He was really quite young when you studied him. For some reason she thought of the time that Norman had come home drunk at two in the morning after the dance, the sickness in the bathroom under the hard early-morning light of the bulb, his refusal to get up the following morning for work . . . She wondered if this young man drank. Probably not. There would be some law against it in their religion. They had a very funny religion, but they were clean-living people, she had heard. They didn’t have churches over there as we had. It was more like temples or things like that.
As he was putting all the clothes back in the case, she put out her hand and picked up the silk knickers, studying them again. She stood at the window looking at them. Lord, how flimsy they were! Who would wear such things? What delicate airy beings, what sluts, would put these next to their skin? She wouldn’t be seen dead buying that stuff. It wouldn’t even keep out the winter cold. Yet they were so cool in your hands, so silky, like water running, like a cool stream in the north.
‘How much?’ she said.
‘Fifteen shillings,’ he said looking at her devotedly, his hands resting lightly on the case.
She put them down again.
‘Have you any gents’ socks?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘How much are they?’
‘Five shilling,’ he said. ‘Light socks. Good bargain. Nice.’ He handed over two pairs, one grey, the other brown. As she held them in her hands, stroking them gently, she realised how inferior they were to her own, she knew that no love had gone into their making. She had never bought a pair of shop socks in her life: she had always knitted Norman’s socks herself. Why, people used to stop him in the street and admire them, they were so beautiful, so much care had gone into them! And she knew so many patterns too, all those that her mother had taught her so long ago and so far away. In another country, in another time, in another age.
‘Five shillings,’ she repeated dully. Still, that was about the cheapest thing he had. She said decisively, ‘I’ll take them,’ though her heart was rent at their cheapness.
She went into the bedroom and took the five shillings out of the shiny black bag, shutting the door in case he might follow her. That left her with three pounds five for the week. Still, in summer it wasn’t too bad, she didn’t have to use so much electricity and she could save on the coal.
She counted the two silver half-crowns coldly into his warm black hand, and he gave her the socks.
‘Thank you, missus,’ he said. Could she detect just a trace of Glasgow accent behind the words? That displeased her for some reason. He bent down, strapping the case tight, and, when he was ready to go, he smiled at her radiantly.
‘Will you be coming again?’ she asked, thinking how quickly the hour had passed.
‘Every Tuesday while vacation is on,’ he said, looking out of the window at the traffic and the children playing.
She followed him down the lobby.
‘You sit at window much?’ he said, and she didn’t like that, but she said, ‘Sometimes.’
‘See you Tuesday then,’ he said. ‘Maybe have something else. Something nice.’
She closed the door behind him and heard his steps going downstairs, and it was almost as if she was listening to Norman leaving. She went back to the window, looking down, but she couldn’t see him: he must be keeping to this side of the street. Later on, however, she saw him crossing the road. He stopped and laid the case down and waved up at her, but she couldn’t make out the expression on his face. Then he continued and she couldn’t see him at all.
She got up slowly and put the socks in with the pile of the ones she had knitted herself, the loved ones, as if she were making an offering to the absent, as if she were asking for forgiveness. She hoped that next week he would have something cheap. She continued knitting the socks.
The Maze
It was early morning when he entered the maze and there were still tiny globes of dew on the grass across which he walked, leaving ghostly footprints. The old man at the gate, who was reading a newspaper, briefly raised his head and then gave him his ticket. He was quite easy and confident when he entered: the white handkerchief at his breast flickered like a miniature flag. It was going to be an adventure, fresh and uncomplicated really. Though he had heard from somewhere that the maze was a difficult one he hadn’t really believed it: it might be hard for others but not for him. After all wasn’t he quite good at puzzles? It would be like any puzzle, soluble, open to the logical mind.
The maze was in a big green park in which there was also a café, which hadn’t as yet opened, and on the edge of it there was a cemetery with big steel gates, and beyond the cemetery a river in which he had seen a man in black waterproofs fishing. The river was as yet grey with only a little sparkle of sun here and there.
At first as he walked along the path he was relaxed and, as it were, lounging: he hadn’t brought the power of his mind to bear on the maze. He was quite happy and confident too of the outcome. But soon he saw, below him on the stone, evidence of former passage, for there were empty cigarette packets, spent matches, empty cartons
