‘More bloody fool you, then.’ She was still at it.
‘Are you going to tell me what it’s all about?’ I took a sit-up-straight chair by the door that led out onto Watson’s veranda. I just had this sense that out of her arms’ reach was a sensible place to be. ‘Why have you changed from one of my friends, into someone who loathes me?’ I used her word. ‘What did I do?’
‘I told you. It’s nothing to do with you. Stop being so vain.’
‘Then stop hating me.’
She looked away, and said quietly, ‘I can’t.’ But there was no weakness in the words.
Stalemate. I think I’ve told you somewhere before that God created me specifically to break stalemates by giving me all the stupid questions to ask. When I’m dead it’s probably what people will remember about me.
Now I asked, ‘What if I came over there, put you over my knee, and slapped your arse until you told me what the hell is going on?’
That got her attention. ‘Mr Watson has a loaded service revolver in his right-hand desk drawer. He always forgets to take it out with him. I’ll reach over, take it, and shoot you.’
I don’t only have a problem with stupid questions: I also have a problem with the stupid answers I usually get to them. I stood up, and took one pace towards her.
‘Go on then. Why don’t you do it? There’s no one else here, so you can tell them what you like. Tell them I attacked you.’ Without taking her eyes off me she leaned away from me, reached back and opened the drawer by feel; then placed her hand inside. I could see that she was trembling. I held my breath. Then she paused – I was gambling on her not being totally doolally. Then she pulled the drawer shut, stood up stiffly and walked in silence back into her own space, taking her drink with her . . . and shut the door between us.
I gave my lungs permission to breathe again, and my heart permission to start beating. My shirt was sticking to the small of my back. I’d been silly again.
I swallowed the whisky in a oner, not even feeling it go down, went over to the cupboard, and poured another. Then I went over and sat behind the Wing Commander’s desk. What the hell had I let myself in for this time? All I knew was that I shouldn’t leave. So I didn’t. After five minutes, I heard Daisy begin to weep again. She cried and cried, and I didn’t go in there. After another twenty minutes she stopped, and a little later came out mopping her face with my handkerchief. I know that you’re supposed to tell people how great they look, but Daisy looked dreadful so I didn’t even try.
Her back was to me – she was pulling herself another whisky: I couldn’t remember ever having seen her drink much before – when I said, ‘You’re still going to have to shoot me . . .’
‘Why?’ She didn’t turn.
‘Because I’m going to sit here, or follow you around until you tell me what the hell has happened.’
She turned this time, her eyes were watery again. She said, ‘You’re a fool, Charlie.’
‘I know. Tell me something I don’t . . .’
I’ve told you before that there is an exact length of a pause in a conversation when a speaker is about to say something important: you can just fit the intro to Major Glenn Miller’s ‘String of pearls’ into it. Eventually she said, ‘I had a fight with a couple of men.’
‘Fight?’
‘More of a tussle really; they didn’t hurt me.’
‘What do you mean, Daisy?’
‘Don’t be so bloody dense, Charlie. One held me for the other, and then they changed places. They were careful, considerate even. They didn’t hurt me: they just had me, cleaned up, and went away again.’
Why was that the last thing I had expected? Shit. My mouth went dry.
‘When?’
‘The day before you went away.’
‘Where?’ There you go again, Charlie. Why did it matter where?
‘Here. On the very desk you’re sitting at, if you must know.’
She went to sit at the chair I’d vacated by the door. It was as if her legs could suddenly no longer support her. When I started to rise, she held her hand up to fend me off, so I stayed where I was.
‘Where was Watson?’
‘Out. They must have waited until they had seen him leave, because they came in soon afterwards.’
‘Who have you told?’
‘No one, stupid! It was probably my own fault: lying out there in the sun where anyone could walk by. Didn’t you tell me that yourself?’
‘Maybe. But that’s not the way to look at it, Daisy.’
‘Why not? What is the way to look at it?’
‘My dad told me about the three ways of sex between ordinary people, when I was still a kid. There’s sex between two people who don’t know what they’re doing – which is embarrassing. There’s sex between two people who do know what they’re doing, and want to, which is terrific . . . but between people, one of whom doesn’t want to, sex is rape. He reckons that they are the only three varieties for people like you and me.’
‘What do you reckon?’
‘I reckon he’s right . . . don’t you?’
She didn’t answer me. She said, ‘I’m getting a bit drunk, Charlie, I’m sorry.’
‘Never say you’re sorry for being drunk; it’s a sign of weakness . . .’
‘Who said that?’
‘John Wayne almost said it.’ That won me a twitch of a smile.
‘. . . but I want another drink.’
‘That’s OK. The boss is away. I’ll pretend to be him, and give us permission.’ I held my own glass out as well. I asked her, ‘Are you telling me that you’ve done nothing about them?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t think of anything to do.’
‘Report them. Lay charges. You can’t
