solitary. She looked incomplete and shockingly different; even her hair and clothes seemed bereaved. Kathy had been unable to approach her then and had gone away and cried and cried. Looking at Theresa alone, she had felt intense pity and fear.
âThink kindly of her, Robert, please. You donât understand her.â
âAnd you do?â
âNot completely, but still better than you do.â She came over and sat beside him on the bed. âItâs wrong for you to judge her, you mustnât do it.â She leaned against him and put her arms around his neck, thinking how very lucky she was to have Robert. At least somebody loved her.
Robert gently removed the plastic combs and ruffled her hair. Bloody women. He would never understand them. He thought Theresa a most unlikely friend for Kathy and wondered what the attraction could be. Probably that of an unplumbed opposite, he guessed. Theresaâs strange eyes had their effect seemingly without any willed effort on her part; her gaze was like that of an indolent cobra. She was a right oddity, he thought. In a way she wasnât really like a girl. Never before had he met anyone so angular and androgynous; indeed, never before had he known anyone for so long and so little considered their sex. It had only really come to his attention some two days before their recent argument, when he had been again obliged to give her a lift home from the library. On reaching her street, the door-lock on her side was stuck, so he had leant across to open it, and as he did so, through the thick fog of cigarette smoke which permanently hung around her, he had smelt the faintest whiff of a light, flowery perfume. He felt not the tiniest frisson of sexuality, but a major tremor of shock: for the first time ever, he was conscious of her body. It begged more questions than it answered. He wondered if she was a virgin, but balked at the notion, for he shuddered to imagine what it would be like to kiss her, much less sleep with her. Kissing Theresa, he thought, would be dangerous and painful; it would sting the lips as it did to kiss a poisoned Bible or a religious statue daubed with Belladonna in a Jacobean tragedy. To embrace her would be like driving an iron spike into his chest.
One day when he was small, a wasp had stung him at school. Miss McGuire applied her sovereign remedy for stings, which was malt vinegar painted on with a long-handled sable brush, but he had continued to weep pathetically (the smell of the vinegar was almost as bad as the sting). Miss McGuire then kissed him on the cheek, and he immediately forgot both smell and sting in the shock of discovering that her face was as warm and soft as his own. He still felt that it would be eerie and unnerving to discover by experience that Theresaâs body was as warm, soft, mortal and sexual as that of anyone else.
âShe never talks about her family,â he said.
âNo,â replied Kathy, âand neither do you.â She leant over and kissed him on the lips, which made it physically impossible for him to either answer this retort or to ask any further awkward questions. For the first time that morning, he guessed correctly what was in her mind, but although he knew she wanted to keep him quiet, he could not know the reason why. The ruse worked, however: it provided sufficient distraction to turn his thoughts away from Theresa. He considered her now, together with the other women whom he knew. Theresa, Kathy, Rosie, his mother â what did any of them truly think and feel? And why? None of them were deliberately mysterious and yet they were all a mystery. He wished for understanding for the sake of pure curiosity rather than for the love which he might have had for any of them. There was always an obstruction. He had never felt real unity with any woman; worse, he had never once even reached a consensus by which they agreed to differ. He had drifted away from all the girls he had ever known
âThink kindly of her, Robert, please. You donât understand her.â
âAnd you do?â
âNot completely, but still better than you do.â She came over and sat beside him on the bed. âItâs wrong for you to judge her, you mustnât do it.â She leaned against him and put her arms around his neck, thinking how very lucky she was to have Robert. At least somebody loved her.
Robert gently removed the plastic combs and ruffled her hair. Bloody women. He would never understand them. He thought Theresa a most unlikely friend for Kathy and wondered what the attraction could be. Probably that of an unplumbed opposite, he guessed. Theresaâs strange eyes had their effect seemingly without any willed effort on her part; her gaze was like that of an indolent cobra. She was a right oddity, he thought. In a way she wasnât really like a girl. Never before had he met anyone so angular and androgynous; indeed, never before had he known anyone for so long and so little considered their sex. It had only really come to his attention some two days before their recent argument, when he had been again obliged to give her a lift home from the library. On reaching her street, the door-lock on her side was stuck, so he had leant across to open it, and as he did so, through the thick fog of cigarette smoke which permanently hung around her, he had smelt the faintest whiff of a light, flowery perfume. He felt not the tiniest frisson of sexuality, but a major tremor of shock: for the first time ever, he was conscious of her body. It begged more questions than it answered. He wondered if she was a virgin, but balked at the notion, for he shuddered to imagine what it would be like to kiss her, much less sleep with her. Kissing Theresa, he thought, would be dangerous and painful; it would sting the lips as it did to kiss a poisoned Bible or a religious statue daubed with Belladonna in a Jacobean tragedy. To embrace her would be like driving an iron spike into his chest.
One day when he was small, a wasp had stung him at school. Miss McGuire applied her sovereign remedy for stings, which was malt vinegar painted on with a long-handled sable brush, but he had continued to weep pathetically (the smell of the vinegar was almost as bad as the sting). Miss McGuire then kissed him on the cheek, and he immediately forgot both smell and sting in the shock of discovering that her face was as warm and soft as his own. He still felt that it would be eerie and unnerving to discover by experience that Theresaâs body was as warm, soft, mortal and sexual as that of anyone else.
âShe never talks about her family,â he said.
âNo,â replied Kathy, âand neither do you.â She leant over and kissed him on the lips, which made it physically impossible for him to either answer this retort or to ask any further awkward questions. For the first time that morning, he guessed correctly what was in her mind, but although he knew she wanted to keep him quiet, he could not know the reason why. The ruse worked, however: it provided sufficient distraction to turn his thoughts away from Theresa. He considered her now, together with the other women whom he knew. Theresa, Kathy, Rosie, his mother â what did any of them truly think and feel? And why? None of them were deliberately mysterious and yet they were all a mystery. He wished for understanding for the sake of pure curiosity rather than for the love which he might have had for any of them. There was always an obstruction. He had never felt real unity with any woman; worse, he had never once even reached a consensus by which they agreed to differ. He had drifted away from all the girls he had ever known
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