When he came in he saw I was on the verge of tears and said, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘My hair!’ I wailed. ‘Look at it!’
I held the curtailed lock out to him. He looked, and laughed.
‘What’s funny?’ I snapped.
‘That is. You ass, what did you want to start hacking at it for? It looked lovely as it was.’
‘Now’s a fine time to tell me!’ I fumed unreasonably.
‘Well, I’d have told you earlier if you’d asked me.’ He walked round me, judiciously. ‘You’ll have to cut it all now, I suppose.’
‘I can’t,’ I retorted. ‘You’ll have to do it.’
He looked alarmed. ‘Hell, darling, what do I know about cutting women’s hair? Can’t you do it?’
‘No. Here, Figaro.’ I handed him the scissors, put a towel round my shoulders, and sat down on a chair. He stood, non-plussed, the scissors dangling.
‘How?’
‘Just cut,’ I said grimly.
He cut. He did the only thing he could, which was to chop it straight all the way round. There was a tense silence as he moved slowly round behind me, breathing heavily.
‘There,’ he said at last, when he’d travelled in a half-circle. He got out a handkerchief and wiped his hands.
‘How does it look?’ I asked tremulously.
He looked at me, glumly. ‘Do you want the truth?’
‘No,’ I said. I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror.
After a short, ugly pause, Toby came up behind me and hung his handkerchief over the mirror with a mortician’s gesture. I was experiencing something very like despair, which was not altogether relieved when he turned me towards him and said, ‘I’d love you if you were as bald as a coot. No, now don’t cry, it doesn’t look as bad as you think. You look like a little Dutch girl. Come on now, we’re going to be late, the others are all in there, I could hear the revelry as I came through the hall.’
‘I don’t want to go,’ I said childishly, looking at the sad bits of cut-off hair lying like a dead bird’s feathers on the floor.
‘Well, I do,’ he said cheerfully, trying to snap me out of it, ‘and I’ve bought the wine and everything. Come on, Janie, we must go now. It’ll be fun, you’ll see.’ He took my arm, but I pulled it away. It was such an odd feeling, as if I’d lost twenty years somewhere. I didn’t seem to have an ounce of grown-up character to draw on. I felt helpless in the face of my own infantile bad temper and sulkiness; I could remember exactly how I’d felt when I was six, and somebody was trying to cajole me into doing something I didn’t want to do … in a minute, I thought in some recess of my mind, I’ll be stamping and shouting, ‘Won’t!’
‘What’s the matter, darling?’ Toby asked gently.
I knew I didn’t deserve his patience; I had to think up some justification of my silliness, so I said, ‘They’ll all notice,’ which was something that hadn’t been worrying me up to then.
‘Well, so what if they do?’ he said robustly.
There was no answer to that, so I sighed heavily, and said, ‘Oh, all right,’ as if he’d bullied me into it. All might still have been well, if he hadn’t, in a desire to make me happier stood away from me and said, ‘You look lovely.’
‘I know how I look!’ I barked. ‘I look bloody awful!’
‘You don’t,’ he said mildly.
‘I do!’ I retorted, not mildly at all. ‘I look as if I were going to give birth to an elephant at any minute!’
He looked astonished, as well he might, and glanced downwards instinctively to verify this.
I turned my back on him. ‘Don’t look at me!’
‘Darling – honestly – are you mad? You can hardly see a thing.’
‘I can’t do my skirts up!’
‘Well, that was inevitable, eventually.’
‘If I go on blowing out at this rate, I won’t have a thing to wear by January!’
‘Janie, you’ll have to get maternity clothes sooner or later. With you it’s a bit sooner, that’s all.’
I turned on him. ‘So you admit I’m enormous?’
‘Dear God,’ he said, beginning to get rattled. ‘No, of course not! All I said was – look, darling, let’s go to the party. Please.’
Something pleading in his voice reached me through whatever senseless barricade of childish rage I’d thrown up, and I relaxed a bit, and managed to smile and say I was sorry to have been so silly. He looked relieved, kissed me, and picked up the bottle. ‘Look, I got a nice Beaujolais,’ he said, showing it to me.
‘How much?’ I asked.
His normally open, boyish face closed for a moment, and then he said warily, ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because we’re going halves, of course.’
‘We’re not,’ he said in a rigid voice that should have warned me.
‘But Toby, we are, of course we are! That’s only fair!’
‘What’s fairness got to do with it? Please shut up about it. I’m paying for the lousy thing, and that’s the end of that.’
‘But you can’t afford –’
‘I know I can’t!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘I can’t afford any of the bloody decencies of life! I can’t afford to take you out properly or buy you a proper Christmas present, or be able to tell you not to worry – I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m still living from hand to mouth like a bloody tramp. Since I was eighteen I’ve been writing, ten years already, and so what? I’ve written two novels and five plays and God knows how many short stories, and what keeps me alive, even? A couple of lousy articles a month, stuff I mug up and toss off and get no feeling from doing, just a feeling of disgust because it seems to be all I’m fit for!’ He turned away, his shoulders slumping suddenly. ‘Why don’t I shut up,’ he said, the anger gone from his voice and only bitterness left.
Shaken, we stood at opposite sides of the room, in separate silences. But I couldn’t bear to see him standing there so desolately, face to face with his own failure. I knew how it felt, and it must be worse for a man. I went over, tentatively, and touched him.
He turned round to me abruptly and his face had a new hard look. ‘Jane,’ he said, ‘will you tell me the truth if I ask you something?’
‘What is it?’
‘Do you think I’m a failure as a writer?’
‘Failure’s a thing you measure at the end of a life,’ I said. ‘You haven’t failed yet – not till you give it up, or die.’
‘But I’ve failed up to now?’
‘You haven’t succeeded. It’s not the same thing.’
He paused, and I thought, What he’s going to ask me now is very important. ‘Do you love me in spite of the fact that I haven’t succeeded, or because of it?’
‘In spite of it,’ I said, fearing that this was not the answer he wanted. But his face gave me no clue, and he went on: ‘Would you love me more if I did succeed?’
‘Yes,’ I replied promptly, ‘if by succeeding you mean in your own eyes, not necessarily the world’s.’
‘Why would you?’
I had to think about it to get it clear in my mind. ‘Because,’ I said slowly, ‘because success is important; it’s as important as self-respect – it’s part of self-respect. Without self-respect and a sense of satisfaction in his work, a man’s nothing, and if he’s nothing, he’s not worth loving.’
In the pause that followed I had to stifle a feeling of panic. And wasn’t that the completely wrong thing to say? I thought. If he doesn’t understand – if he’s one of the people who says ‘If-you-really-loved-me-you’d-love-my-failure-too’ – this could be the finish of us.
He didn’t relax suddenly, or smile, or kiss me – it wasn’t that simple. But from the way he reached out slowly to pick up the bottle and said, ‘In the meantime – my treat?’ I thought that at least part of what I’d said had satisfied him. At least he knew I told him die truth. I nodded, feeling a sense of relief, as if we’d cleared some giant obstacle in a fog.
But still he
didn’t smile, and later I wondered if perhaps we’d hit it without knowing it.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
It always seems odd, looking back on a turning-point in life, that bells did not ring and warning hooters go. The party seemed to be just a party – quite an entertaining one, but nothing world-shaking. I mean, of course, my world.
Everyone who lived in the house was there, and so were a number of other friends and neighbours of Doris’s. They were a mixed bag, which became a lot more mixed after sampling Doris’s noxious black punch, to which every liquid contribution, no matter how incompatible, was swiftly added. There was a lot of dancing to the radio and, later, to John’s guitar; a lot of Christmas cards were repeatedly sent toppling; a lot of seasonal goings-on went on under the veritable forest of mistletoe that hung from the centre light. And Mavis told fortunes.
I hadn’t known she did, but apparently she could only be persuaded when she was in her cups, which was a rare occurrence. The first person so honoured was Charlie, an elderly retired spiv with the face of a well-meaning gorilla who came approximately (and frequently) up to Doris’s ear. Mavis informed him archly that when she looked into his horny palm she could hear wedding-bells. Charlie, undismayed, threw out his incredibly long arm like a lariat and encircled Doris’s ample waist with it. He winked at Toby and me, standing together in the audience which had gathered round.
‘Cupid ain’t fussy,’ he said. ‘Look what he done to me, at my age!’ Doris was so overcome with girlishness she actually giggled.
Then it was Toby’s turn. I was surprised at his eagerness.
‘Come on, Mavis, while you’re in the vein.’
‘Oh you!’ Mavis said, giving his hand an almost flirtatious slap. ‘You never believe a word I tell you.’
‘On the contrary, I believe every word, specially when it’s depressing. Then it’s sure to be true. Come on, tell me something nice for a change.’
She examined his hand.
‘Unsettled,’ she said peevishly. ‘Everything’s always muzzy with you. No clear pattern at all. A bit of this, a fiddle with that – never really put your whole self into anything, do you?’ I saw Toby’s face change. ‘And your work-line – look at it. Little branches wandering off it every whichway. Blurred. That’s what you are, my lad. Blurred.’
‘That’s enough, thank you,’ said Toby, quite sharply for him. I’d rather not hear any more, if you don’t mind.’ He stepped back out of the circle and stood frowning into his drink. I touched his arm, but apart from deepening his frown for a second he didn’t pay any attention.
We had some hot bangers and the room got thicker and thicker with smoke and noise and people. Charlie had his eye on Sonia. She was a dark, broad-faced girl with Slavic eyes; under her thick make-up she was probably little more than twenty. Whenever Doris wasn’t looking, Charlie would play peek-a-boo with her and she would stare at him stonily for a minute and then turn her head pointedly away. Jane had evidently told her they were both off-duty for the evening.
Toby didn’t ask me to dance. He spent most of the evening sitting by himself. It wasn’t hard to see he was unhappy about what Mavis had said. I felt a stifled anger against her. I tried to cheer him up but he only grunted and wouldn’t respond. I felt further away from him than I had ever felt, even when I came back from the hospital. It seemed such a childish thing he’d allowed to upset him; a silly woman telling fortunes … but silly or not, she had brushed the truth, and hit him where it hurt.
I found myself sitting with Jane and Sonia. John was near by, playing his guitar. People were getting tired, and everyone was sitting about. There came one of those breaks in the conversation, and in the middle of it Jane suddenly asked: ‘Are you all better again now, dear? I was quite worried about you, after you fainted that time.’
Naturally everyone listened. I couldn’t see many people; most of the lights had been turned off, and we happened to be sitting in the patch of light thrown by one small lamp. All round were people in the gloom – an audience of attentive and potentially malignant strangers.
I thought: These are just the first hundred, for the rest of my life – strangers who’ll know, who’ll find out, who’ll try not to react but who will react. Their attention was idle, impersonal; Jane’s question was rhetorical. But abruptly it seemed to me that the moment should have meaning, even if it were to my discredit. I felt a rush of impulsive courage to the head and said pleasantly ‘Yes, thank you. Luckily I didn’t lose the baby, so of course I’m very happy about that.’
I heard Mavis gasp, and Jane looked puzzled and surprised. I thought, I’ve misjudged Doris. She hasn’t told anyone.
‘You having a baby, dear? I didn’t know that.’
Mavis found her voice. ‘But dear – I thought –’
I located her in the gloom and shook my head, smiling. She was obviously very put out. ‘Well I never!’ she said crossly. ‘It never dawned on me.’
There was what seemed like an age of silence before the general hubbub mercifully resumed. In that age I learned that ‘confession’ doesn’t ease the soul, but challenges it. My rash courage ebbed and I wanted to run. But instead I sat quite still and thought, If I can say it here I can say it anywhere. And anyway it’s none of their business.
Mavis drew me aside as soon as she saw an opportunity.
‘Jane, you couldn’t have done what I told you –’
‘Never mind it now, Mavis.’
‘But I’ve never known it to fail –’
‘Will you read my hand for me?’
It was rather a haphazard reading, as Mavis was now well away and the light was almost non-existent. I wasn’t really listening. I’d only suggested it to distract her. My attention was fixed on Toby, still sitting by the window. He’d drawn the curtain back a little and was hunched up over his glass, staring into the street.
‘Toby,’ I called softly. He looked round. The frown was still there, out of place on that blackbird’s face. ‘Come and sit here for a bit. Mavis is going to read my hand.’ I thought if he heard her nonsense directed at someone else he would get back a sense of proportion about it.
He came slowly and sat beside us.
‘I can see a number of roads up ahead for you,’ Mavis was saying. ‘Whichever you take will be rough and rocky. But there’s always a silver lining, isn’t there, dear?’
‘To the rocks?’ murmured Toby, and I thought It’s working.
‘You be quiet,’ said Mavis. ‘She knows what I mean. It won’t all be hard; there’ll be, like, compensations. They do say they’re a great comfort,’ she added vaguely. ‘Often thought I’d like one myself. Thought I’d call it Violet – or Myrtle, I always liked nice smells –’
‘Then why not Eucalyptus?’ suggested Toby. I reached out with my free hand and put it in his. His fingers closed round it and I felt the emptiness of fear fill solidly with relief. I stopped listening to Mavis and sat staring at Toby. He flicked a wry, sheepish little look at me, and I pushed my head against his shoulder and put my other hand tightly over our clasped ones.
‘Oh, now you’ve spoilt it!’ Mavis exclaimed. ‘Just as I was getting into it, too. Did you hear what I said about the tall fair man, dear?’ But I wasn’t listening. Toby had come back for the moment. He put his arm round me and I closed my eyes. We sat quietly together, our breathing synchronized. I felt rather sleepy, and very safe and unworried. I’d told, and Toby hadn’t minded, and soon we’d be alone together.
The thing that made the turning point happened just as we were leaving. The numbers were thinning; there’d been a small brawl when Doris caught Charlie sitting at Sonia’s feet; Jane had told Sonia off in no uncertain terms and dragged her off downstairs; one neighbour had passed rather noisily out and been lugged home; somebody had announced an engagement. In other words, the party was a success; honour was satisfied. Toby and I went to say thank you to Doris and she shouted jocularly after us as we went up the stairs, ‘When are you two going to get married?
The double room on the first floor’s vacant!’
I could actually feel Toby’s hand stiffen in mine as he withdrew himself. He said nothing as we climbed the stairs, but he didn’t switch the lights on as we passed them on the landing. I felt my breathing quicken with uneasiness.
The frown was back between his eyes as I put on the light in my room. He sat broodingly beside the fire while I made some coffee.
‘I suppose she thinks I arranged for you to come here,’ he said at last.
I thought it better to pretend I had forgotten the incident, as if it were of no importance. ‘Who?’
He glanced at me sharply. ‘Doris. I suppose that’s what they all thought. No doubt the whole neighbourhood’s waiting for me to make an honest woman of you.’
‘Does it matter what they think?’ I asked, forcing a light tone.
‘I guess not.’
We drank our coffee in silence. My heart was thumping with disquiet. The atmosphere was unnatural. We should have been holding hands, post-morteming the party.
‘This coffee’s disgusting, I’m sorry,’ I said at last, to break the silence.
‘It’s all right,’ Toby said absently. He put his cup down and added, ‘It’s not too terribly late. I might try and get a bit of work done before I turn in.’ He grinned a bit, not looking directly at me. ‘Mavis put the wind up me, talking about my work-line.’
‘There’s no such thing as a work-line,’ I said, irritable through misery that he wanted to go.
‘I know. Still, she was right in principle.’ He bent and kissed the top of my head briefly. ‘Good night, sweetie. Sleep well.’
I froze inside. It was the first time he’d ever called me sweetie. It was a term I hated – it had such a frighteningly casual ring. As if I were – but I was, I realized suddenly. I was his mistress. It was the first time I’d put it to myself like that. I’d never realized before just how vulnerable a mistress is.