’I was at a party last night,’ said Miss Trueman, ‘and we played kissing games.’
‘I thought that type was extinct,’ said the accountant.
‘Oh, no! People still play them at some places. I think they’re frightful. But I always find it interesting to kiss the boys of your girl friends in games like that. You know what your girl friends have been experiencing then. You can always tell what they are like. One of my friends — her name is Ruth — goes with a boy called Ralph. I’d love to kiss him. I mean, I would and I wouldn’t. It would give me a better idea of Ruth. I would have a man’s idea of her then. Billy Truhan kissed me once — he is engaged to a girl called Janet — a wet, frothy sort of kiss, and afterwards I always looked at Janet differently.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said the accountant, putting down his pen. ‘It would almost make you think less of Janet.’
‘It did.’
‘What is this Billy like?’
‘He talks too much. If he didn’t talk, you would think he was clever.’
‘Something like me, that chap,’ said the accountant, grinning.
Miss Trueman laughed. ‘He is not like you. He always runs things down. You praise things up. He is never enthusiastic over things.’
‘The trouble with enthusiasm is that it always makes you feel such a fool next morning.’
‘I don’t think so. That Mr Coughlan that comes in here — he is enthusiastic. Look how he sells things.’
‘That’s right. He sells too much. How much do we owe him?’
‘I’ll see.’ She opened a ledger and flipped the leaves with a wet finger.
‘The creditor’s ledger is interesting now,’ she remarked. ‘All the amounts owing to different people … ! And they are not going to get paid. It makes you think a lot. Some you are sorry for and some you’re not.’
The pages stopped turning. She bent over the account. ‘Three hundred and ten pounds,’ she said.
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the accountant. ‘We must have shot it up this month. Have we got into them … ! I’ll say …’
‘And Mr Coughlan is still nice to us. Isn’t it amazing?’
‘We are paying him cash, now.’ He bit his penholder. ‘I feel as if I owe all that money personally. I feel like a criminal sometimes. It’s right, too. The reputation of the firm is our reputation. If we ever wanted credit personally from these people they would probably refuse us.’
‘Do you blame them?’
‘No.’
‘We will never be able to work in Collingwood again.’
‘I don’t know that I want to.’
‘I would sooner work in the city, anyway,’ said Miss Trueman. ‘Nothing ever happens here.’
The phone rang. The accountant answered it. He waited for the girl who replied to his ‘Hullo’ to switch him through to another office.
‘The lawyer’s,’ he said, twisting his head to address Miss Trueman. ‘It will be about Bentley.’
He suddenly faced the phone. ‘Yes.’
A man’s voice came to him. ‘Re Bentley.’
‘Yes.’
‘I believe he is in a bad way and likely to file his schedule any minute. At present he is away seriously ill. A nervous breakdown, they say. I am doing what I can to bring him to the scratch, but it looks pretty bad. I’d advise you to go right ahead and put the bailiffs in.’
‘Can’t you get in touch with him?’
‘No. He is in a rest home. They found him walking along the railway line one night, I believe. He doesn’t know what he is doing half the time.’
‘It looks as if we will lose the lot.’
‘We may get something if we act promptly.’
‘Well, will you go right ahead? I will O.K. any steps you think necessary. Do the best you can for us.’
‘I will see what I can do. I will let you know the result.’
‘Thanks.’
He replaced the receiver and said to Miss Trueman, ‘Bentley seems to have cracked up.’
‘Yes. Poor man.’
‘He had enthusiasm,’ said the accountant bitterly.
‘But no brains.’ She gave him a merry glance from her expresssive eyes.
The accountant greeted it with a laugh. ‘What exactly do you mean by that look?’
She smiled but didn’t reply.
He said, with regard for her in his voice, ‘What do you intend doing after you are thrown out of here.’
‘I told you. I am getting married.’
‘So you are!’ he exclaimed, remembering the fact with a new interest. ‘May I come to the wedding?’ he added, eagerly.
‘Of course.’
‘It’s an invitation,’ he pronounced. ‘I am anxious to meet this boy of yours.’
‘You will like him.’
‘I am sure I will.’
‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock,’ she warned him. ‘You said you had an appointment with the bank manager at eleven.’
‘Oh! those dishonourable bills,’ he cried, with mock anguish. ‘I must away to do some more dishonouring.’ He added in his normal voice, ‘And every one knows about them now.’
‘There was a letter for you in the post this morning. Did you get it?’
‘No. Where is it?’
‘On your table.’
‘Good Lord! So it is.’
He opened it.
How’re ya Pal?
The job is going marvellously. Sol is a dear. But I have told you all this before.
How are you? Why are you? Where are you?
I can speak on the phone, here. Ring me up and let me hear your voice again. I love your letters, but a voice — well — is a voice. A letter — well is a letter. Good reasoning, this.
Who do you give your tobaccery pieces of chocolate to, these days? — Miss Claws? Fie, Fie!
Your last letter was remarkably affectionate for a big-business man earning his—er — thirty guineas weekly. Haw! Haw! Surely I’m not as nice as all that, said she, all innocence. (You make me feel that I am, but us girls must finesse a little.) Please go on repeating the statements with a few new ones added.
I must do some work. Don’t forget to ring.
Coral.
From where they were parked they could hear the traffic in St Kilda Road. He had stopped the car beneath some elm trees. Behind the trees across squares of grass were the vague darknesses of shrubs and bushes. The air was frosty.
The smell of the hot saveloys, lying like large woodgrubs upon the paper on his knee, made them feel hungry.
‘What an idea!’ said the accountant. ‘God bless the hot-dog man! Split the rolls and let us tear at them cannibal fashion.’
Coral took off her gloves. She pulled up her sleeves. ‘Stand back,’ she said.
‘Help yourself.’ He transferred the laden paper to her lap.
‘Not all these.’
‘Half each.’
‘Take yours, then.’
He broke a roll and gripped a saveloy between the halves. Coral did likewise.
‘I suppose I should eat daintily so as to make an impression,’ she said.
‘Don’t bother. Hark to the champing of my jaws.’
‘What a pity we haven’t got any sauce.’
‘Yes. I should have asked the man for some.’
‘Do you eat the skins?’ she asked, with her fingers to her mouth.
‘No. Aren’t they tough? Let’s be natural and throw them overboard.’
They tossed discarded skin and pieces of roll to the roadway. A patch of scraps appeared beside the car. The accountant, looking at it, said doubtfully, ‘This seems rather untidy.’
Coral leaned across him and looked over the side. ‘It does look awful. What do you think? Will we get out and clean it up?’
‘Let’s leave it. It will be swept up in the morning.’ He felt in his pocket for cigarettes. ‘Like one?’
‘Yes.’
He placed his arm around her shoulders. The glow of her cigarette illuminated her face. She has a fine face, he thought, watching her.
He commenced making love in a facetious fashion. She responded to his mood.
‘This is necessary, you know,’ he said. ‘Love-making is an outlet. It mellows one.’
‘That is old stuff,’ she countered. ‘I thought you knew better.’
‘Yes. It is old stuff, isn’t it. I was foolish to try it. Have you ever fallen for it?’
‘No. Never.’
‘It is hard to be original. I can’t think of any new way to approach you. How do you react to pleading?’
‘I recoil.’
‘Good Lord! Anyway, pleading involves loss of dignity. My soul revolts at the thought. I really believe in direct action.’
‘I dislike direct action.’
‘Well, let’s talk seriously then. What do you think of the political situation in the Near East?’
‘I think it will have far-reaching effects.’
‘Hm! what is your opinion of the Shah of Persia?’
‘Good. What do you think of Rod McCormack?’
She laughed. ‘Not much.’
‘Not so good,’ he said. ‘Let’s start again.’
He kissed her. She strained from him, then with a murmur of capitulation moved closer. He taut, new lips rested uncertainly on his. His mouth moved across her cheek to her throat. She clutched his hands.
‘No,’ she whispered, her voice shaking.
He withdrew his hand. She was trembling. He drew her to him, kissing her with passion. With eyes closed and strained, quivering body, she suffered his caresses.
She suddenly doubled her body and pushed him violently away from her. She shuddered convulsively.
‘I loathe you,’ she whispered, an intensity of revulsion in her voice.
She sat away from him, her bowed head resting on her hands. She made no sound.
He held her hand firmly in his and gazed through the windscreen in silence, hating himself, He lit a cigarette, smoking with deep inhalations.
She remained still, her attitude an accusation.
He waited.
Later, she raised her head. He looked at her. She smiled wryly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was a beast,’ he said. ‘I had thought, from my knowledge of you, that you were experienced in this sort of thing and then, when I realised you were not, I continued as if you were. I’m sorry. You needn’t be afraid of me again.’
‘I am not afraid of you,’ she said, then added in explanation, ‘I have not been out with many men.’
‘I thought you had been.’
‘I didn’t mean it when I said I loathed you. I don’t know why I said it.’
‘I am glad you said it.’
She moved closer to him. He placed his arm around her. They smiled at each other.
He drove her home and said, before she alighted, ‘I have an idea. Let’s meet each week.’
‘I have a better one,’ she said, and laughed. ‘Let’s meet twice a week.’
‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘I will ring you tomorrow. We will go to a show together.’
‘Ring between twelve and one.’
‘All right. Good night, Coral.’
She raised her face to him. He kissed her gently.