room, in the huge booming silence, alone, searching , half-afraid and half-exhilarated; knowing this was how it was for Ben most of the time working late in the lab, and that you had to have that, that lonely excitement to be free. To do anything. And that it was a killer also.
–Hell, it’s nothing to do with money, she said.
Did it have to be a killer? she wondered inside herself . Kari was talking and she could see the arms move and the hands gesture, but Lena was lost inside her own head now wondering. At the indignity of being a woman. How even beauty was no defence. When was it, two days ago she’d called on Millicent Hardwick? In her lovely soft lambswool and her long clean hair black to her shoulders. Sitting in the tiny hoovered room, every shade of orange toning and blending and chosen, and the silk stretched tight over the single bed? What, did she really fornicate there with a married man? It passed belief. And the thin slate roofs entered the tiny room as she listened there too, guilty and bored, slate roofs, grey sky and endless lines of T.V. aerials, as she listened and feebly offered:
–You should get out more.
–But he might phone. The huge brown eyes reproached her. It might be the only time he’s got.
And the reproachful eyes said: shut up: you’ve got a husband and two children. And the viciousvoice went on overtly of the wife: She doesn’t care . And Lena imagined a middle-aged Conservative lady with a big floral hat, and knew she was probably wrong.
–Have you ever seen her?
–No. But he talks to me, Lena. That’s it, we can talk together we can share things. I have to have someone to share things. I can’t do things by myself. I don’t enjoy them. I want to share, share everything. She poured Lena another cup of tea: Don ’ t go yet .You can’t imagine how slowly time passes, how slowly. And then she put her hands up to her face, and her lovely soft mouth went ugly as a carp. As she gasped. I’m so sorry. Huge tears spilling over, wetting her hands. I didn’t mean to do this.
Lena just waited. Because what else. Then: Some things are all right even on your own, she suggested.
–What things? Millicent gave her a pitying smile.
–Well food, said Lena angrily. Because she hadn’t wanted to come, and she didn’t want to be envied, and she didn’t want to feel guilty, and she very much wanted to go. Strawberries, she suggested. You don’t have to keep looking round and saying aren’t these lovely strawberries, do you?
–I’m afraid I’m not very interested in food, said Millicent. And she stared off over Lena’s head, lost and bewildered, into the grey wallpaper. And Lena knew her presence had stopped being useful, that she could go, and the soft rounded girl would go back to waiting. In her perfect orange cell. Her whole being tuned to the note of the phone.
–Lena, said Kari. You aren’t bloody listening at all. What’s the matter?
–I’m drunk, said Lena. And stood up. It was true.
–I’ll make some coffee, said Kari, looked at her watch. Except. Christ, look at that.
–That’s O.K., mumbled Lena. It’s cold out. I’ll recover.
And it was snowing. Very soberly. A wet sleeting snow, that blew about under Lena’s coat, between her jumpers’ torn places, the gaps; reaching through all her resistance. She stood shivering feverishly at the bus stop. And an old lady, neatly dressed, felt hat/stick legs/hobbled over the slippery road with great care, her face set, small rimmed glasses on her nose. The two of them waited together.
No bus came. A little to the left of the stop a group of workmen were digging up the road. One, a big man, a Pole as she guessed, had his leather jacket open in the sleet, his big foot on the drill. The other men looked stunned with cold. It was blowing hard over the open road, and the nearby cars had their windscreens covered with a film of frozen rain. Lena watched the men
–Hell, it’s nothing to do with money, she said.
Did it have to be a killer? she wondered inside herself . Kari was talking and she could see the arms move and the hands gesture, but Lena was lost inside her own head now wondering. At the indignity of being a woman. How even beauty was no defence. When was it, two days ago she’d called on Millicent Hardwick? In her lovely soft lambswool and her long clean hair black to her shoulders. Sitting in the tiny hoovered room, every shade of orange toning and blending and chosen, and the silk stretched tight over the single bed? What, did she really fornicate there with a married man? It passed belief. And the thin slate roofs entered the tiny room as she listened there too, guilty and bored, slate roofs, grey sky and endless lines of T.V. aerials, as she listened and feebly offered:
–You should get out more.
–But he might phone. The huge brown eyes reproached her. It might be the only time he’s got.
And the reproachful eyes said: shut up: you’ve got a husband and two children. And the viciousvoice went on overtly of the wife: She doesn’t care . And Lena imagined a middle-aged Conservative lady with a big floral hat, and knew she was probably wrong.
–Have you ever seen her?
–No. But he talks to me, Lena. That’s it, we can talk together we can share things. I have to have someone to share things. I can’t do things by myself. I don’t enjoy them. I want to share, share everything. She poured Lena another cup of tea: Don ’ t go yet .You can’t imagine how slowly time passes, how slowly. And then she put her hands up to her face, and her lovely soft mouth went ugly as a carp. As she gasped. I’m so sorry. Huge tears spilling over, wetting her hands. I didn’t mean to do this.
Lena just waited. Because what else. Then: Some things are all right even on your own, she suggested.
–What things? Millicent gave her a pitying smile.
–Well food, said Lena angrily. Because she hadn’t wanted to come, and she didn’t want to be envied, and she didn’t want to feel guilty, and she very much wanted to go. Strawberries, she suggested. You don’t have to keep looking round and saying aren’t these lovely strawberries, do you?
–I’m afraid I’m not very interested in food, said Millicent. And she stared off over Lena’s head, lost and bewildered, into the grey wallpaper. And Lena knew her presence had stopped being useful, that she could go, and the soft rounded girl would go back to waiting. In her perfect orange cell. Her whole being tuned to the note of the phone.
–Lena, said Kari. You aren’t bloody listening at all. What’s the matter?
–I’m drunk, said Lena. And stood up. It was true.
–I’ll make some coffee, said Kari, looked at her watch. Except. Christ, look at that.
–That’s O.K., mumbled Lena. It’s cold out. I’ll recover.
And it was snowing. Very soberly. A wet sleeting snow, that blew about under Lena’s coat, between her jumpers’ torn places, the gaps; reaching through all her resistance. She stood shivering feverishly at the bus stop. And an old lady, neatly dressed, felt hat/stick legs/hobbled over the slippery road with great care, her face set, small rimmed glasses on her nose. The two of them waited together.
No bus came. A little to the left of the stop a group of workmen were digging up the road. One, a big man, a Pole as she guessed, had his leather jacket open in the sleet, his big foot on the drill. The other men looked stunned with cold. It was blowing hard over the open road, and the nearby cars had their windscreens covered with a film of frozen rain. Lena watched the men
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