would be all right.'
Gavin looked away. 'I suppose it'll be all right for a while,' he said. 'But I'm not going to like thinking of you in there.'
Together they packed Mary a suitcase; there were some clothes of Sharon's, and some of Mrs Botham's that were more or less Mary's by now. Mary would have liked to take along a book or two, but she didn't want to risk asking. He told her how to get there on the Underground. He gave her four pounds: it was all he could spare. He embraced her quite tightly at the front door but Mary could tell he was already on the other side; she broke away quickly and hurried down the steps.
Mary didn't want to go underground again.
She walked. The suitcase was light at first but became steadily heavier as the day closed in. She asked other people the way, holding up the small sheet of paper. They read the address and did what they could. Some were no help; some were so bad at talking that they couldn't have told her anyway; some found the piece of paper distasteful in itself and moved on without answering. She got there in the end. It didn't take too long.
On the way she had her first memory. It made her stand still and put the case down and lift her hands to her hair. She heard a child shout and turned round shyly; she was in a quiet street, one marked by an air of prettiness and poverty; its small houses were clubbed together with their doors and windows open, and the staggered gardens displayed the family clothes. She was in a quiet street—but then, nowhere was a quiet place for Mary. She wanted to be somewhere the same size as herself and indolently dark, a place where she could shut out the clamorous present. But Mary stood where she was, her hands on her hair, and remembered.
She remembered how as someone young she had wanted to shine a light through other people's windows, to see into other people's houses ... She was standing on the grey brow of a terraced hill at evening. The spiked gates of the city park have just been shut; the keeper walks back into the distance, glancing sideways and pocketing his keys. The boys have all gone home. They are all safe and having tea in other people's houses, behind other people's windows. Turning her head, she could look down the hill and into the square. Here in all their rooms they were shoring up against the darkness. She wanted to see them, to shine a light, to sense the careless ripples of their carpets, the unregarded cracks in their papered walls, the shadows on their stairs. She knew it was impossible—she would never be let inside. She turned and ran wherever she was supposed to go.
Mary dropped her hands to her side. That was all: she could follow herself no further. She looked up. Immediately, the street—the air, the incorrigible present— seemed a little less bright and unanimous to her eyes. She picked up her suitcase and walked on, quicker than before, anxious to find her place. She knew now that she would find it in time.
7
• • •
Don't Break
The young women at the Church-Army Hostel for Young Women have all taken smashes recently. They have all taken big ones. Some have broken. (Some are not so young, either.) They have all gone out too deep in life.
They have all done too many things too many times with too many men, done it this way, that way, with him, with him. They are all inside here because they have all used everything up on the outside—used up money, friends, chances, all their good luck. They have all taken a smash and turned a corner. Some are trying to turn back. Some have stopped trying. They are fallen women.
Their position is shameful, or could be considered so. But shame is not the word for what they feel. That's fine by me. But what are they supposed to feel instead? Who did this to them? How would you feel?
... Have you ever taken a smash in your time? What, a big one? Will you get better again? If you see a smash coming, and you can't keep out of the way, the important thing is—don't break.
Gavin looked away. 'I suppose it'll be all right for a while,' he said. 'But I'm not going to like thinking of you in there.'
Together they packed Mary a suitcase; there were some clothes of Sharon's, and some of Mrs Botham's that were more or less Mary's by now. Mary would have liked to take along a book or two, but she didn't want to risk asking. He told her how to get there on the Underground. He gave her four pounds: it was all he could spare. He embraced her quite tightly at the front door but Mary could tell he was already on the other side; she broke away quickly and hurried down the steps.
Mary didn't want to go underground again.
She walked. The suitcase was light at first but became steadily heavier as the day closed in. She asked other people the way, holding up the small sheet of paper. They read the address and did what they could. Some were no help; some were so bad at talking that they couldn't have told her anyway; some found the piece of paper distasteful in itself and moved on without answering. She got there in the end. It didn't take too long.
On the way she had her first memory. It made her stand still and put the case down and lift her hands to her hair. She heard a child shout and turned round shyly; she was in a quiet street, one marked by an air of prettiness and poverty; its small houses were clubbed together with their doors and windows open, and the staggered gardens displayed the family clothes. She was in a quiet street—but then, nowhere was a quiet place for Mary. She wanted to be somewhere the same size as herself and indolently dark, a place where she could shut out the clamorous present. But Mary stood where she was, her hands on her hair, and remembered.
She remembered how as someone young she had wanted to shine a light through other people's windows, to see into other people's houses ... She was standing on the grey brow of a terraced hill at evening. The spiked gates of the city park have just been shut; the keeper walks back into the distance, glancing sideways and pocketing his keys. The boys have all gone home. They are all safe and having tea in other people's houses, behind other people's windows. Turning her head, she could look down the hill and into the square. Here in all their rooms they were shoring up against the darkness. She wanted to see them, to shine a light, to sense the careless ripples of their carpets, the unregarded cracks in their papered walls, the shadows on their stairs. She knew it was impossible—she would never be let inside. She turned and ran wherever she was supposed to go.
Mary dropped her hands to her side. That was all: she could follow herself no further. She looked up. Immediately, the street—the air, the incorrigible present— seemed a little less bright and unanimous to her eyes. She picked up her suitcase and walked on, quicker than before, anxious to find her place. She knew now that she would find it in time.
7
• • •
Don't Break
The young women at the Church-Army Hostel for Young Women have all taken smashes recently. They have all taken big ones. Some have broken. (Some are not so young, either.) They have all gone out too deep in life.
They have all done too many things too many times with too many men, done it this way, that way, with him, with him. They are all inside here because they have all used everything up on the outside—used up money, friends, chances, all their good luck. They have all taken a smash and turned a corner. Some are trying to turn back. Some have stopped trying. They are fallen women.
Their position is shameful, or could be considered so. But shame is not the word for what they feel. That's fine by me. But what are they supposed to feel instead? Who did this to them? How would you feel?
... Have you ever taken a smash in your time? What, a big one? Will you get better again? If you see a smash coming, and you can't keep out of the way, the important thing is—don't break.
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