19

To my surprise he was back again the next afternoon. He was pretending that he had come to apologise for upsetting me.

We talked about it in the hallway.

I insisted that the trouble was altogether in me. ‘It’s because of what happened to my mother.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘June was telling me about that the other day. It must have been nasty for you.’

‘It was. You see, I found her the next morning. She was very badly burnt. It was horrible. It sent me a bit wrong in the head. I was in a nursing home for a time. And I haven’t been properly well since then. That’s why I can’t do a job or anything. It’s psychological. One of the things that I have is that I can’t stand to be touched by a man. I can’t stand a man to touch me at all—I don’t know why. It’s part of the illness, I suppose. I’m getting better, but I still have this thing about men. That’s why I got into a state when you were with me yesterday. I got frightened that you might touch me. I don’t dislike men. It’s just this thing about being touched. When I left the nursing home I went to Butlin’s at Filey for a holiday, and there was a boy there, and I thought I rather liked him, but I didn’t want him to touch me because of my illness. I told him about my illness. But he just grabbed me, and I had to hit him in the face. We had a sort of fight. I was terribly ill after it. I haven’t told June about this. I don’t want her to know. You won’t tell her, will you?’

‘No, of course not. And will you always have this thing about men?’

‘Well, actually, I need some special treatment, and then I should be perfectly all right.’

‘What sort of treatment?’

‘Well, actually, I can’t talk about it. It’s woman’s trouble.’

‘I thought you said it was psychological?’

‘It’s psychological and physical. It’s complicated. I can’t explain it to you.’

‘You look pretty fit to me. If you have this treatment, will you be altogether as you should be?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why don’t you have it and get it over?’

‘There are certain difficulties. I can’t explain. You won’t tell anybody about this, will you?’

‘Of course not.’

I wanted to keep him interested in me without letting him touch me. It would not be easy. And it could not last for long. But I wanted it.

I was talking nervously: ‘. . . That boy at Butlin’s was ridiculously conceited. He thought he only had to get hold of me to cure everything. He was a gruesome creep really. I can’t understand why I thought I liked him. He was a clerk at a firm of timber importers. Still, he had a car. A girl is supposed to be mercenary and no good if she thinks like that, but when most men are the same as most men you might as well choose the one that has a car.’ Then I said, ‘You know, Frank, ours can only be a platonic relationship.’

He said, ‘Would you like to go down town?’

When we set out we walked side by side but separately.

I felt an excited happiness.

I would have liked to put my neat gloved hand on his arm, but I did not know how to tell him that I was willing to do that.

He was a handsome man. Nobody would suspect that he was a factory hand—anyway, he was only a factory hand by accident. He was well dressed, but he did not give the impres­sion of having his best clothes on. The short grey overcoat suited him. It was a much darker grey than my coat. He was tall. He was nearly six foot. He looked clever. I was pleased to be seen with him. His shoulders were so firm. He was a man. We were a man and a girl together.

We rode on the top of a bus. I had the inside seat and he sat next to me. He paid. People were in the street below and I was riding above them.

We went to a coffee house in Whitefri’gate. I felt like Cinderella arriving at the ball.

An efficient, well-manicured waitress served us. Well-to-do women were drinking coffee and resting from spending money. I discovered that I was the only woman there with a handsome man.

I thought, ‘Whatever punishment I have to suffer for my happiness at being here, it is worth it.’

I was telling Frank that I sometimes felt guilty about not working.

‘Nobody expects you to work overmuch.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re a woman.’

‘It’s nice for me, isn’t it?’

‘Very nice. All you need is a man with plenty of money to take care of you—which lets me out.’

‘Haven’t you got plenty of money?’

‘I have not.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘I do. It keeps me awake at night.’

We had a taxi back to the house.

We drew up behind the Stephensons’ mini-car. Marguerite was just getting out. I saw that she brightened when she saw Frank.

‘Oh, Frank,’ she said, ‘I’ve found that book I was telling you about. Do you want to have a look at it?’

I was angry.

As Frank turned to say something to Marguerite I went past him and up the path to the front door. He called after me. Without turning I called back, ‘Goodbye, Frank.’ I went into the house and up the stairs. All I could think was that Marguerite was a real woman.

After a time in which he must have been talking to Marguerite he came up and knocked on my door. I kept still and pretended not to be in. I heard him call, ‘Are you there, Wendy?’ I did not answer. He went away.

I turned on myself: ‘What the hell did you think you were playing at, going out with a man?’