Stories

  At the end of a year she understood two things. That she had saved something like two hundred pounds. That there was not a young man in the office who would take her out again. They regarded her, according to their natures, with resentment or with admiration for her cool management of them. But there was nothing doing there—so they all knew.

  Maureen thought this over. If she was not taken out to meals and entertainment, she must pay for herself and save no money, or she must never go out at all. If she was going to be taken out, then she must give something in return. What she gave was an open mouth, and freedom to the waist. She calculated that because of her prettiness she could give much less than other girls.

  She was using her capital with even more intelligence than before. A good part of her time—all not spent in the office or being taken out—went in front of her looking glass, or with the better-class fashion magazines. She studied them with formidable concentration. By now she knew she could have gone anywhere in these islands, except for her voice. Whereas, months before, she had sulked in a sort of fright at the idea of cutting herself off from her street and the neighbours, now she softened and shaped her voice, listening to the clients and the senior architects in the office. She knew her voice had changed when Shirley said: “You’re talking nice, Maureen, much nicer than me.” me.

  There was a boy in the office who teased her about it. His name was Tony Head. He was in training to be an accountant for the firm, and was very much from her own background. After having taken her out twice to lunch, he had never asked her again. She knew why: he had told her. “Can’t afford you, Maureen,” he said. He earned not much more than she did. He was nineteen, ambitious, serious, and she liked him.

  Then she was nineteen. Shirley was engaged to one of the assistants in her shop, and would be married next Christmas.

  Maureen took forty pounds out of her savings and went on a tour to Italy. It was her first time out of England. She hated it: not Italy, but the fact that half the sixty people on the tour were girls, like herself, looking for a good time, and the other half elderly couples. In Rome, Pisa, Florence, Venice, the Italians mooned over Maureen, courted her with melting eyes, while she walked past them, distant as a starlet. They probably thought she was one. The courier, a sharp, young man, took Maureen out to supper one night after he had finished his duties, and made it clear that her mouth, even if opened, and her breasts, were not enough. Maureen smiled at him sweetly through the rest of the trip. No one paid for her odd coffees, ices and drinks. On the last night of the trip, in a panic because the forty-pound investment had yielded so little, she went out with an Italian boy who spoke seven words of English. She thought him crude, and left him after an hour.

  But she had learned a good deal for her forty pounds. Quietly, in her lunch hour, she went off to the National Gallery and to the Tate. There she looked, critical and respectful, at pictures, memorising their subjects, or main colours, learning names. When invited out, she asked to be taken to “foreign” films, and when she got back home wrote down the names of the director and the stars. She looked at the book page of the Express (she made her parents buy it instead of the Mirror) and sometimes bought a recommended book, if it was a best seller.

  Twenty. Shirley was married and had a baby. Maureen saw little of her—both girls felt they had a new world of knowledge the other couldn’t appreciate.

  Maureen was earning ten pounds a week, and saved six.

  There came to the office, as an apprentice architect, Stanley Hunt, from grammar school and technical college. Tallish, well-dressed, fair, with a small moustache. They took each other’s measure, knowing they were the same kind. It was some weeks before he asked her out. She knew, by putting herself in his place, that he was looking for a wife with a little money or a house of her own, if he couldn’t get a lady. (She smiled when she heard him using this word about one of the clients.) He tried to know clients socially, to be accepted by them as they accepted the senior architects. All this Maureen watched, her cool little face saying nothing.

  One day, after he had invited a Miss Plast (Chelsea, well-off, investing money in houses) to coffee, and been turned down, he asked Maureen to join him in a sandwich lunch. Maureen thanked him delightfully, but said she already had an engagement. She went off to the National Gallery, sat on the steps, froze off wolves and pickups, and ate a sandwich by herself.

  A week later, invited to lunch by Stanley, she suggested the Trattoria Siciliana, which was more expensive, as she knew quite well, than he had expected. But this meal was a success. He was impressed with her, though he knew (how could he not, when his was similar?) her background.

  She was careful to be engaged for two weeks. Then she agreed to go to the pictures—“a foreign film, if you don’t mind, I think the American films are just boring.” She did not offer to pay, but remarked casually that she had nearly six hundred pounds in the post office. “I’m thinking of buying a little business, sometime. A dress shop. I’ve got a cousin in the trade.”

  Stanley agreed that “with your taste” it would be a sure thing.

  Maureen no longer went to the Palais, or similar places (though she certainly did not conceal from Stanley that she had “once”), but she loved to dance. Twice they went to the West End together and danced at a Club which was “a nice place.” They danced well together. On the second occasion she offered to pay her share, for the first time in her life. He refused, as she had known he would, but she could see he liked her for offering: more, was relieved; in the office they said she was mean, and he must have heard them. On that night, taken home lingeringly, she opened her mouth for him and let his hands go down to her thighs. She felt a sharp sexuality which made her congratulate herself that she had never, like Shirley, gone “half-way” before. Well, of course, girls were going to get married to just anybody if they let themselves be all worked up every time they were taken out!

  But Stanley was not at all caught. He was too cool a customer, as she was. He was still looking for something better.

  He would be an architect in a couple of years; he would be in a profession; he was putting down money for a house; he was goodlooking, attractive to women, and with these assets he ought to do better than marry Maureen. Maureen agreed with him.

  But meanwhile he took her out. She was careful often to be engaged elsewhere. She was careful always to be worth taking somewhere expensive. When he took her home, while she did not go so far as “nearly the whole way,” she went “everything but”; and she was glad she did not like him better, because otherwise she would have been lost. She knew quite well she did not really like him, although her mind was clouded by her response to his hands, his moustache, his clothes and his new car.

  She knew, because meanwhile a relationship she understood very well, and regretted, had grown up with Tony. He, watching this duel between the well-matched pair, would grin and drop remarks at which Maureen coloured and turned coldly away. He often asked her out—but only for a “Dutch treat”—expecting her to refuse. “How’s your savings account, Maureen? I can’t save, you girls get it all spent on you.” Tony took out a good many girls: Maureen kept a count of them. She hated him; yet she liked him, and knew she did. She relied on him above all for this grinning, honest understanding of her: he did not approve of her, but perhaps (she felt in her heart) he was right? During this period she several times burst into tears when alone, without apparent reason; afterwards she felt that life had no flavour. Her future was narrowing down to Stanley; and at these times she viewed it through Tony Head’s eyes.

  One night the firm had a party for the senior members of the staff. Stanley was senior, Maureen and Tony were not. Maureen knew that Stanley had previously asked another girl to go, and when he asked herself, was uncertain whether she could make it until the very last moment: particularly as his inviting her, a junior, meant that he was trying out on the senior members the idea of Maureen as a wife. But she acquitted herself very well. First, she was the best-look
ing woman in the room by far, and the best-dressed. Everyone looked at her and commented: they were used to her as a pretty typist, but tonight she was using all her will to make them look at her, to make her face and body reflect what they admired. She made no mistakes. When the party was over, Stanley and two of the younger architects suggested they drive out to London airport for breakfast, and they did. The two other girls were middleclass. Maureen kept silent for the most part, smiling serenely. She had been to Italy, she remarked, when a plane rose to go to Italy. Yes, she had liked it, though she thought the Italians were too noisy; what she had enjoyed best was the Sistine Chapel and a boat trip on the Adriatic. She hadn’t cared for Venice much, it was beautiful, but the canals smelled, and there were far too many people; perhaps it would be better to go in winter? She said all this, having a right to it, and it came off. As she spoke she remembered Tony, who had once met her on her way to the National Gallery. “Getting yourself an education, Maureen? That’s right, it’ll pay off well, that will.”

  She knew, thinking it all over afterwards, that the evening had been important for her with Stanley. Because of this, she did not go out with him for a week; she said she was busy talking to her cousin about the possibilities of a dress shop. She sat in her room thinking about Stanley, and when thoughts of Tony came into her mind, irritatedly pushed them away. If she could succeed with Stanley, why not with someone better? The two architects from that evening had eyed her all the following week: they did not, however, ask her out. She then found that both were engaged to marry the girls they had been with. It was bad luck: she was sure that otherwise they would have asked her out. How to meet more like them? Well, that was the trouble—the drive to the airport was a bit of a fluke; it was the first time she had actually met the seniors socially.

  Meanwhile Stanley showed an impatience in his courtship—and for the first time. As for her, she was getting on for twenty-one, and all the girls she had grown up with were married and had their first or even their second babies.

  She went out with Stanley to a dinner in the West End at an Italian restaurant. Afterwards they were both very passionate. Maureen, afterwards, was furious with herself: some borderline had been crossed (she supposed she still could be called a virgin?) and now decisions would have to be made.

  Stanley was in love with her. She was in love with Stanley. A week later he proposed to her. It was done with a violent moaning intensity that she knew was due to his conflicts over marrying her. She was not good enough. He was not good enough. They were secondbest for each other. They writhed and moaned and bit in the car, and agreed to marry. Her eight hundred pounds would make it easier to buy the house in a good suburb. He would formally meet her parents next Sunday.

  “So you’re engaged to Stanley Hunt?” said Tony.

  “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  “Caught him—good for you!”

  “He’s caught me, more like it!”

  “Have it your way.”

  She was red and angry. He was serious.

  “Come and have a bite?” he said. She went.

  It was a small restaurant, full of office workers eating on luncheon vouchers. She ate fried plaice (“No chips, please”) and he ate steak-and-kidney pudding. He joked, watched her, watched her intently, said finally: “Can’t you do better than that?” He meant, and she knew it, better in the sense she would use herself, in her heart: he meant nice. Like himself. But did that mean that Tony thought she was nice? Unlike Stanley? She did not think she was; she was moved to tears (concealed) that he did. “What’s wrong with him then?” she demanded, casual. “What’s wrong with you? You need your head examined.” He said it seriously, and they exchanged a long look. The two of them sat looking goodbye at each other: the extremely pretty girl at whom everyone in the room kept glancing and remarking on, and the goodlooking, dark, rather fat young accountant who was brusque and solemn with disappointment in her. With love for her? Very likely.

  She went home silent, thinking of Tony. When she thought of him, she needed to cry. She also needed to hurt him.

  But she told her parents she was engaged to Stanley, who would be an architect. They would have their own house, in (they thought) Hemel Hempstead. He owned a car. He was coming to tea on Sunday. Her mother forgot the dukes and the film producers before the announcement ended; her father listened judiciously, then congratulated her. He had been going to a football match on Sunday, but agreed, after persuasion, that this was a good enough reason to stay home.

  Her mother then began discussing, with deference to Maureen’s superior knowledge, how to manage next Sunday to best advantage. For four days she went on about it. But she was talking to herself. Her husband listened, said nothing. And Maureen listened, critically, like her father. Mrs. Watson began clamouring for a definite opinion on what sort of cake to serve on Sunday. But Maureen had no opinion. She sat, quiet, looking at her mother, a largish ageing woman, her ex-fair hair dyed yellow, her flesh guttering. She was like an excited child, and it was not attractive. Stupid, stupid, stupid—that’s all you are, thought Maureen.

  As for Maureen, if anyone had made the comparison, she was “sulking” as she had before over being a model and having to be drilled out of her “voice.” She said nothing but: “It’ll be all right, Mum, don’t get so worked up.” Which was true, because Stanley knew what to expect: he knew why he had not been invited to meet her parents until properly hooked. He would have done the same in her place. He was doing the same: she was going to meet his parents the week after. What Mrs. Watson, Mr. Watson, wore on Sunday; whether sandwiches or cake were served; whether there were fresh or artificial flowers—none of it mattered. The Watsons were part of the bargain: what he was paying in return for publicly owning the most covetable woman anywhere they were likely to be; and for the right to sleep with her after the public display.

  Meanwhile Maureen said not a word. She sat on her bed looking at nothing in particular. Once or twice she examined her face in the mirror, and even put cream on it. And she cut out a dress, but put it aside.

  On Sunday Mrs. Watson laid tea for four, using her own judgement, since Maureen was too deeply in love (so she told everyone) to notice such trifles. At four Stanley was expected, and at three-fifty-five Maureen descended to the livingroom. She wore a faded pink dress from three summers before, her mother’s cretonne overall used for housework, and a piece of cloth tied round her hair that might very well have been a duster. At any rate, it was faded grey. She had put on a pair of her mother’s old shoes. She could not be called plain; but she looked like her own faded elder sister, dressed for a hard day’s spring cleaning.

  Her father, knowledgeable, said nothing: he lowered the paper, examined her, let out a short laugh, and lifted it again. Mrs. Watson, understanding at last that this was a real crisis, burst into tears. Stanley arrived before Mrs. Watson could stop herself crying. He nearly said to Mrs. Watson: “I didn’t know Maureen had an older sister.” Maureen sat listless at one end of the table, Mr. Watson sat grinning at the other, and Mrs. Watson sniffed and wiped her eyes between the two.

  Maureen said: “Hello, Stanley, meet my father and mother.” He shook their hands and stared at her. She did not meet his eyes: rather, the surface of her blue gaze met the furious, incredulous, hurt pounce of his glares at her. Maureen poured tea, offered him sandwiches and cake, and made conversation about the weather, and the prices of food, and the dangers of giving even good customers credit in the shop. He sat there, a well set up young man, with his brushed hair, his brushed moustache, his checked brown cloth jacket, and a face flaming with anger and affront. He said nothing, but Maureen talked on, her voice trailing and cool. At five o’clock, Mrs. Watson again burst into tears, her whole body shaking, and Stanley brusquely left.

  Mr. Watson said: “Well, why did you lead him on, then?” and turned on the television. Mrs. Watson went to lie down. Maureen, in her own room, took off the various items of her disguise, and returned them to her moth
er’s room. “Don’t cry, Mum. What are you carrying on like that for? What’s the matter?” Then she dressed extremely carefully in a new white linen suit, brown shoes, beige blouse. She did her hair and her face, and sat looking at herself. The last two hours (or week) hit her, and her stomach hurt so that she doubled up. She cried; but the tears smeared her makeup, and she stopped herself with the side of a fist against her mouth.

  It now seemed to her that for the last week she had simply not been Maureen; she had been someone else. What had she done it for? Why? Then she knew it was for Tony: during all that ridiculous scene at the tea table, she had imagined Tony looking on, grinning, but understanding her.

  She now wiped her face quite clear of tears, and went quietly out of the house so as not to disturb her father and mother. There was a telephone booth at the corner. She stepped, calm and aloof, along the street, her mouth held (as it always was) in an almost smile. Bert from the grocer’s shop said: “Hey, Maureen, that’s a smasher. Who’s it for?” And she gave him the smile and the toss of the head that went with the street and said: “You, Bert, it’s all for you.” She went to the telephone booth thinking of Tony. She felt as if he already knew what had happened. She would say: “Let’s go and dance, Tony.” He would say: “Where shall I meet you?” She dialled his number, and it rang and it rang and it rang. She stood holding the receiver, waiting. About ten minutes—more. Slowly she replaced it. He had let her down. He had been telling her, in words and without, to be something, to stay something, and now he did not care; he had let her down.

  Maureen quietened herself and telephoned Stanley.

  All right then, if that’s how you want it, she said to Tony.

  Stanley answered, and she said amiably: “Hello.”