weaken-I, in my unknowing. “Very well. They may be placed in the hall.”
“That's about it, Miss.” The cabman has looked apprehensive. Clearly he cannot keep them or he might be taken up for theft. The door is opened with a key. The hall is narrow and runs past the stairs to a brown door which I apprehend might be the kitchen. The cabman unloads, is paid. At the last minute of entering I turn my head and see again the face of my uncle, his hansom slowing down. He appears to be peering at the number of the house. The door closes. Doors closing upon me do not frighten me. I am complete in my completeness. My bottom bulbs into my drawers in waiting.
CHAPTER FIVE
I would have my life be ever a becoming, moving towards the occurring, the self-transcending. A sound of frying reaches my ears, more blandishing to the hearing than in its oral effects. I would rather have the girl's tongue in my mouth.
A drawing room that is far too small to be called such is opened up to me through a door as mean in aspect as all else about me. The room is called, as I gather, the “living room.” How peculiar. Folding doors laid back give way to a dining space. The carpets are frayed at the edges, worn down by unspeakable feet. An occasional table purports to hide a bare patch near the side of the fireplace where someone has too often stood.
“There's fish-you like fish, don't you, always did.”
The woman appears. I cannot call her other than that. Unanswering, I gaze into the fireplace where the dust lies thick on unburned logs. Sad the scorched fragments of coal beneath. There is evidently no maid. I have nothing to reply.
“You can tell me about it afterwards, Laura, that's what you can. When he's done with you. Edward-come in and give her a buss.”
From behind her he appears, lank but tidy, a man in his thirties who sports a moustache of furtive and uncertain shape. Skirting the woman as if she were an unwanted statue or a piece of furniture moved at hazard to the wrong position, he places his arms about me in a wooden manner, his expression that of a sheet of paper that waits to be written on. A kiss neither warm nor cold is bestowed on my mouth.
“Jenny, you take her up. That dress I bought-bought special for her-you know what I mean. And the drawers and stockings.”
Edward stands unspeaking, surveying me as if I might be an unfinished carving. His hand makes a single essay about my bottom and then retires. I go forward with Jenny, as I now know her to be called. The rooms, I hope, are not all unclean. I shall bathe at the hotel.
“Have her quick upstairs, Edward, if you want. I shall say nothing. He never notices-never does.” The woman's voice. No movement occurs. We attain the landing and turn into a bedroom that encloses but a double bed of uneasy aspect, a chair, a washstand and a gaunt wardrobe. Our feet make a pattering sound upon the linoleum. For some reason the room is called “the front one.” At home we do not distinguish rooms in this way, no doubt because we have so many more.
“Undress quick.” Jenny's voice is nervous. A curiosity takes me.
“He has you, too, now?” I add the word indicative of Time in my seeking.
“Often enough, when she don't know. Oh, you and your pretending! More often than seldom when you're not here. Lor', your chemise-ain't it nice! Keep it on, oh, keep it on, do, it frills out nice. I don't know why you ask these things. It was the same at our last house.”
“Yes, I know.”
I want to be rid of her, to see myself in the speckled mirror above the washstand, but it is not allowed. My drawers removed, replaced by brown ones of inferior quality; the stockings that sheathe my thighs also brown, and with coarser threads than any I have worn before.
“You've got more curls around your thing, Laura.”
“No doubt-they have been watered more.”
“You're a dirty one, you really are. All ready, then? It'll be a nice night of it if you don't fuss. Don't tie your drawers too tight or he'll tear them.”
“I don't mind. It is rather pleasing to have them torn off. Didn't we used to, both of us?”
“I knew you remembered, you and your questions, pretending asking. You always knew how to get round me so you could have it first.”
“Jenny-if it were midnight and we were at Brighton, we could walk the beach by the chain pier in our bare feet, feel for the roundest pebbles with our toes, play with the locks of closed doors along the promenade and hear the little cries within. Then we could do it with him under the arches, all quiet, saltspray of the sea at our nostrils. Wouldn't you like that?”
“When you talk like this, Laura, I don't know what. You're not going to struggle tonight, are you?”
“I do sometimes-sometimes I don't.”
“You two come down now! He's a-coming along the street.” The woman's call. I hasten, not knowing why I do. Perhaps this is a game and I must reach a certain square on the board before he. My square becomes the dining space. The chairs are commonplace, the varnish worn. Bread already cut and buttered stands beside our plates. What a curious thing! I perceive no fish knives nor wineglasses.
“Straighten yourself, Laura. Draw your skirt up-he likes to see your knees.”
I obey the woman. Jenny imitates my movements, though not bidden to. I uncover myself to mid-thighs. Edward sits opposite with her and cannot see, though I mind not if he does. The woman bustles back and forth. Fried fish is produced on a large, flowered platter, chipped around the edges, together with a bowl of steaming, floury potatoes. The effect is nauseating. The front door has opened-heavy footsteps have made themselves known in the hall. They ascend, thump all about overhead like those of a grenadier and then approach.
“Have her upstairs? Did you? Have her?”
The woman's words peck rapidly at Edward. He shakes his head. An unease of craftiness sits in his eyes. I see no traces in him-nor indeed any hope-of the anger of which Jenny spoke. He looses it perhaps only in the dark places; hands incoherent with desire, he dare not bring into the light.
The man enters, a wraith of evident substance at my back. I do not turn. Having taken but a disdainful mouthful, and that too much, I return my knife and fork to the plate. His hands come upon my shoulders with a shock of weight. Ever be calm and receive. Descending, his fingers feel, fondle, and palpitate my breasts.
“She's all right, then?” His voice is nondescript.
“Ain't said nothing-ain't told nothing-nor to Jenny either. She don't like the food-good food it is-you can see that, you can tell she don't.”
“Been missing it, that's what she has. Been missing it, my lovely, haven't you?”
His joviality offends. His hands glide beneath my armpits where he expects perhaps to find moisture. There is none. Not yet. I am drawn up, backwards pulled, chair scraping, held at such an angle with my back to his chest that I have no point of resistance even if I sought one.
“Her skirt should have been up more.”
Breasts cupped by his hands, held helpless and inert, my eyes flare over those who sit and stare.
“Get the chair away,” he grumbles. Jenny's eyes scurry all about. My torso twists, though not violently. I am not minded to reject nor over-strongly to receive.
“I told you, Laura, you see. You wouldn't listen.” Jenny has risen, come to me, pushes the chair away and hoists my skirts to my waist.
The woman giggles, nudges Edward, nods.
No-no-no-no, I do not want. They will watch. The woman's eyes have a dirty look. I have never been watched. My hips squirm, writhe, the chair no longer my protector. I feel his bigness, his arising, against my knick- ered moon, pushed, propelled through the folded doors to a high-backed chair over which I am slung so that only my bottom, legs, are visible to them.
“Leave me!”
I grit the words and yet but in my mind. I shall not wail. Hands work at my drawers. I know them to be Jenny's, I know her breathing, the touch of her fingertips, tapered, resilient. The maroon cushion of the chair