Read Online The Girl in the Polka Dot Dress by Beryl Bainbridge - Free Book Online
Authors: Beryl Bainbridge
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Albright, her teacher, that thereâd been a tragedy in the family, that her mother had committed suicide. âOh God,â heâd cried, the insect bite on his cheek flaring up and his heart missing a beat. And then, seeing the expression on his face, sheâd said that her mother hadnât done any such thing and that sheâd fibbed on account of Miss Albright having just lost her sweetheart in the Battle of Britain. âSomething,â she said, âwas needed to take her mind off things.â
He wanted to tell Rose she needed a psychiatrist, but the wine had addled him. When he got into bed heâd tried to wake her by tapping her back. He would have climbed on top of her, more out of spite than desire, but the crackle of burning wood distracted him. It wasnât wise to leave the fire unattended.
When Rose returned from the church, he foolishly asked if she was religious and she snapped that she could be if the place was right. He didnât understand what she meant until she moaned about the absence of candles and proper statues. He was about to remind her that such fripperies had nothing to do with belief, but thought better of it.
Stopping the camper on the outskirts of Corinth he sat in silence, tapping the steering wheel with his fist. Heâd visited the town once before, as a child. He had no pictorial memories of the place, merely sounds, that of raised voices accompanying an abrupt departure from a house as the sun was climbing to destroy the darkness.
Presently Rose nudged his arm. She asked if heâd lost his way. He told her that his stepfatherâs sister had once lived nearby. âThere was an argument,â he said. âI was asleep. Back then, I didnât understand what it was about.â
Rose asked if heâd been frightened, shaken from his bed without explanation. She herself, she said, had spent most of her childhood crouched on the stairs listening to her parents calling each other names. âIt was scary,â she said, âbut it made me strong.â
He couldnât agree with her. âThis aunt was six foot,â he confided, âwith eyes the colour of steel.â
âSo what?â she replied.
âIt shattered me,â he blurted, and instantly regretted his choice of words. He didnât want her to think of him as a man in pieces.
Chip Websterâs house was on a tree-lined street with white flowers wilting on the porch. Next door, a woman with red hair stood on tiptoe pruning a rose bush. Harold sat for a long time, staring at a dog sniffing at a newspaper on the sloping lawn. For once, Rose kept her mouth shut. Minutes passed, and then the door opened and a man sprinted down the steps and approached the mailbox. He was barefooted and wearing nothing but a bathrobe. His neighbour nodded at him and he shouted something, at which she clicked her fingers to entice the dog back into her house. It took no notice.
âThatâs him,â Harold said, and stayed put.
âIt would be best,â said Rose, âif you stopped thinking of how it used to be and just concentrated on the now.â
She was right, of course, but then she didnât know about his particular past. âStay here,â he said, and climbed out.
Chip Webster was about to slam the door behind him when Harold mounted the steps. Chip said, âLong time no see,â and added, looking at the camper, âbring her in.â It was obvious Jesse Shaefer had telephoned ahead.
Reluctantly, he beckoned for Rose to follow. She bounded onto the sidewalk, flinging her raincoat behind her, breasts jiggling.
The front room needed a coat of paint. Damp mutilated the left-hand wall. Above the mantel of the open door, leading onto a back porch, hung an enlarged photograph, its frame garlanded with long-dead flowers. There were two plates on the table, one messy with the remains of a meal, and a torn loaf next to a joint of meat perilously close
He wanted to tell Rose she needed a psychiatrist, but the wine had addled him. When he got into bed heâd tried to wake her by tapping her back. He would have climbed on top of her, more out of spite than desire, but the crackle of burning wood distracted him. It wasnât wise to leave the fire unattended.
When Rose returned from the church, he foolishly asked if she was religious and she snapped that she could be if the place was right. He didnât understand what she meant until she moaned about the absence of candles and proper statues. He was about to remind her that such fripperies had nothing to do with belief, but thought better of it.
Stopping the camper on the outskirts of Corinth he sat in silence, tapping the steering wheel with his fist. Heâd visited the town once before, as a child. He had no pictorial memories of the place, merely sounds, that of raised voices accompanying an abrupt departure from a house as the sun was climbing to destroy the darkness.
Presently Rose nudged his arm. She asked if heâd lost his way. He told her that his stepfatherâs sister had once lived nearby. âThere was an argument,â he said. âI was asleep. Back then, I didnât understand what it was about.â
Rose asked if heâd been frightened, shaken from his bed without explanation. She herself, she said, had spent most of her childhood crouched on the stairs listening to her parents calling each other names. âIt was scary,â she said, âbut it made me strong.â
He couldnât agree with her. âThis aunt was six foot,â he confided, âwith eyes the colour of steel.â
âSo what?â she replied.
âIt shattered me,â he blurted, and instantly regretted his choice of words. He didnât want her to think of him as a man in pieces.
Chip Websterâs house was on a tree-lined street with white flowers wilting on the porch. Next door, a woman with red hair stood on tiptoe pruning a rose bush. Harold sat for a long time, staring at a dog sniffing at a newspaper on the sloping lawn. For once, Rose kept her mouth shut. Minutes passed, and then the door opened and a man sprinted down the steps and approached the mailbox. He was barefooted and wearing nothing but a bathrobe. His neighbour nodded at him and he shouted something, at which she clicked her fingers to entice the dog back into her house. It took no notice.
âThatâs him,â Harold said, and stayed put.
âIt would be best,â said Rose, âif you stopped thinking of how it used to be and just concentrated on the now.â
She was right, of course, but then she didnât know about his particular past. âStay here,â he said, and climbed out.
Chip Webster was about to slam the door behind him when Harold mounted the steps. Chip said, âLong time no see,â and added, looking at the camper, âbring her in.â It was obvious Jesse Shaefer had telephoned ahead.
Reluctantly, he beckoned for Rose to follow. She bounded onto the sidewalk, flinging her raincoat behind her, breasts jiggling.
The front room needed a coat of paint. Damp mutilated the left-hand wall. Above the mantel of the open door, leading onto a back porch, hung an enlarged photograph, its frame garlanded with long-dead flowers. There were two plates on the table, one messy with the remains of a meal, and a torn loaf next to a joint of meat perilously close
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