was gagged outside), are we near the sea? And he said, ten miles. I said, near Lewes. He said, I can’t say. As if someone else had strictly forbidden him to speak. (I often feel that with him—a horrid little cringing good nature dominated by a mean bad one.)
Indoors it couldn’t have been more different. We talked about his family again. I’d been drinking scrumpy. I do it (a little) to see if I can get him drunk and careless, but so far he won’t touch it. He’s not a teetotaller, he says. So it’s all part of his warderishness. Won’t be corrupted.
M. Tell me some more about your family.
C. Nothing more to tell. That’d interest you.
M. That’s not an answer.
C. It’s like I said.
M. As I said.
C. I used to be told I was good at English. That was before I knew you.
M. It doesn’t matter.
C. I suppose you got the A level and all that.
M. Yes, I did.
C. I got O level in Maths and Biology.
M. (I was counting stitches—jumper—expensive French wool) Good, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…
C. I won a prize for hobbies.
M. Clever you. Tell me more about your father.
C. I told you. He was a representative. Stationery and fancy goods.
M. A commercial traveller.
C. They call them representatives now.
M. He got killed in a car-crash before the war. Your mother went off with another man.
C. She was no good. Like me. (I gave him an icy look. Thank goodness his humour so rarely seeps out.)
M. So your aunt took you over.
C. Yes.
M. Like Mrs. Joe and Pip.
C. Who?
M. Never mind.
C. She’s all right. She kept me out of the orphanage.
M. And your cousin Mabel. You’ve never said anything about her.
C. She’s older than me. Thirty. There’s her older brother, he went out to Australia after the war to my Uncle Steve. He’s a real Australian. Been out there years. I never seen him.
M. And haven’t you any other family?
C. There’s relations of Uncle Dick. But they and Aunt Annie never got on.
M. You haven’t said what Mabel’s like.
C. She’s deformed. Spastic. Real sharp. Always wants to know everything you’ve done.
M. She can’t walk?
C. About the house. We had to take her out in a chair.
M. Perhaps I’ve seen her.
C. You haven’t missed much.
M. Aren’t you sorry for her?
C. It’s like you have to be sorry for her all the time. It’s Aunt Annie’s fault.
M. Go on.
C. She like makes everything round her deformed too. I can’t explain. Like nobody else had any right to be normal. I mean she doesn’t complain outright. It’s just looks she gives, and you have to be dead careful. Suppose, well, I say not thinking one evening, I nearly missed the bus this morning, I had to run like billy-o, sure as fate Aunt Annie would say, think yourself lucky you can run. Mabel wouldn’t say anything. She’d just look.
M. How vile!
C. You had to think very careful about what you said.
M. Carefully.
C. I mean carefully.
M. Why didn’t you run away? Live in digs?
C. I used to think about it.
M. Because they were two women on their own. You were being a gent.
C. Being a charley, more like it. (Pathetic, his attempts at being a cynic.)
M. And now they’re in Australia making your other relations miserable.
C. I suppose so.
M. Do they write letters?
C. Yes. Not Mabel.
M. Would you read one to me one day?
C. What for?
M. I’d be interested.
C. (great inner struggle) I got one this morning. I’ve got it on me. (A lot of argy-bargy, but in the end he took the letter from out of his pocket.) They’re stupid.
M. Never mind. Read it out. All of it.
He sat by the door, and I knitted, knitted, knitted—I can’t remember the letter word for word, but it was something like this: Dear Fred (that’s the name she calls me by, he said, she doesn’t like Ferdinand—red with embarrassment). Very pleased to have yours and as I said in my last it’s your money, God has been very kind to you and you mustn’t fly up in the face of his kindness and I wish you had not taken this step, your Uncle Steve says property’s more trouble than it’s worth. I notice you don’t answer my question about the woman to clean. I know what men are and just remember what they say cleanliness is next to godliness. I have no right and you have been very generous, Fred, Uncle Steve and the boys and Gertie can’t understand why you didn’t come here with us, Gert only said this morning that you ought to be here, your place is with us, but don’t think I am not grateful. I hope the Lord will forgive me but this has been a great experience and you wouldn’t know Mabel, she is brown in the sun here, it is very nice, but I don’t like the dust. Everything gets dirty and they live in a different way to what we do at home, they speak English more like Americans (even Uncle Steve) than us. I shan’t be sorry to get home to Blackstone Rd, it worries me to think of the damp and the dirt, I hope you did what I said and aired all the rooms and linen like I said and got a good cleaning woman in like I said the same as with you, I hope.
Fred I am worried with all that money you won’t lose your head, there are a lot of clever dishonest people (she means women, he said) about these days, I brought you up as well as I could and if you do wrong it’s the same as if I did. I shan’t show this to Mabel she says you don’t like it. I know you are over age (over 21, she means, he said) but I worry about you because of all that happened (she means me being an orphan, he said).
We liked Melbourne, it is a big town. Next week we are going to Brisbane to stay with Bob again and his wife. She wrote a nice letter. They will meet us at the station. Uncle Steve, Gert and the children send their love. So does Mabel and your everloving.