Alicia had begun to write stories and the beginning of a novel, which she showed me. I thought about what she was doing and commented on it when I thought I could be helpful. I liked being useful; I could see how her confidence failed at times.
In the late evenings, when I’d finished work, sometimes we went to the beach. We’d walk past couples who’d left the bars and discos to copulate in the darkness: French, German, Scandinavian, Dutch bodies, attempting, it seemed, to strangle the life out of one another. Our business seemed more important, to talk about literature. Sex was everywhere; good words were less ubiquitous.
Since my mid-twenties, I’d taught both literature and writing at various universities and usually had a writing workshop in London. I’d been interested by how people got to speak, and to speak up, for themselves, and by the effect this had on all their relationships. When it came to Alicia, some sort of instruction was something I fell into naturally, and liked.
Nevertheless, I tried to speak in young tones, as if I knew only a little; and I tried not to be pompous, as I must have been in my old body. It was quite an effort. I was used to people listening or even writing down what I said. The pomposity was useful, for emphasis, and my authority could seem liberating to some people. Alicia seemed to like the authority I was able to muster, at times. Being older could be useful.
I had to be wary, too, of this thin, anxious girl. If she was the reason I didn’t leave, when she asked me about myself and my education I was evasive, as if I didn’t quite believe my own stories, or, in the end, couldn’t be bothered with them, which frustrated her. She wanted more of me. I could see she knew I was holding a lot back.
‘What have you been writing?’ I asked now, as we walked.
‘A poem about windows.’
‘Everyone knows poems and windows don’t go together.’
‘They’ll have to get along,’ she said. ‘Like us.’ Then she said, ‘Hurry, you’ve got to go and see Patricia.’
‘Now? Is she angry with me?’
She squeezed my hand. ‘I think so.’
Her fear increased mine. I was reminded of all kinds of past transgressions and terrors: of my mother’s furies, of being sent to the headmistress to be smacked on the hand with a ruler. In my youth, all sorts of people were allowed to hit you, and were even praised for doing it; they didn’t thank you if you returned the compliment. Now, as numerous other fears arose, I went into such a spin it took me several moments to remember I was called Leo Adams. I could choose to behave differently, to revise the past, as it were, and not be the scared boy I was then.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Walk with me.’
‘Aren’t you afraid of her?’ Alicia asked.
‘Terrified.’
‘I am, too. Are you going to leave?’
‘Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t.’
‘Please don’t.’ She went on, ‘But there is something else, too. She heard your joke.’
‘She did? She didn’t mention it to me.’
‘She might now, perhaps.’
‘How did it get round?’
She blushed. ‘These things just do.’
A few days ago I had made a joke, which is not a good idea in institutions. It was not a great joke, but it was on the spot and had made Alicia suddenly laugh in recognition. I had called the Centre a ‘weepeasy’. I used the word several times, as we young people tend to, and that was that. It had entered the bloodstream of the institution.
Now, we walked through the village to Patricia’s. The shops were closed; the place was deserted. Most people were having their siestas, as was Patricia at this time, usually.
Outside Patricia’s, Alicia said she’d wait for me under a tree across the square.
I knocked on the door, and Patricia’s irritable face appeared at the window. I’m glad to say I always annoyed Patricia; by being alive at all, I failed her. On this occasion, to my dismay, she brightened.
She had come to the door wearing only a wrap-around skirt. Her large brown breasts were hanging down.
‘My,’ I said, and then blushed. I knew she’d heard it as ‘mine’. I went on, ‘Patricia, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’
‘I’m glad you’ve come, Oddjob,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some work for you. Why did you leave my workshop?’
‘I wanted to think about it.’
‘Did you enjoy it, then?’ When I nodded, she said, ‘If so, how much? Very, very much? Just very much? Quite a lot? Or something else?’
‘Let me think about that, Patricia.’ She was looking at me. I said, ‘I did like it, in fact.’
‘If you did really, you can say why — in your own words.’
I said, ‘You used the dream, not as a puzzle to be solved, with all the anxiety of that, as if one of us would get it right, but as a felt image, to generate thoughts, or other images. That was useful. I haven’t stopped thinking.’
‘That’s a good thing to say.’ She was flattered and pleased. ‘You see, you can be almost articulate, if you really want to be. By the way, I heard what you called the Centre. Weepeasy,’ she said. ‘Right?’
‘Sorry,’ I said, bowing my head.
‘Is that what you think?’
‘It’s easy to make people cry.’ I went on, ‘Confession, not irony, is the modern mode. A halting speech at Alcoholics Anonymous is the paradigm. But what concealments and deceptions are there in this exhibition of self-pity? Isn’t it tedious for you?’
‘There’s no rigour here any more, you could be right. Or any progress. It’s become the same every day. I can tell you, that’s the least of it.’ Then she said, ‘Please, come here.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Here!’ I shuffled forward. She put her arms around me and pressed her breasts into my body. ‘I am feeling tense today. I wanted to run a centre for self-exploration, only to discover I’d started a small business. You can’t explore anything if you don’t get the figures right — the eighties taught some women that, at least. Now I’m sick of being an accountant and I’m sick of being wise. Sometimes, I only want to be mad.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Being the wise woman must be a right bore.’
‘Who takes care of me? I have to mother everyone! You’ve been attending the massage class, haven’t you? You know how to do it.’
By now, she was pulling at my fingers.
‘Patricia —’
‘Massage me, Leo, you dear boy. There’s the oil.’
‘I want to talk about Alicia.’
‘Who wants to hear about that funny little thing? Oh, talk, talk about what you want, as long as you smooth out my soul.’
Her skirt dropped to the floor. She walked across the room, located the oil, and lay down on a towel on her low bed.
She was watching me scratch my stomach. There were certain conversations I’d missed in this new life. You might have a new body but if your mind is burdened the differences don’t count for much.
‘Go on,’ she said.
I told her how Alicia had got sweet on me and that I was concerned about it. I emphasised that I hadn’t deliberately led her on.
Of course, I loved the attention of the women at the Centre — who didn’t, admittedly, have much else to look at — and had walked around barefoot, wearing only shorts. Celibacy had increased my desire; I wanted to live less in my mind. I remember Margot telling me, years ago, this thing about certain school phobics. Some boys, of particularly disturbed sexuality, imagined that their bodies had turned into penises. The dreaded school was their mother’s forbidden body. I was all sex, a walking prick, a penis with an appended body. I didn’t flirt; I was unprovocative. I didn’t need to do anything.