Down here among the women. Is there no one nice, ordinary, and pleasant? Yes. There’s Jocelyn, Helen, Audrey, Sylvia, Wanda, Scarlet and kind, kind Byzantia. Millie, Lettice, Lottie. It depends only on which of their words one chooses to listen to, which of their actions to overlook. And Susan, Scarlet’s father’s new wife, is nicest of all, slender of waist, and thick of mind, thick as the trunk of a kauri tree in the New Zealand forests whence she comes, and of which she is so fond, almost as fond as she is of Kim, Scarlet’s mother Wanda’s first husband and Scarlet’s daughter Byzantia’s grandfather.
Down here among the women who like to describe people by their relationship with others. It makes us feel more secure, or as if someone might notice when we die. So Sylvia says.
It is a momentous Sunday afternoon for everyone. What configuration of the stars is this?
Sylvia has gone to the pictures to see La Ronde. She sits in the ninepennies, near the front, for she is short-sighted, and a little deaf in one ear. Jocelyn stayed at home to wash her hair. It is dripping wet when Philip arrives, slim, tender-mouthed, grey-suited, in search of his true-love Sylvia, and failing to find her tells his troubles to Jocelyn. He fears, really fears, that abstinence will ruin his health. What is Sylvia playing at? She slept with him once, then never again. Why? Jocelyn wraps a towel turban-wise around her hair and explains that Sylvia’s mental balance is delicate beside her eyes and her ears being weak, and he must not worry her; and all the time her own flesh draws nearer and nearer to this unsuitable young man, who, being Sylvia’s boyfriend, can only be illicit. She cannot help it; it is nothing to do with her; her soul cries out, but all it can say that she can hear is bully one, bully two, bully three and away, and it makes no sense. Now they are flank to flank, and her voice is telling him about Sylvia’s schoolgirl abortion, while the world grows darker and darker with desire. And here they are in bed, while he consoles his disenchantment. How did they get there? The pillow is wet from her hair; now it will take hours to comb and curl. She takes this as evidence of overwhelming passion. She feels so bad about wronging Sylvia that she fails to notice how languid are the young man’s habits – or that though flesh still calls to flesh, it is now from an irritated frustration rather than any aspiration to fulfilment. They are to marry, in the future. And serve her right, you might well say.
Sylvia returns from La Ronde, and finding her Philip still in bed with her Jocelyn simply blanks out conveniently and does not mind. It seems an extension of the film. Sylvia loses such small sense of the reality of her existence as she has so far managed to retain.
She closes the bedroom door, makes tea, takes it in to them and sits on the end of the bed and chats, telling them the plot, singing the theme tune, liberated from suffering. Philip decides that Sylvia is mad, and he has done the right thing. He is quite wrong. With Sylvia’s tender mental balance and his tender mouth they would have been well matched.
Bully off, gels! Hockey One, hockey Two, hockey Three and away! Jocelyn played centre-forward at school. They wore their dark green bloomers and had hockey practice in a public park. Men in raincoats would gather to watch, but the staff did not seem to notice. Once Jocelyn’s elastic had broken by accident. Once Jocelyn had broken the ankle of the opposing centre-forward, by accident. Jocelyn’s life is dogged by accidents. Bully one, bully two, bully three and away! Faster, cries Miss Bonny, all long socks and tunic, faster! Out to the wing, gels! What, no one there? No one waiting? There is tragedy in her voice. No one waits for Miss Bonny, or only Jocelyn after school, and though Miss Bonny makes do, it is not what she wants. What all women want, Miss Bonny explains, is love. In the meantime, hockey one, hockey two, hockey three and away! Bully off, gels. How lovely life is before one catches a glimpse of death.
Helen is this afternoon busy encompassing her own, although it will be fifteen years before it matures and lays her on the floor in Wembley Park with little Alice there beside her.
Right how Helen sits naked, white, and rather blousy on a camp stool in X’s studio. He stands and paints her. On the other side of the studio Y his wife, also at an easel, also painting Helen. X is good-looking, tall, brilliant-eyed and craggy. Y is rather plain, though they say a better painter than X. It was Y’s idea that Helen should be there, should model; now Y is not so sure it was a good idea. X’s real name is Alexis. Y’s real name is Yvonne. Their friends – and they have many – know them as X and Y, never imagining a time when they might not be together.
‘Do you have to wriggle?’ asks Y crossly.
Wriggle? Helen turns her head to stare with her brilliant witch eyes at Y, whom she has thought until this minute she adored. She is angry. She turns back to face X, and catches his eye. Her pupils dilate: from now on she returns, whenever Y is not looking, the frank admiration with which she knows full well he looks at her. Naked or clothed about his house, she now moves languidly. She kisses his children, raises her eyebrows gently when Y fails to cope with them. Y should have kept her mouth shut. Death gets to her quicker than it does to Helen; having a straighter, smoother path to run. Y keeps looking over her shoulder to see how he’s getting on, which one should never do. It takes only ten years from those five careless words for death to catch up with Y.
And Audrey? Audrey is being taken over the V. and A. by Paul Dick, a potter. He thinks he will change her name to Emma. It suits her better. She agrees, thinking he will have forgotten about it tomorrow. She would not dream of arguing with him. He knows so much, and she has so much to learn. Even sex, at which she thought herself well trained, now appears a mystery. He reads her pornographic books, observes and photographs. She has little opportunity to roll on French letters. After he has finished talking, indeed, she is usually too tired to care. Still, she is learning about art, pottery, wine and jazz. And what is she on this earth for? Why, first to fuck, and then to learn, according to Paul Dick. Such language is new to Audrey, and impresses her. Back where she came from f— was a swear word, not a description of an activity.
Scarlet’s father Kim Belcher lives on the fourth floor of a red-brick Edwardian block of flats off Baker Street. Scarlet walks up and down outside for some few minutes. She is a conspicuous figure, for she does not own any maternity clothes. She wears an old skirt of Helen’s, dating from the days when Helen was fat, and a Fair Isle jersey which Lettice knitted for Wanda decades ago, which Wanda did not like and would not wear. It is both unbecoming and indestructible, a terrible confection. Scarlet’s coat is her own, and held together beneath her bosom by an ill-concealed safety-pin; it divides at this point over the swell of her stomach like a pair of theatrical curtains framing a stage. Her shoes are down at heel and her lisle stockings fraying where they have been darned. (Nylon stockings are for the rich and those with American connections. Only dancers wear tights. Ordinary respectable people have stockings which go into holes, not ladders, and are darned. The thread for doing so comes on cards of graded colours.) So Scarlet demonstrates her misfortune to the world.
She will go to her father, and she will say unto him, ‘Father behold thy child.’
She has already said it on the telephone, mind you, and though he has been polite, he has not been encouraging.
Yet if she, his child, asks for bread, will she be given a stone?
Quite possibly. Kim, like Wanda, does not read the Bible. Kim has a strong sense of survival. Besides, Kim has replaced his daughter with a child wife.
Scarlet is nervous and feels like crying. Her legs will not take her up the steps. She gets cramp in a calf and has to stand on tip-toe and raise and lower herself two or three times before the pain goes. She is afraid of overbalancing. She is in a nightmare. Pretty soon, she thinks, if things go on like this, she will be obliged to wake up. What age is she, having this dream of a projected, impossible future? Six? Seven?
But her mother has said, ‘Ask your father.’ It is not just permission, it is a command.
She decides to telephone. She searches her pockets for three pennies. There are handkerchiefs (no tissues, they do not exist) a medical card or two, her blood grouping (O) and a half-crown and a couple of farthings which would be worth fifteen shillings if only she had them today.
Scarlet is obliged to go into two cafés and have two cups of tea and two buns before she can accumulate three coppers. It is not in Scarlet’s nature to ask for change. Wanda has trained her too well to expect anything but nothing from nix. Scarlet herself will do a favour for anyone: and she can ask the enormous ones of others (look at her now, demanding recognition) but the little ones are beyond her. She cannot ask strangers the time or for change for the telephone. The buns – bright yellow from dried egg – give her heartburn.
Kim does not answer the telephone. He is out. Susan Watson answers it, in her refined little voice, with its careful vowels. Her mother voice-trained her on the voyage back from New Zealand – where they had spent the war – so as not to disconcert Mr Watson, Susan’s father and now Kim’s boss, with the closed nostril taint of New Zealand speech.
Scarlet is taken aback. She had assumed Susan to be a stage prop, not a real person. She has never answered the telephone to Scarlet before. Scarlet has accepted Susan in Kim’s bed – a marionette to be wound up at bedtime and perform – but not as someone with power, opinions, or even feelings.
Susan too is taken aback. But she is welcoming, even eager. Kim is out. But why doesn’t Scarlet come round? Scarlet says she’ll be there in two minutes.
Susan has a pretty round doll’s face, set in a sweet expression, and an obliging disposition.
Susan thinks it’s marvellous to be married to Kim: she loves playing houses; she even loves Kim.
Susan despises Kim’s former wives for having failed to make him happy.
Susan is envious that Kim has a past and she has not. Sometimes she worries lest she too, should become part of Kim’s past.
Susan likes being so much younger than Kim. It is the same kind of showing off as she has always done, from puffed sleeves as a little girl when no one else had them, to passing round the telegram at school which said her brother had been killed in action.
Susan wants now to show off in front of Scarlet. She has so much; and poor Scarlet – daughter of Witch Wanda – has so little. She got to University, true, but when was a clever woman ever happy? So Susan’s mother said when Susan failed her school certificate. Clever women don’t make good wives, and in good wifedom lies happiness. So spoke Susan’s mother, lying on a beach in New Zealand, while her husband did fire-duty thirteen and a half thousand miles away.
Susan runs round the flat like a busy little girl, tidying, plumping cushions, putting on bright orange lipstick.
Susan puts on the grill for toast – it’s Sunday and tea-time, after all – and prepares to patronize Scarlet.
Susan is eight and three-quarter months pregnant. She has been married nine months. Kim had to marry her, not because they had f— (Susan has barely heard the word, ever) and she was pregnant but because she wouldn’t before they were married.
Susan’s mother said not to. Now Susan’s mother knits little woollies and nudges her husband to make Kim a full partner in the firm; he has already done so but she never listens. Or if she does, she soon forgets.
Down among the women, if you are very very careful, and shut your eyes and ears, and keep your knees together nearly always, you can live really quite happily. Susan’s mother does. It was Susan’s brother, not Susan’s mother’s son, who was killed in action. That at any rate is how Susan’s mother always refers to him. Poor Susan’s brother. Not even Susan’s poor brother.
Susan shows no outward signs of deserving pity. Even now, as she opens the door to Scarlet, her face barely changes – she smiles sweetly on.
Scarlet faints.
Byzantia, noticing a change in her environment, prepares to abandon it. (Nothing will make Simeon – Kim’s son, Byzantia’s uncle, poor Susan’s dead brother’s nephew – leave Susan except the due processes of time, pressure and the conjugation of the stars. A ritualist now, and always will be, whatever the inconvenience to others.)
‘Oh dear,’ says Susan. It is her strongest expression. No wonder Kim, having lived through Wanda, is so devoted to her. He has not yet had time to grow bored. Presently he will get into the habit of saying he’s going to die of boredom, and presently indeed he will. But that’s a long way off.
Susan spent seven years in New Zealand, where girls are expected to be practical, so she drags Scarlet inside, and heaves her on to the couch. She has never seen anyone so untidy. Even Scarlet’s stomach, Susan notices, is lopsided. Perhaps Scarlet is going to have a lopsided baby? Scarlet wears a wedding ring. It leaves a green stain. Woolworth’s, thinks Susan, who is knowledgeable, as well as practical, as well as nice, and often shops at Woolworth’s where you get good value for money. She has a streak of parsimony.
Susan feels a surge of pity for this poor messy Scarlet, her step-daughter, who has clearly ruined her life. The pity is maternal in its essence. And vengeful against dreadful Wanda, who not only once made Kim unhappy, but without doubt has failed as a mother.
Susan explained to the reviving Scarlet that Kim is out; he will be back within the hour. In the meantime Scarlet, who looks dreadfully pale (she probably hasn’t even been taking her iron tablets), must stay where she is and rest.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Scarlet vaguely, ‘to inconvenience you.’ The carpets here, she observes, are thick and soft. At home there is only green and yellow lino. Scarlet looks Susan up and down, and hates her for the following reasons, or if not reasons, feelings:
Scarlet has somehow believed she is the only pregnant woman in the world.
Scarlet, frankly, does not like girls who look like Susan.
Scarlet does not like girls who are married to her father.
Scarlet does not like her father’s wives to be prettier and younger than her mother.
Scarlet does not like women who polish their shoes – she herself scorns to do so.
Scarlet does not like women with small feet and long painted nails.
Scarlet does not like women who live upon her father’s money.
Scarlet does not like the thought of other women having more right to this flat than she does.
Scarlet does not like having a step-mother younger than herself.
Scarlet has a pain like a ribbon tightening round her middle which makes her feels sour.
Scarlet does not like the thought of this girl in bed with her father.
Scarlet does not see why the fuck (not for nothing is she her mother’s daughter) this girl’s child should be legitimate while she, Scarlet, who is morally superior, should give birth to a bastard.
It is quite a long time before Scarlet speaks. Then all she says is, ‘Mrs Belcher, I presume.’
Kim’s surname is Belcher. It is the cross – along with the complications of his past – that Susan has to bear; she carries it bravely. Wanda reverted the moment she could to her maiden name, Rider, and Scarlet used this too. Every now and then, if Scarlet complains too bitterly of her lot, Wanda suggests she reverts to her father’s name. Scarlet Belcher. Scarlet declines. Scarlet Rider is a good name and one of the reasons why the father of Byzantia took her home from a party, drunk and dismal as she was.
‘Don’t try to talk,’ says Susan. ‘Just lie a little. There’s lots of time.’
Scarlet shuts her eyes and tries to contain her rage. Susan just sits with her hands folded and continues to smile.
Scarlet peeks.
She’s working out a knitting pattern, thinks Scarlet.
But Susan is off where she always goes when she has a minute to spare, and times are tense. She is walking through the silent kauri forests of New Zealand. Clematis creepers trail down from the high branches. What light there is catches on its white starry flowers. The trunks are dark, smooth and immense. There is thick moss underfoot. It is primeval forest – no birds, no animals, no sound. Just Susan, back at the beginning of time.
Scarlet calls her back.
‘I don’t think there is much time,’ says Scarlet enigmatically, more to frighten Susan than because she believes for one moment she is about to give birth. Susan enquires when the baby is due. No baby, surely, can be more nearly due than hers, in six and a half days.
‘Last week,’ replies Scarlet, as is her pleasure. Susan, for the first time, is put out. Scarlet’s baby’s aunt should surely arrive first. (She is as convinced she is having a girl as Scarlet is that she is having a boy.)
‘You mean you might have it any minute?’ her voice squeaks a little. She remembers her mother’s training and lowers it a little. They had a dreadful journey back from New Zealand – in an unconverted troopship. Susan’s mother caught dysentery and conjunctivitis but managed to ignore even these inconveniences. Still she paced the deck with the other mothers, released en masse from the dreadful provincial prison of war-time New Zealand, drilling offspring in ‘The Rain in Spain’, and other niceties of pre-war England. Susan’s mother was not so much brave as obstinate.
‘Any minute,’ says Scarlet. ‘I keep getting these pains.’
‘We’d better get the ambulance.’ Susan keeps her voice pitched low.
‘They’re only pains,’ says Scarlet crossly. ‘They’ll go away. They always have before. I can’t stand women who make a fuss.’
The only harsh word Kim has so far said to Susan is, ‘For God’s sake, don’t fuss.’ Susan is silenced. Scarlet swings her legs over to touch the floor and sits on the edge of the sofa, and smiles and smiles, which encourages poor Susan.
‘Is this – um – just a social visit?’ enquires Susan, with antipodean awkwardness.
‘I have come to visit my father,’ states Scarlet.
‘Yes. Of course. How nice. But do you need anything?’
The question is too enormous for Scarlet to answer; in any case she has another pain and wants to go home; but Belsize Park seems too far away to be reached; and has not her mother sent her here?
The feeling grows that if she goes back home now she will never, ever get away. She continues to sit brightly, tightly upright and begins to dread her father’s return. How can she explain herself to this stranger? If she stops smiling she will cry.
Susan makes a pot of tea, conscious of Scarlet’s need, but praying that Kim will return and make everything all right again. Simeon kicks and she cries out, startled, and nearly drops the kettle. She has a vision of those white pure feet of hers raw, blistered and disfigured for ever. She trembles.
Susan hovers for a moment on the borders of that other terrible world, where chaos is the norm, life a casual exception to death, and all cells cancerous except those which the will contrives to keep orderly; where the body is something mysterious in its workings, which swells, bleeds, and bursts at random; where sex is a strange intermittent animal spasm; where men seduce, make pregnant, betray, desert: where laws are harsh and mysterious, and where the woman goes helpless.
Susan, in fact, nearly leaves the girls and comes down here among the women.
She thinks of her mother and survives, hauling herself out of the mire, using a lace doily as a foothold. She lays it on a tray and makes Scarlet lemon tea. There is a fine sweat on Scarlet’s brow. Still she sits upright, tightly smiling.
What are people saying about Scarlet these days? All kinds of things. Byzantia bestows on this former invisible girl the mantle of existence, and thus makes her the easier to snipe at.
‘I do think Scarlet went a bit far,’ Audrey is saying to her potter, Paul, ‘not even knowing who the father is.’ They have gone on from the V. and A. to an anarchist party in Hampstead. There is a sheet hung out of the window saying, ‘Only a sheep would vote’. The party has been going on since the previous night. The host has made beer in the bath. People queue outside the bathroom either to piss or vomit in the toilet, or take more beer from the bath. There is also home-made elderberry wine in the kitchen. At some time during its preparation it was contained in tin buckets, and is now mildly poisonous. A drunken rumour goes round that those who drink it die. No one seems to care; in particular not those who have recently visited the bathroom. Purple-lipped and black-toothed they drink on. Thus, in the vanity of youth, these reckless anarchs of twenty years ago rejoice.
Audrey and her escort prefer to see themselves in the role of spectators. The scene here is too like the home of her childhood, too unlike his, for comfort.
‘I would like to meet this Scarlet,’ he says.
‘She has bad legs,’ says Audrey firmly.
‘Bad in leg means good in bed,’ he persists.
‘She’s hardly in the condition,’ says Audrey.
‘In Poland they mate the cattle twice,’ he says, ‘once for milk and once for meat. It works.’
‘I don’t know what that’s got to do with it.’
‘That proves your ignorance and lack of subtlety.’
So they bicker, but both are aware in their hearts that he knows better than she.
‘I’m going to give her ten shillings a week to help out,’ volunteers Audrey, defiantly. ‘We all are.’
This silences him for a full minute. At the end of this time she is as nervous as once she was when she waited outside the headmaster’s office to receive the cane. She had done a terrible thing. Brave then as now, she had crept into the boys’ toilets to see what they were like and bear the news back to the waiting troupes of little girls. She’d been told on by a little boy. Discovered, Audrey is at her worst. She will lie, renege and squirm to get out of trouble. But undertaking the impossible, Audrey is magnificent.
At last he speaks.
‘You – Audrey undertook to give her ten shillings a week. You – Emma may well wish to change your mind.’
Emma-Audrey is so overwhelmed by the masterful nature of this well-educated, cultivated young man that she betrays Scarlet instantly.
‘I suppose it’s not really doing her a favour,’ she says, with hardly a moment’s pause. ‘She’s got to come to terms with things, hasn’t she?’
‘Better,’ he says, ‘better. More my Emma, less my slum-child Audrey. Terrifying how deprivation fails to toughen, but merely softens. No one so mean as a man born rich; no one so spendthrift as a girl born poor. Helen’s taking you for a ride, too.’
But she won’t have a word spoken against Helen, who moves like a grasping goddess through her life. He is put out, this young man with the clear cold blue eyes. She moves to placate him.
When he introduces her as Emma she abandons Audrey – or thinks she does. She joins him in abhorring the wine. He is used to better things, better parties, better orgies. He rips Emma’s peasant blouse a little, thrusts in his hands and disorders her breasts.
‘Do try and look more debauched,’ he implores.
Emma-Audrey does her best.
His ex-wife (news to Emma) turns up later, red-haired and drunk, and makes a scene. He comforts her; assures her of his emotional if not his physical fidelity. Audrey-Emma, outraged, leaves the party with his best friend, an Australian teetotaller (astonishing!) with a very clean white shirt and asthma, a follower of Subud. There is a fearful row. It goes on for weeks. The ex-wife implores Audrey to stop tormenting her ex-husband. Audrey says my name is Emma, and pleads honest debauchery. The best friend sleeps with the ex-wife. Emma ends up in hospital with mysterious stomach pains, with the potter at her bedside – weeping tears of reproach, throwing away her prescribed phenobarb and replacing with herbal tablets given by a friend who as father-of-five is supposed to know all. My name is Audrey, says Emma, and worsens. He, seeing her slipping away, not just into Audrey, but into – he imagines in his conceit – death, offers to live with her.
Emma lies in her hospital bed and considers. Thwack, thwack went the cane in the hand of the tall grey man with flapping trousers; it wasn’t me, Audrey cried, it was someone else: and thwack, thwack, it went again, it wasn’t me who wanted to look, it was someone else. Why won’t you believe me? It’s true. It didn’t hurt in the least, and the honour of his attention was singular. He shoots hares, standing in the field like a scarecrow. Audrey skins and cleans them for him a two shillings a time.
Emma’s life, in fact, is so rich and strange she has no time to think of Scarlet.
Those were the parties.
What is Jocelyn saying about Scarlet, as Philip sits up in bed and drinks the tea that Sylvia brings them?
‘Of course if we give her ten shillings a week she’s got to be honest with us. She’s got to tell us who the father is.’
Jocelyn wears her bra in bed. She doesn’t like the feel of her breasts flopping and bobbing. Neither, come to that, does Philip, but he’s not aware of it yet.
‘I suppose she knows who it is,’ says Philip gloomily. ‘I don’t understand why you bother with her. She doesn’t seem the right kind of friend for you two at all.’
Jocelyn and Sylvia enlist themselves on the side of the virtuous women.
‘We can’t desert her now while she’s in trouble,’ says Jocelyn, ‘that wouldn’t be fair. But she’ll have to stop cheapening herself.’
Sylvia cries herself to sleep that night, but can’t think why, except she would have liked Philip to have persisted in his wooing. She takes up with a Sales Director some fifteen years older than she is. He drinks a lot of gin, and is in the habit of telling her in detail on the way home in his Riley of exactly what he wants to do to her, this way and that, in bed. Thus he expends himself and saves the effort of an actual seduction. Sylvia doesn’t mind. She has a kind, if wispish, nature and is only too glad to be of service. He goes home happier to his wife. She sleepwalks back to Jocelyn.
Down here among the women, we do a lot of sleepwalking. The only way to get through some days is to suppose one will presently wake up. So says Wanda.
‘They have no style,’ Helen is complaining of her friends and admirers. ‘Especially not Scarlet. It was a bad party, given by no one for nobodies, and now of course she’s pregnant by someone no one’s ever heard of. If one is to be an unmarried mother one should do it with a certain panache, don’t you think?’
She is talking to Y, who is finishing a portrait of Helen. X is out lecturing students. The children ram and batter at the closed door which keeps them out of the studio. They are hungry. It is past teatime. Y ignores them.
‘I don’t think one should be an unmarried mother at all,’ says Y virtuously. ‘Children can’t eat panache.’
‘There’s always National Assistance,’ says Helen. ‘I don’t think women really need men at all. Fathers should be done away with. Men must be entertainment for women, no more’. She knows this will upset Y. She is quite right, it does. ‘Women don’t need men,’ she repeats, ‘not nowadays.’
‘I do,’ says Y, her large pale eyes unblinking, looking straight at Helen, who doesn’t know whether she is being stared at as something to paint, or – which she would prefer – as a rival female.
‘I would kill myself,’ says Y, ‘if X ever betrayed me with another woman.’
‘How dramatic!’ says Helen, as languid as she can manage, though Y sounds perfectly matter-of-fact. ‘Do you really think a man like him can be expected to live the rest of his life with only the one woman? Surely, if you loved a man properly, you would want him to be happy, in his own way.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ says Y, in whom there is not a small element of Wanda. ‘I would want him to be mine, that’s all.’
There is no doubt now but that she is looking at Helen, into the spirit of Helen. Helen is gratified. She feels they are hardly a match – Y so frail and mousy, she so bold and strong.
‘I would kill myself,’ says Y, ‘and then I would kill the other woman.’
‘In that order?’ enquires Helen pertly.
Y shrugs. Helen is never to forget this conversation, never. At the door the children hammer and yammer. Y does nothing.
‘Poor Scarlet,’ says Helen. ‘I don’t suppose anyone will ever marry her now. She’s rather plain and hasn’t much to offer, except brains, and what man wants a woman with brains? Of course I don’t believe in marriage, so it wouldn’t matter to me, but she does. Not that I’d ever have a child if I really loved a man. Love’s a full-time occupation, don’t you think? And children are so distracting.’
She has to raise her voice to be heard above the din made by Y’s three.
‘And so very unerotic,’ she adds. Y, in a fit of – what, rage, resentment, petulance, foreboding? – hurls a jam-jar of turps at the closed door, but still does not open it.
When X returns he finds Helen in the kitchen cutting jam sandwiches for three washed, brushed, well-behaved children, while Y paints on. He, who is accustomed to saying that the role of the artist is more important than the role of mother, is impressed, and feels a pang of purely bourgeois irritation with his wife. It enables him to kiss Helen in the pantry with a clear conscience, which is what she had in mind. For a girl of twenty-one she is not doing badly.