The feelings began as a teenage crush – what an apposite word, with its connotations of bulging, and squeezing, and sweet juice. But she always treated him as an adult, without indulgence, or pity or patronage, so the almost unbelievable fact of their lovemaking became just that: from the delirium of secret sex, love was made.
The courtship period, if you could call it that, was brief.
Zinny (he still called her Mrs Mayfield then) came into Dawson’s not long after he started there.
‘Hello. Believe it or not I genuinely need some batteries. And here you are – what a nice surprise.’
He found her the batteries, watched her face and her hands as she studied them. She was perfectly dressed as usual, wearing navy slacks and a brilliant green jumper, a little blue and green scarf tied jauntily at the neck, flat blue pumps on her bare feet; always the thin silver band, rounded like a curtain ring, on her left hand. There to justify the ‘Mrs’, he assumed, though he was aware of the rumours about her (‘no better than she ought to be’ – wasn’t being as good as you ought to be good enough?) which seemed to be borne out by the gleam in old Dawson’s eye as he advanced.
‘Is our new recruit looking after you?’
‘Perfectly, thank you.’
‘Anything else I can help you with? Years of experience; I know my way around.’
Without looking up she gave a small, closed smile, intended more for Nick than for Dawson. ‘No, just these …’ She handed the larger pack to Nick. ‘I’ll take them, might as well have a supply.’
Dawson hovered, watching as Nick took the money and gave change. Just then the bell on the door chimed and he was obliged to move away. Mrs Mayfield put the batteries in her handbag, then raised a hand, remembering something.
‘As a matter of fact, there’s a record I’m after.’
Nick said quickly, ‘We have records in the next-door shop.’
‘I thought so. Is that something you can do? I’d like to listen.’
‘Yes of course.’
With Dawson’s beady eye following him, he led her through into the small sister shop, which sold transistors, record players and an assortment of albums and hit singles in a partitioned display stand.
This part of the shop faced on to a side road, and was quieter. Two listening booths stood against the left-hand wall. A Brylcreemed young man in his twenties, Leslie Drax, was nominally in charge of this branch of the Dawson empire, his chief qualification being that he was a reformed teddy boy, likely to know about today’s pop music. Nick could sense Leslie’s territorial hackles stirring, but Mrs Mayfield was up to it.
‘Hello there, I’ve asked your new recruit to help me, is that all right?’
‘Carry on.’
‘Are you sure we shan’t be stepping on your toes?’
‘All part of the training,’ said Leslie to underline his superior status.
‘That’s quite true.’
‘I’ll be here if you need me.’
Nick sensed Leslie’s quandary. His jealously guarded musical empire was under attack, but he was susceptible to Mrs Mayfield’s charm. The latter won, and he stood aside with a reasonably good grace.
‘Let me know if you want any help.’
‘Thank you.’ She flashed him an enchanting smile. Nick realized he had better go through the motions, for Leslie’s benefit at least.
‘Do you know what you’re looking for?’
‘I do actually. It’s a Bob Dylan album.’ She was full of surprises.
‘The new one?’ He was hoping for a clue.
‘I think it has a country and western theme …’ She ran a finger over the stacked albums. Suddenly – there was a God! – the name came to him, via a remembered conversation at school in which another boy, a Dylan fan, had derided the singer for ‘selling out’.
‘Not Nashville Skyline?’
‘That’s it!’ She raised a triumphant finger. Nick could feel Leslie’s irritation at this minor coup, which might not play well for him later; for now, he basked.
‘We’ve definitely got that.’
Leslie said, ‘It’s under Country,’ at the very moment Nick located the album and pulled it out for her inspection.
‘Oh, marvellous,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m pretty certain I’m going to treat myself, but there are a couple of tracks I’d like to listen to.’
‘Certainly.’ He was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Just tell me which ones.’
‘Let’s see …’ Her slim finger with its perfect carmine nail ran down the list on the back of the sleeve. ‘This one, and … this one.’
As she handed him the album she looked very directly into his face which he feared might be actually radiating heat.
‘And now I’ll park myself over here and wait for the music. I don’t need headphones these days, do I?’
Leslie and Nick said ‘No’ at exactly the same time. He did wish Leslie would stay out of it. Fortunately at that moment Mr Dawson appeared in the doorway.
‘We need another on the counter in here – don’t mind who, but make it snappy.’
Nick focussed his attention on the record and the turntable and after a split second’s tension Leslie went through into hardware.
He had been shown what to do, and had anyway seen the procedure often enough, but his hand was trembling for quite different reasons as he lowered the needle head.
Lay lady lay … lay across my big brass bed …
Mrs Mayfield leaned against the side of the booth with her arms folded, looking at him as the track began to play, her green-gold eyes wide as a summer sky.
It was in bed that she told him. Not a big brass bed but one with a woven headboard in the shape of a peacock’s tail, smooth white sheets with white embroidered flowers along the hem. Her house was not much more than half the size of the Sanders’ home, but seemed to have more space. This, he realized, was what a house was like when it was cherished. All was calm and order and simplicity, pale colours and comfort. He couldn’t get enough of it, and he could never, ever get enough of her. Her long, smooth, pale limbs, and her slim torso that bore breasts like fruit, twin pears, firm and sweet … her hands that guided and caressed him … her clear, curved mouth that during lovemaking lost its precision and became swollen and smudged pink as if stained by berries … and those watchful feline eyes that only closed for one moment, as her lips opened and her neck arched. He was drunk on her. Zinnia – Zinny as she told him to call her.
First came the weeks of astonishment, that this could be happening at all – he could never wait, never slow down or hold back, was ecstatically helpless in the face of his good fortune. But gradually there came the time of learning, and luxuriating, of being able to ride the wave of desire and even extend it, of realizing that he could give her pleasure too, which was incredibly, unbelievably wonderful and which added immeasurably to his own delight. His fear that his own background would disgust her and put her off proved groundless. When he tried to touch on it, she brushed him aside.
‘Stop,’ she said, ‘I don’t care. Not when you and I can make each other so happy.’
He had never heard an older person talk like that; it was intoxicating.
When Leslie Drax asked him insinuatingly what he was up to, he broke out in goose pimples.
‘How’s life then, Nick? You’re looking very chipper these days – got an old lady?’
He was afraid that for a second he looked quite wild, caught out – but the turn of phrase had only been a joke, one of Leslie’s rocker expressions.
Still, it was a reminder that they were on thin ice.
As the days began to shorten, so they started to talk. Something about the end of the summer, the closing-in of the year, made them realize that things could never stay just like this. The level of deception and secrecy and downright animal cunning required to conduct their liaison was intense and unceasing. It could only be a matter of time before someone caught a whiff of what was going on. When he mentioned this one late afternoon after work (he was officially ‘having a coffee’ with some unnamed people from his class at school), that was when she told him. He hadn’t been all that serious, just commenting that they’d been lucky up to now, and their luck might not hold. It had been a sort of joke. They were lying on the peacock bed, the light off as always, and they were still joined, though as she began to speak she slipped away from him, and leaned up on her elbow.
‘Yes. I need to tell you something, Nico.’
‘That sounds ominous.’ He put up a hand to touch her face, but she caught his wrist and pressed it gently but firmly down.
‘Listen, please.’
‘All right.’
‘Two things actually.’
‘Does that mean good-news-bad-news?’
‘No.’
‘Which one isn’t it? Just so I can prepare myself.’
She pulled herself up against the peacock’s tail, the sheet chastely tucked under her arms. Nothing could have more definitely signalled a serious moment.
‘Neither, it’s just necessary information.’
He tried snuggling up against her, his head on her shoulder, one hand on her breast, but she shrugged him off, the first time she had ever done such a thing. In mitigation she ruffled his hair, clutching it with her long fingers and giving it a gentle shake.
‘I’m sorry, Nico, but you need to pay attention.’
This was also the first time she had treated him not exactly as a child, but as someone over whom she could pull rank. Nettled, he felt for his trousers, got hold of his cigarettes and matches and slouched next to her, lighting up. He was being slightly rude and, yes, childish, but she chose to ignore this.
‘You felt you wanted to explain about your home circumstances – your parents and so on—’
‘Yes, and you told me not to bother.’
‘That’s right. I didn’t want you to put yourself through all that when you didn’t need to. I live nearly opposite, remember, I have eyes and ears … Nico?’
‘OK.’ He was embarrassed, scorching, just imagining what she had observed, why he hadn’t needed to tell her anything. The shame made him surly. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Good.’ She allowed a pause to stretch, and he knew she was looking down at him in that fond but thoughtful way of hers, but he wasn’t going to meet her eyes. Let her spit it out, whatever it was. When she did speak she sounded brisk and businesslike.
‘The first thing is about my work. I’m sure people talk, and speculate – have you heard anything?’
He shook his head. There was no gossip in his house for the simple reason that they didn’t mix with other people, but he wasn’t going to say that.
‘Well you might, so I want to be sure that you know first, then there will be no surprises, unpleasant or otherwise. I do quite well as you can see – I love this little house and it’s just the way I want it.’ Her voice softened a little as she said this and then became brisk again. ‘What I told you before, about my job, wasn’t the whole truth. In fact it wasn’t the truth at all. I lied because that was the best thing to do.’
Nick put his cigarette to his lips to cover the dread he suddenly felt. His face was cold and his stomach heavy.
‘I don’t help women with their wardrobes. It’s men I help.’ He felt her glance down again. ‘Do you understand? Men pay me, for an hour or two of fun and happiness. Their happiness, not mine – it’s business to me, pure and simple.’
His throat filled with tears, he could taste them in his mouth. Then suddenly he knew that it wasn’t only tears he could taste, and only just made the bathroom in time. She left him to it, getting out of bed, moving about the room behind him, picking up his discarded cigarette, putting on her dressing gown, drawing the bathroom door to, to shield him as he knelt gagging and spitting over the lavatory bowl. After a few minutes, when there was nothing left to heave and he was sitting white-faced with his back against the bath, she came in and flushed the lavatory a second time. Then she leaned across him to turn on the taps, adding some dark green bubble mixture as she did so. She sat on the edge of the bath while it ran, her legs next to his shoulder but not touching him, occasionally giving the scented water a stir. The steam rose around them. When it was full she turned the taps off and went out on to the landing, coming back with a thick white towel from the airing cupboard.
‘Look,’ she said, as she turned off the taps. ‘I told you, and we’re both still here. Hop in and have a soak while it’s hot. I’ll bring us some tea.’
She didn’t wait, or say anything more, but went out and pulled the door to behind her. He could hear her downstairs, the clink of crockery and the hiss of the kitchen tap. The telephone rang in the hall but she didn’t answer it. That often happened when he was here – the phone would ring and she would ignore it, even when they weren’t in each other’s arms. He had assumed that she had plenty of friends as well as a successful business (he’d been right there!), but that she didn’t want to part from him for even a moment. When he was in any fit state to think, it was rather flattering to hear the phone ring out …
Not now. He remained slumped on the floor, his mouth still tasting of sick, his hands and face clammy. Nothing that had happened in his own house had ever shocked him as much as this, perhaps because it had never been preceded by such happiness.
I’ve been sleeping with a prostitute. He made himself think it.
I’ve been sleeping with a prostitute, but she hasn’t been charging me because I’m a kid. Because she can afford to.
He remembered something he’d read, or heard about, somewhere. Prostitutes didn’t kiss clients on the lips. But she kissed him, didn’t she, all the time? Now that her secret was out, would she ever again do that, put her lips on his?
He heard her coming up the stairs, her step light and quick. He didn’t want her to find him still sitting there, so he scrambled to his feet. She shouldered open the door and came in with a cup and saucer in one hand and a mug in the other. She put the mug down on the corner of the bath, and the cup on the vanity unit next to the washbasin.
‘Drink up, Nico. You’ll feel better.’
Her hand was on his arm and he got in, to escape her as much as anything, and to hide beneath the quilt of fragrant bubbles.
‘That’s the way.’ She handed him the tea. ‘Here.’
Another wave of disgust and shock hit him and tears poured down his cheeks. Rattled by a sob, his teeth clinked on the edge of the mug. His humiliation felt complete but he took some more gulps of the tea – which was very sweet – in an attempt to cover the crying. She sat on the lavatory seat with her hair and skin damp from the steam, legs crossed, slipper swinging, holding her cup. Her eyes rested on him with that look – thoughtful, speculative, not quite a smile.
‘I didn’t tell you the second thing.’
He shook his head. Now he felt stupid holding the mug and stretched his arm over the side to put it on the floor. She flicked her fingers in the water and gave the hot tap a couple of turns, before adding: ‘Don’t you want to hear it?’
‘No.’ It was the first time he’d spoken since her revelation and his voice was thick.
‘Well if you don’t mind I’m going to tell you anyway.’
He clutched his nose and sank down under the water. When he came up, she’d gone, taking the cup and mug with her, and closing the door behind her, and he heard her moving about in the bedroom this time. Now he wanted only to escape, to recover some sort of composure. He pulled out the plug and got out, scrubbing himself with the towel, pulling on his clothes which stuck because he wasn’t quite dry. The softness of the towel and the scented cosiness of the bathroom mocked him – all this was probably professional. How many others?
She was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in tan slacks and a white jumper, her hair in a ponytail. She didn’t move to touch or kiss him, but her eyes were soft.
‘Come back if you want to hear the rest of it, won’t you?’
They had a system – he left by the back door and along the snicket behind the terrace (he could go either way, for variety) to the corner, then back along the road to his own house. The light would be off in the kitchen so he could slip out unnoticed.
Walking home, shoulders hunched, he felt as if he were holding a balloon that bobbed along just behind his head – a golden lighted balloon that was Zinny and the peacock bed, and ecstasy and happiness, now there purely to mock him as he trudged back to who knew what.
I could see what it was costing my father to tell me this. At this moment he looked just as I imagined he must have looked then – pale, reduced, wretched. Nothing I could say was going to be any good, and besides I was trying to process all this myself. This was my mother he was telling me about. My mother who, apparently, had been a prostitute.
‘Dad … How awful, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be, Floss. It’s all history. In the past.’
‘Not for me,’ I reminded him. ‘This is all new.’
‘And anyway, it’s me that should be sorry.’
We sat in silence for a while, unable to connect over the turmoil of memories, of revelations. The letter – the cause of all this – had drifted to the floor. My father’s head was slightly turned away but his cheek gleamed. I thought he might be crying. I would have liked that, to weep, but there was no such relief: I was dry as a bone. I had never known anything much about my parents’ past, and hadn’t much minded. That was how it was with us. As a child, like all children, inasmuch as I thought about the situation at all, I accepted it. A bit later when I realized through my friends that other families had hinterlands and shared histories, I’d constructed a fable about my parents, a story in which they were perfect, and perfectly romantic, sprung just as they were into life with no need for the mess and muddle of antecedents. Over the years I’d come to recognize this for what it was, a protective fantasy, and then to feel a mildly cynical detachment: if they didn’t want to tell me, who cared? I cared for nobody, no, not I and nobody cared …
Suddenly I thought of Edwin, who did care for me. Who loved me, and had taught me to love him. Who had taught me to love, full stop. I could not begin to imagine telling him any of this. Did I have to? Did it matter? Perhaps not in the practical sense, but as a newcomer to the realm of love, I felt instinctively that there should be no secrets, especially dark ones.
The room itself was getting dark. Zinny was sick, in hospital. My father must have been worried sick himself, and now he was having to tell me this.
And it wasn’t over.
‘I did go back, of course,’ he said. ‘Because we’d fallen in love. That was the mysterious second thing, that she’d fallen in love with me. All through that autumn we fought, and fucked, and found our way to some sort of resolution. And what we resolved was that we couldn’t live without each other. We planned to go just after Christmas – not that that meant much to either of us, but it’s the turning point of the year, isn’t it?’
I was shocked to hear him use the f-word. Because neither he nor Zinny swore, or only in the mildest way, the word given its proper meaning had a striking special force. He read my expression correctly.
‘Sorry, Floss. But that’s how it was.’
I nodded.
‘We decided to use Zinny’s name, Mayfield. And of course she stopped … that line of work. She’d already stopped when she told me about it. She had some savings, but we were basically skint. It was all pretty desperate, and desperately romantic, you might think.’
By this stage I just might have thought that. I might have … but for one thing.
‘What about this?’ I asked, prodding the note with my foot. ‘What about the signature?’
‘That was the thing,’ he said. ‘We were all set to leave, and you came along.’