Read Online Wish Her Safe at Home by Stephen Benatar - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Benatar
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advice!” I said this smilingly, to make sure he realized he had no need to reproach himself.
“Oh, yes, of course. I remember.” It was very clear he didn’t.
“I was wearing a light blue jumper with a darker blue skirt. My boat-race outfit as everybody called it! But since it wasn’t summer yet (and
ne’er cast a clout till May be out—
or is it may?) I naturally wore a coat over it. Camel hair. And quite a pretty little hat... black, you know, and really rather smart.” I laughed.
He merely gave a gentle nod, boyish and abstracted; it came as no surprise that he should be the strong and silent type. That was the kind of man I often found attractive.
But I realized I should have to help him out.
“Though who am I to say my little hat was smart? A hostess doesn’t praise her own cooking! Besides, good sir, smartness—like beauty—is surely in the eye of the beholder?” I slightly worried that my laughter was beginning to sound foolish.
He said: “Well, well. So you’ve lately moved to Bristol?”
A man came in behind me.
“Why don’t you serve this gentleman? I’m not in any hurry.”
The man bought a large box of Kleenex and a packet of corn plasters. I took note of everything. All thoughts of indigestion and of tiredness had completely disappeared now that things were slipping along so merrily. The customer was youngish and his jeans looked clean but he was very down at heel. Literally I mean. It wouldn’t have mattered except for one thing. He obviously hadn’t heard this: that when there was a shine on your shoes there was a melody in your heart.
Poor man. If he’d recently purchased a tin of polish he mightn’t now be needing plasters. There was a definite connection. I pictured him out of work, keeping up a brave front—it was only in that single admittedly important detail he had failed—struggling in something like a garret to produce a masterpiece.
It was a lovely world. I executed a few unobtrusive dance-steps which scarcely moved me from the spot. My own shoes were immaculate: high-heeled red sandals with lovely thin straps, dreamily delicate. This was the first time I had worn them.
I had such pretty feet.
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t recognized me.
A woman came in. That didn’t matter either. She only wanted a packet of sanitary towels.
Corn plasters; sanitary towels. What a funny old world it was. I was so
glad
I could see the humorous side of it.
“Yes, I like it here very much,” I said as she put away her change—and before she should remember, dear heaven, that she needed toilet rolls as well! “I think Bristol must be one of the nicest towns on earth. When did you first come here yourself?”
“Oh, about thirty years ago.” He smiled. “I came here when I married.”
There was a stillness: the sort of stillness that exists, I believe, right in the eye of the storm. It was like being sealed in a glass cylinder at the bottom of the sea. It reminded me of when I’d caught sight of my name in the newspaper. But that had been different; now only a Houdini could possibly find his way out. With a start I became aware of myself—no expert, sadly, in escape—staring through those transparent walls at a showcard on the counter. Things happened after a Badedas bath. You might be whisked off to Camelot by a lovesick errant knight. There was the picture of a woman staring dreamily from a window, just a towel draped carelessly about her. Well, lucky her. Standing nearly naked in an illuminated bathroom with undrawn curtains she was undoubtedly a floozy; but, right then, I wouldn’t have minded changing places with her.
She
had to face no brutal truths.
No, not brutal perhaps. Unnecessary. Insensitive. It hadn’t eluded me he might be married.
But wait. “Ah, yes, I see. And is your wife still... ?” I corrected myself; despite the numbing quality of such a shock I hadn’t lost any of my old cunning. “And does your wife enjoy her life in
“Oh, yes, of course. I remember.” It was very clear he didn’t.
“I was wearing a light blue jumper with a darker blue skirt. My boat-race outfit as everybody called it! But since it wasn’t summer yet (and
ne’er cast a clout till May be out—
or is it may?) I naturally wore a coat over it. Camel hair. And quite a pretty little hat... black, you know, and really rather smart.” I laughed.
He merely gave a gentle nod, boyish and abstracted; it came as no surprise that he should be the strong and silent type. That was the kind of man I often found attractive.
But I realized I should have to help him out.
“Though who am I to say my little hat was smart? A hostess doesn’t praise her own cooking! Besides, good sir, smartness—like beauty—is surely in the eye of the beholder?” I slightly worried that my laughter was beginning to sound foolish.
He said: “Well, well. So you’ve lately moved to Bristol?”
A man came in behind me.
“Why don’t you serve this gentleman? I’m not in any hurry.”
The man bought a large box of Kleenex and a packet of corn plasters. I took note of everything. All thoughts of indigestion and of tiredness had completely disappeared now that things were slipping along so merrily. The customer was youngish and his jeans looked clean but he was very down at heel. Literally I mean. It wouldn’t have mattered except for one thing. He obviously hadn’t heard this: that when there was a shine on your shoes there was a melody in your heart.
Poor man. If he’d recently purchased a tin of polish he mightn’t now be needing plasters. There was a definite connection. I pictured him out of work, keeping up a brave front—it was only in that single admittedly important detail he had failed—struggling in something like a garret to produce a masterpiece.
It was a lovely world. I executed a few unobtrusive dance-steps which scarcely moved me from the spot. My own shoes were immaculate: high-heeled red sandals with lovely thin straps, dreamily delicate. This was the first time I had worn them.
I had such pretty feet.
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t recognized me.
A woman came in. That didn’t matter either. She only wanted a packet of sanitary towels.
Corn plasters; sanitary towels. What a funny old world it was. I was so
glad
I could see the humorous side of it.
“Yes, I like it here very much,” I said as she put away her change—and before she should remember, dear heaven, that she needed toilet rolls as well! “I think Bristol must be one of the nicest towns on earth. When did you first come here yourself?”
“Oh, about thirty years ago.” He smiled. “I came here when I married.”
There was a stillness: the sort of stillness that exists, I believe, right in the eye of the storm. It was like being sealed in a glass cylinder at the bottom of the sea. It reminded me of when I’d caught sight of my name in the newspaper. But that had been different; now only a Houdini could possibly find his way out. With a start I became aware of myself—no expert, sadly, in escape—staring through those transparent walls at a showcard on the counter. Things happened after a Badedas bath. You might be whisked off to Camelot by a lovesick errant knight. There was the picture of a woman staring dreamily from a window, just a towel draped carelessly about her. Well, lucky her. Standing nearly naked in an illuminated bathroom with undrawn curtains she was undoubtedly a floozy; but, right then, I wouldn’t have minded changing places with her.
She
had to face no brutal truths.
No, not brutal perhaps. Unnecessary. Insensitive. It hadn’t eluded me he might be married.
But wait. “Ah, yes, I see. And is your wife still... ?” I corrected myself; despite the numbing quality of such a shock I hadn’t lost any of my old cunning. “And does your wife enjoy her life in
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