18

June came in that night and said that she had seen Frank in the town that afternoon.

‘He asked about you,’ she said.

‘You didn’t tell him anything about me, did you?’

‘Yes, dear, I told him all about you. I should think he’ll be round to see you tomorrow afternoon.’

‘He won’t, will he?’

‘Yes, he will. Get some pikelets in; he likes pikelets.’

Next morning I bought half a dozen pikelets.

Snow was falling in the afternoon.

He was on the doorstep, huge with his back to the light. His hands were deep in his coat pockets and he was stamping the snow off his shoes.

‘Are the Stephensons in?’ he asked.

‘No. They’re both out. They’re at work.’

‘Damn! You see, I lent Marguerite some records. You don’t know when she’ll be back, do you?’

‘About half-past four.’

He looked at his watch.

‘Would you like to come in and wait for her?’ I asked.

‘If that’s all right—’

‘You can come up and have a cup of tea, if you like. I have some pikelets. Do you like pikelets?’

He looked down at the doormat. He was abashed. He was not as formidable as he had been in the pub in Bridlington.

I took him upstairs and gave him a cup of tea and gave him a fork with a pikelet on the end to hold to the gas fire.

‘This is where you live, is it?’ he said looking round.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I like those curtains.’

‘I made them myself.’

‘Did you?’

‘Well, I cut the material up and sewed it myself.’

‘Have you a sewing machine?’

‘No. Actually, I sometimes wish I had.’

‘My mother used to have a sewing machine, but the needle went right through her finger one day, and she wouldn’t use it after that.’

‘It must have been a bit off-putting.’

‘It was. She wouldn’t go near it. We sold it.’

‘Shouldn’t there have been a guard on to stop you getting your fingers in?’

‘There was, but my father had taken it off.’

‘What for?’

‘I don’t know. He’s always taking things to pieces.’

I took the pikelet from him and buttered it for him. Then I gave him another one to toast while he was eating the one I had buttered. He seemed to be enjoying it.

I liked him. He was a big, real man, and he had come through the snow to see me. But he did not seem as handsome as he had seemed in the pub. He had become more ordinary—like my father.

I asked him if he had ever been in the army.

‘No. I was in the RAF.’

‘Were you a pilot?’

‘No. I was an electrician.’

‘Was it interesting?’

‘I used to work on Link trainers. It was all right.’

‘What are Link trainers?’

‘They’re like big boxes. The pilot sits inside and learns to fly by instruments.’

‘Did they ever crash?’

He laughed. ‘No.’ He laughed again. ‘No, we didn’t have any crashes. We were fortunate. We had a few blown fuses, but nobody was hurt.’

I could not understand why he was laughing.

He leaned forward in his chair. ‘There was one top-secret aircraft that I saw when I was in the RAF. It was called the Westland Wump. There were no metal parts in it at all so that it couldn’t be picked up by radar. The propeller was turned by a party of dwarfs working a crank.’

‘Are you telling me the truth?’ I asked smiling.

‘Of course I am. You should have seen the party of dwarfs marching along the runway in their one-piece Air Force blue knitted suits with pixie bonnets complete!’

He drank tea and smoked cigarettes and talked to me.

I kept thinking, ‘He came because of me.’

His face was friendly but resolute. There was strength in his shoulders. I wanted to stroke him. His eyebrows were thick and rough. I wanted to touch them with my fingers.

But I began to feel cheap. I felt bitchy. The thought of his touching me was sneaking about.

Men liked to feel girls. If he felt me, he would be sickened. It would be vile and filthy. It would be ugly.

Suddenly I said, ‘I’m a rotten person.’

He was taken by surprise.

I rushed on, ‘I’m a neurotic. Everybody’s neurotic nowa­days. It’s because there’s dishonesty everywhere. We want to get free of other people, but we can’t. We can’t get free because we can’t do without other people. And do you know why we can’t do without other people? We can’t do without other people because we enjoy telling each other lies so much!’ I laughed.

‘Are you upset about something?’ he asked.

‘No. I’m just neurotic and rotten,’ I said.

The afternoon was spoilt. I did not know him well enough to talk to him as I had done. He had come to court me, not to have me rave at him.

There was tension.

Then I heard the car outside. I told him that Marguerite had come home.

He excused himself and went down.

I did not go down with him.

I called myself a fool for having invited him up. I could not allow myself that kind of risk.