in detail you’d have to question Corker.”
Corker was the technical director who designed this plant.
“I’d never ask him in my life,” Miss Pitter said, with reverence.
“He’s mustard,” Mr Summers muttered, relapsing into silence. But he watched her. In the five minutes they had before the phone began to ring again, she could get no more out of him.
There definitely was something, he thought.
That night, she came from the girls’ washroom just as he was on his way out of the office.
“What’s it like in the air?” she asked.
“Don’t know yet,” he said.
“Oh, you are comical,” she laughed, and was really amused. He began to feel excited, nervous in his stomach. He told himself he had never been like this before the war. She was complaining about something in the office. He did not pay attention, he was noting his inside. They came to the bus stop.
“No one here tonight,” she said. He did not answer.
“One of the girls told me you had the M.C.?”
“Me?” he asked. “Not me.”
She waited. He said no more. They got on the first bus.
“But they said you’d been a prisoner of war?”
“That’s right.”
“It must get you right down, being cooped up like it?”
He made no reply. She gave in.
“What number is this?” she asked, when they stopped.
“A nine,” he said.
“Gosh, I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m sure,” she cried. “See you tomorrow,” and was gone. He thought about her that night as he lay awake for hours.
The next day, at the first opportunity, she began again. As she started she asked herself, “Well what’s the odds?” After all, she knew she was quite uninterested.
“That was queer, my getting on the wrong bus with you, wasn’t it?” she said. She was leaning against the card index system. “Since mum’s been evacuated I’ve caught myself doing daft things, really, ever so often. It’s the loneliness.”
He looked at her.
“Not that we don’t have good times at my hostel,” she went on, “but mum and me, we were good companions. You know, got on together. Not like mother and daughter at all.”
“Yes, that’s it,” he said.
“‘Dot,’ she’d say, because that’s my name, Dot and no comma, ‘What’s on round the corner?’ and with that we’d drop whatever it was we were doing, and go out to the movies. But she couldn’t stand the bombing.”
Charley was spared any necessity to reply because the telephone began to ring. It kept on pretty well all day.
And he began to notice.
He was not frank about it, he shied away in his mind, but there were her breasts which she wore as though ashamed, liketwo soft nests of white mice, in front. Their covered creepiness, in this hot summer, nagged him. And, every time he looked, he felt she knew, as she did.
Most of the working day she sat at his side marking up the cards, or turning up references as he phoned the suppliers. Often, she had to lean across to get at the second cabinet. He began to take in her forearms, which were smooth and oval, tapering to thin wrists, with a sort of beautiful subdued fat, also her hands light nimble bones with fingers terribly white, pointed into painted nails like the sheaths of flowers which might at any minute, he once found himself feeling late at night, mushroom into tulips, such as when washing up, perhaps.
He dreaded getting into this condition.
Or sometimes, while he dictated, it was the softness there must be on the underside of her arms which caught his breath, and that he remembered after, and then the finished round of muscle, where the short sleeves ended, as he read out to her, “Their ref. CM/105/127 our ref. 1017/2/1826,” because he would not leave the girl to copy these from the correspondence on her own.
Prison had made him very pure. His own name for all this was lust. It shook him. But he did nothing whatever about it. Perhaps because all of her seemed a contradiction. Those arms came out of frocks that did not hang
Corker was the technical director who designed this plant.
“I’d never ask him in my life,” Miss Pitter said, with reverence.
“He’s mustard,” Mr Summers muttered, relapsing into silence. But he watched her. In the five minutes they had before the phone began to ring again, she could get no more out of him.
There definitely was something, he thought.
That night, she came from the girls’ washroom just as he was on his way out of the office.
“What’s it like in the air?” she asked.
“Don’t know yet,” he said.
“Oh, you are comical,” she laughed, and was really amused. He began to feel excited, nervous in his stomach. He told himself he had never been like this before the war. She was complaining about something in the office. He did not pay attention, he was noting his inside. They came to the bus stop.
“No one here tonight,” she said. He did not answer.
“One of the girls told me you had the M.C.?”
“Me?” he asked. “Not me.”
She waited. He said no more. They got on the first bus.
“But they said you’d been a prisoner of war?”
“That’s right.”
“It must get you right down, being cooped up like it?”
He made no reply. She gave in.
“What number is this?” she asked, when they stopped.
“A nine,” he said.
“Gosh, I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m sure,” she cried. “See you tomorrow,” and was gone. He thought about her that night as he lay awake for hours.
The next day, at the first opportunity, she began again. As she started she asked herself, “Well what’s the odds?” After all, she knew she was quite uninterested.
“That was queer, my getting on the wrong bus with you, wasn’t it?” she said. She was leaning against the card index system. “Since mum’s been evacuated I’ve caught myself doing daft things, really, ever so often. It’s the loneliness.”
He looked at her.
“Not that we don’t have good times at my hostel,” she went on, “but mum and me, we were good companions. You know, got on together. Not like mother and daughter at all.”
“Yes, that’s it,” he said.
“‘Dot,’ she’d say, because that’s my name, Dot and no comma, ‘What’s on round the corner?’ and with that we’d drop whatever it was we were doing, and go out to the movies. But she couldn’t stand the bombing.”
Charley was spared any necessity to reply because the telephone began to ring. It kept on pretty well all day.
And he began to notice.
He was not frank about it, he shied away in his mind, but there were her breasts which she wore as though ashamed, liketwo soft nests of white mice, in front. Their covered creepiness, in this hot summer, nagged him. And, every time he looked, he felt she knew, as she did.
Most of the working day she sat at his side marking up the cards, or turning up references as he phoned the suppliers. Often, she had to lean across to get at the second cabinet. He began to take in her forearms, which were smooth and oval, tapering to thin wrists, with a sort of beautiful subdued fat, also her hands light nimble bones with fingers terribly white, pointed into painted nails like the sheaths of flowers which might at any minute, he once found himself feeling late at night, mushroom into tulips, such as when washing up, perhaps.
He dreaded getting into this condition.
Or sometimes, while he dictated, it was the softness there must be on the underside of her arms which caught his breath, and that he remembered after, and then the finished round of muscle, where the short sleeves ended, as he read out to her, “Their ref. CM/105/127 our ref. 1017/2/1826,” because he would not leave the girl to copy these from the correspondence on her own.
Prison had made him very pure. His own name for all this was lust. It shook him. But he did nothing whatever about it. Perhaps because all of her seemed a contradiction. Those arms came out of frocks that did not hang
Similar Books
