she squeezed the edges of the thing. It seemed quite resistant. Then she laid it flat on the blotter in front of her and tried again. The spring yielded, and a fold of black rubber came bellying up into the palm of her hand. She squealed.
“You’ll soon get used to it.” Jean had her doubts. Anything for Michael, of course; but couldn’t they just be friends? “Now this is the lubricating jelly.” Dr. Headley suddenly had a tube in her hand. Oh dear. What had happened to lubricated by mucus?
“Don’t … is that … necessary?”
Dr. Headley gave a chuckle and didn’t bother to answer.
“I thought you said it wasn’t funny?” Jean felt cross with this woman she had been lured to see.
“No, I wasn’t laughing at it. I was laughing at you. You girls always want it both ways; all the pleasure and none of the responsibility.” As she said that word responsibility , she began to smear some jelly round the cap’s rim, then into the soft central hammock of rubber. A brief demonstration, then she passed it over. “No, grasp it firmly, it won’t bite. No, more firmly. Thumb and fingers, thumb and fingers, haven’t you ever done glove puppets?”
Jean put it down before it squirted out of control. That was surely enough for today.
At Paddington, waiting for her train, Jean found a heavy,green-painted machine with a large clock face. In place of the hours there were letters of the alphabet. You turned a big metal pointer, and for a penny could print fifteen letters onto a thin strip of tin. A chipped enamel plate suggested that you might like to send a message to a friend by this means. Jean didn’t think she had any messages to send. She didn’t have the confidence for self-pity; she felt merely forlorn. Laboriously, she moved the metal pointer among the letters, pressed a handle and printed out JEAN , followed by SERJEANT . That left her with three spare letters; Father, even though he probably considered such expenditure frivolous, would have wanted her to get her money’s worth. Name, rank and number, that was the phrase, wasn’t it? Jean didn’t have a rank, nor did she own a number. After a little thought, she printed XXX , extracted her tin strip from the side of the machine and put it in her handbag.
Jean assumed, rather vaguely, that something must have happened to Tommy Prosser in the last year; something specific and identifiable. Before, he had been a brave Hurricane pilot, now he was grounded, ratty and frightened. All she had to do was locate the source of this fear, allow him to talk about some dreadful, scarring incident that had taken place, and he would be on the mend. This much Jean understood of psychoanalytic principle.
One afternoon, she sat at the kitchen table with a tin of Silvo and the forks drawn up before her like soldiery. Prosser sounded less belligerent than usual. He began talking of 1940 as if it were Mons or Ypres: something distant that hadn’t happened to him.
“The first time I put the wind up myself, it was real music hall. I was having a bit of an argument with a couple of 109s over the North Sea. It wasn’t turning out to be a good idea, so I ran for some cloud, dodged around a bit and headed back to base. Fast as I could. You dive when you want to go fast, you see. Anyway, there I was, and suddenly, machine guns. One of the 109s must have followed me down. I hauled the stick back quick as a flash and went into a big, looping turn. Had a good look round, but couldn’t see anything. Must have shaken him off.
“So, nose down for base again. Faster and faster. Then, guess what, more guns. I haul the stick back and just as I do the firing stops. I was climbing hard and looking for cloud when it suddenly dawned on me. I was fair bumping along in the dive and I must have been gripping the stick tighter and tighter. The button’s on top of the stick, you see. So what I was doing was setting off my own guns and scaring myself silly. Wheeling about the sky like a
“You’ll soon get used to it.” Jean had her doubts. Anything for Michael, of course; but couldn’t they just be friends? “Now this is the lubricating jelly.” Dr. Headley suddenly had a tube in her hand. Oh dear. What had happened to lubricated by mucus?
“Don’t … is that … necessary?”
Dr. Headley gave a chuckle and didn’t bother to answer.
“I thought you said it wasn’t funny?” Jean felt cross with this woman she had been lured to see.
“No, I wasn’t laughing at it. I was laughing at you. You girls always want it both ways; all the pleasure and none of the responsibility.” As she said that word responsibility , she began to smear some jelly round the cap’s rim, then into the soft central hammock of rubber. A brief demonstration, then she passed it over. “No, grasp it firmly, it won’t bite. No, more firmly. Thumb and fingers, thumb and fingers, haven’t you ever done glove puppets?”
Jean put it down before it squirted out of control. That was surely enough for today.
At Paddington, waiting for her train, Jean found a heavy,green-painted machine with a large clock face. In place of the hours there were letters of the alphabet. You turned a big metal pointer, and for a penny could print fifteen letters onto a thin strip of tin. A chipped enamel plate suggested that you might like to send a message to a friend by this means. Jean didn’t think she had any messages to send. She didn’t have the confidence for self-pity; she felt merely forlorn. Laboriously, she moved the metal pointer among the letters, pressed a handle and printed out JEAN , followed by SERJEANT . That left her with three spare letters; Father, even though he probably considered such expenditure frivolous, would have wanted her to get her money’s worth. Name, rank and number, that was the phrase, wasn’t it? Jean didn’t have a rank, nor did she own a number. After a little thought, she printed XXX , extracted her tin strip from the side of the machine and put it in her handbag.
Jean assumed, rather vaguely, that something must have happened to Tommy Prosser in the last year; something specific and identifiable. Before, he had been a brave Hurricane pilot, now he was grounded, ratty and frightened. All she had to do was locate the source of this fear, allow him to talk about some dreadful, scarring incident that had taken place, and he would be on the mend. This much Jean understood of psychoanalytic principle.
One afternoon, she sat at the kitchen table with a tin of Silvo and the forks drawn up before her like soldiery. Prosser sounded less belligerent than usual. He began talking of 1940 as if it were Mons or Ypres: something distant that hadn’t happened to him.
“The first time I put the wind up myself, it was real music hall. I was having a bit of an argument with a couple of 109s over the North Sea. It wasn’t turning out to be a good idea, so I ran for some cloud, dodged around a bit and headed back to base. Fast as I could. You dive when you want to go fast, you see. Anyway, there I was, and suddenly, machine guns. One of the 109s must have followed me down. I hauled the stick back quick as a flash and went into a big, looping turn. Had a good look round, but couldn’t see anything. Must have shaken him off.
“So, nose down for base again. Faster and faster. Then, guess what, more guns. I haul the stick back and just as I do the firing stops. I was climbing hard and looking for cloud when it suddenly dawned on me. I was fair bumping along in the dive and I must have been gripping the stick tighter and tighter. The button’s on top of the stick, you see. So what I was doing was setting off my own guns and scaring myself silly. Wheeling about the sky like a
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