be lonely if I was with you, would I?'
'No,' I answered softly, quietly happy that her thoughts were going in the right direction.
'It's true I like you, James. Like you a lot and, although I don't love you, I think it's possible I will in time.'
She sat meditating on the problem. I didn't dare speak and breathlessly waited for the outcome of her thoughts. Drawing herself up straight, she gave a long searching look into my eyes, then laughed nervously, 'Alright, James. I will be your wife and hope neither of us will ever regret it.'
I let out a long sigh and just sat looking at her with a fixed grin on my face, like some witless oaf.
'What do we do now?' she asked. 'Make burial arrangements for Lionel or arrange a wedding?'
'Both,' I answered quickly, 'and as soon as possible.'
The clergyman we met at the Grace Church on the corner of Broadway and Eleventh Street soon recovered his composure when I announced we had come to arrange a wedding and a funeral. An appointment for the wedding was made for three days hence and the doctor's burial organized for the day before that.
On emerging from the church, Dara was nearly knocked to the ground by two mangy pigs struggling over some titbit they had pulled out of one of the many piles of garbage that were stacked in the gutters lining the sidewalks. The City Council had no means of collecting the garbage that was thrown out every day and left the job to an incredible number of scavenging pigs that moved freely about the streets. I was hoping to travel downtown in one of the variety of omnibuses which were the pride of the New Yorkers. They carried between twelve and twenty passengers seated facing each other on two parallel benches and were drawn by either two or four horses. Although a half-a-dozen or so passed us in as many minutes, they were all full to capacity and it was impossible to find a footing on any of them.
The noise was deafening as drivers of wagons, heavily loaded with a variety of goods, hurled abuse at the hackney cabs that pressed their way past them. Every type of vehicle was to be seen: Broughams, the speedy Phaetons, the Clarence and the Rockway for large families, and numerous handcarts, all desperate to arrive at their destinations as soon as possible. There was no time to waste for the average New Yorker who was hellbent to go ahead, outsmart everyone else and make a profit on whatever he undertook to do that day.
Passage along the sidewalks was difficult, what with the pigs, men with bulging arm muscles carrying great blocks of ice into shops and bars, and other obstructions; it's a wonder we made any progress whatsoever. To escape for a little while from the bustling activity and noise of the streets, we entered Contoits to partake of one of their delicious ice creams for which they had a reputation second to none. Feeling rested and refreshed we made our way to Tiffany's main shop on Union Square to Purchase a ring for our wedding. The large stocks of precious stones and exquisite jewellery held Dara in a trance and I had some trouble getting her to concentrate on a great variety of wedding rings that an assistant had laid out for our selection. Dara said they all looked much about the same to her so I chose a plain gold ring and tucked it safely into one of my pockets for the day when we would be wed.
Dara was alternately fascinated and repelled by the rowdiness and hectic activity of the street traders as we walked towards the Tombs, a prison that the Americans called a House of Correction. Its peculiar Egyptian architecture dominated the Bowery, an area of the city which was almost as dreary as the filthy, wretched district of the Five Points, notorious for its drunkenness, poverty, brutality and vice.
At midday we went to Mill-Colonnes cafe and drank gin slings while we waited for our oysters au gratin. The place was crowded with men in a hassle to waste as little time as possible in the cafe in their anxiety to get back to their business. Busy as bees, they had no time for small courtesies and tackled their food with great gusto. A midday meal to them was just gobble, gulp and go!
Ah! The curse and blessing of memories. I can pick out picture slides of that day in New York with Dara that bring it all back as if it was only yesterday. Some memories that are good, some bad, but all of them exciting and exhilarating like the bustling city itself.
In the afternoon we admired the handsome residences of the rich in Hudson Square which put to shame the rows of indistinguishable and uninspiring brown stone houses of Fifth Avenue where one could see a number of fenced-in yards with a cow at pasture. Most of the streets of the city were bordered either by wooden houses of the cottage-type or by brick or stone houses, three, four or even five storeys high. But it wasn't the architecture of New York that excited my imagination, but the haste and hustle between the buildings and the tremendous energy of people as they set about the business of getting ahead to make a success in some aspect of life.
As we prepared for bed that night I was looking forward to repeating my lusty performance of the morning, but my hopes were dashed to the ground when Dara informed me that, much as she would like to oblige me, it was out of the question as she had started a period of menstruation. The thought of the blood oozing from her vent turned my stomach and I found the prospect of sharing my bed with her extremely distasteful, to say the least, of such a messy business. In my jubilation after penetrating her in the morning I had forgotten about this disability that females suffered monthly. It was one of a number of reasons why intimacy with women had no attraction for me.
Lying on the edge of the bed, making as much distance as possible between Dara and me, I tried unsuccessfully to still my agitation and get to sleep. I have never been one who could drop off into slumberland shortly after getting into bed. Most nights, before sleep can overcome me, an hour or two or more is spent gazing blankly into the darkness, feeling dreadfully lonely, with my mind musing on events of the past or fantasies of the future. If God was to grant me one favour I would ask that every night, on going to bed, blessed sleep should close my eyes as soon as my head touched the pillow.
On this, my second night with Dara by my side, my thoughts went back over the years to my school days at Heaton, a boarding school for the sons of the wealthy and privileged, considered to be the best in England. I arrived at Heaton in my twelfth year weary with grief and saddened beyond measure. My mother whom I revered and adored had died of a painful disease some days previously. A new boy, stuttering with nervous apprehension, is given very rough treatment in his first year at school.
I was miserable and unhappy most of the time. That is, until a sixteen-year-old prefect, Nicholas Dawney, took me under his care and protection. To a boy of my age he had the power and status of a god. A god who could give you six vicious cuts across your bared buttocks with his cane for infringements of the rules of the house, or magnanimously grant you small favours if he was in a good mood. In lower school life, floggings and bullying were accepted by everyone as normal and I went in daily fear of both. Running blindly along a corridor one afternoon, pursued by a group of boys who had been tormenting me, I collided with Nicholas Dawney and knocked him off balance. His fury was frightening to behold. Grabbing me by the ear, he pulled me into his study declaring in a voice icy cold with suppressed anger that he was going to give me six cuts with his cane. Crazed with terror, I fumbled with my buttons when he ordered me to remove my trousers. I turned almost faint and nearly fell on my face as I bent over to expose my bare bum.
'Prepare to take your punishment like a man,' he barked as he raised his cane in readiness for the first cut. I gritted my teeth, hoping I would not cry out in agony when the cane cut into my tender flesh. Nothing happened; the suspense was unbearable and I looked up trembling with abject fear to see Dawney, trouserless, with a lump of butter in his hand, gazing at my buttocks as if transfixed. Pushing the greasy butter into the hole between my cheeks, he fondled the soft flesh of my bum with his other hand.
I had heard vague hints of immoralities going on in the school, but had seen nothing of what the boys might be referring to and, in my innocence, submitted to the butter treatment and the loving caresses only too thankful that my person wasn't being inflicted with the cutting cane. When he pushed his rod into my bum I gasped and fell to my knees. It wasn't too painful and much more preferable as a punishment than the cane. Getting his fingers around my dicky he jockeyed me with forceful thrusts of his rod. To begin with he rode me at a rather gentle canter, but in a short while the pace increased to a furious gallop that finished with him flopping over me panting for breath.
Being Nicholas Dawney's fag brought about a change in my daily routine. I had to rise at six every morning and, by the light of a tallow candle, prepare him a breakfast consisting of tea or coffee, boiled eggs, buttered toast and grilled chicken, leaving me with little time for my own breakfast of bread and butter. Apart from a small piece of beef or mutton with potatoes at midday, bread and butter for us younger boys was our main source of sustenance. If it had not been for the food parcels sent by my father who had been through the same experience in his youth, I would undoubtedly have starved to death. It was costing my father two-hundred-and-fifty pounds a year in school fees for this deprivation and the privilege of wearing a uniform of a black jacket, waistcoat and a white shirt with a
