“Get rid of that as quickly as you can,” I said to Isobel. “We’re going out.”
She was wearing a shapeless blouse and a worn skirt. She had no stockings on, and was wearing her slippers. Her hair was tied back with an elastic band, though stray wisps fell about her face.
“Going out?” she said. “But I can’t. I’ve all the ironing to do, and we can’t leave Sally.”
“Helen’s coming round. And you can do the rest of that tomorrow.”
“Why are we going out? What’s to celebrate?”
“No reason. I just feel like it.”
She gave me an ambiguous look, and turned back to her ironing. “Very amusing.”
“No, I mean it.” I bent down, and pulled the socket of the electric iron from the wall. “Finish that off, and get ready. I’ll put Sally to bed.”
“Are we having a meal? I’ve got all the food in.”
“We can have it tomorrow.”
“But it’s already half-cooked.”
“Put it in the fridge. It’ll keep.”
She said quietly: “Like your mood?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” She bent over her ironing again.
I said: “Look, Isobel, don’t be awkward. I’d like to spend the evening out. If you don’t want to go, just say so. I thought you’d appreciate the idea.”
She looked up. “I … do. I’m sorry, Alan. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting it.”
“You’d like to go then?”
“Of course.”
“How long will it take you to get ready?”
“Not long. I’ll have to have a bath and I want to wash my hair.”
”0.K.”
She finished what she was doing, then put away the iron and the ironing-board. For a few minutes she moved about the kitchen, dealing with the food she had been cooking.
I switched on the television and watched the news. At this time there was speculation about the date of the coming General Election, and a right-wing Independent M.P. named John Tregarth had caused a controversy by claiming that the Treasury accounts were being falsified.
I saw to Sally and washed up the dirty dishes in the sink. I told Sally that Helen was coming over to look after her and that she was to behave. The child promised solemnly that she would, and then became very placid and happy. She liked Helen. I went into the bathroom to get my electric razor and Isobel was already in the water. I leaned over and kissed her as she sat in the bath. She responded for a second or two, then pulled away and smiled up at me. It was a curious smile; one whose meaning I could not easily identify. I helped Sally undress, then sat with her downstairs reading to her until Isobel had finished in the bathroom.
I telephoned a restaurant in the West End and asked them to reserve a table for us at eight o’clock. Isobel came down in her dressing-gown while I was speaking to them, looking for her hair-dryer. Helen arrived on time at seven, and a few minutes later we took Sally up to her room.
Isobel had brushed her hair down straight and was wearing a pale-coloured dress that fitted and emphasized her figure. She had put on eye make-up and was wearing the necklace I had given her on our first anniversary. She looked beautiful in a way I had not seen for years. As we drove off I told her this.
She said: “Why are we going out, Alan?”
“I told you. I just felt like it.”
“And suppose I hadn’t?”
“You obviously do.”
I detected that she was not at ease, and I realized that to this point I had judged her mood by her behaviour. The cool, beautiful appearance betrayed an inner tautness. As we stopped at a set of traffic-lights I looked at her. The drab, almost sexless woman I saw every day was not here … instead I saw the Isobel I thought I had married. She took a cigarette from her handbag and lit it.
“You like me dressed up like this, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“And at other times?”
I shrugged. “You don’t always have the opportunity.”
“No. Nor do you often give it to me.”
I noticed that the fingers of the hand that was not holding her cigarette were picking at each other’s nails. She inhaled smoke.
“I wash my hair and put on a clean dress. You wear a different tie. We go to an expensive restaurant.”
“We’ve done it before. Several times.”
“And how long have we been married? Suddenly it’s an event. How long to the next time?”
I said: “We can do this more often if you like.”
“All right. Let’s make it every week. Build it into our routine.”
“You know that’s not practical. What would we do about Sally?”
She put her hands to her neck, scooped up her long hair, and held it tightly behind her head. I glanced from the traffic to her. She held the cigarette between her lips, her mouth turned down. “You could employ another drudge.”
For a while we drove on in silence. Isobel finished her cigarette and threw it out of the window.
I said: “You don’t have to wait for me to take you out before you can make yourself look attractive.”
“You’ve never noticed it at any other times.”
“I have.”
It was true. For a long period after we were first married she had made a conscious effort to retain her attractiveness, even during the pregnancy. I had admired her for that, even as the barriers were forming between us.
“I despair of ever pleasing you.”
“You’re pleasing me now,” I said. “You’ve a child to look after. I don’t expect you to dress like this all the time.”
“But you do, Alan. You do. That’s the whole trouble.”
I acknowledged that we were talking in superficialities. Both of us knew that the subject of Isobel’s manner of dressing was only peripheral to the real problem. I fostered an image of Isobel as I had first seen her and I was reluctant to let it go. That much I accepted, and felt that within certain limits it was common to many married men. The real reason for my disinterest in Isobel was something we had never been able to discuss.
We arrived at the restaurant and ate our meal. Neither of us enjoyed it, and our conversation was inhibited. On the way home afterwards, Isobel sat in silence until I stopped the car outside the house.
Then she turned and looked at me, wearing the expression she had had before, but had then concealed with a smile.
She said: “I was just another of your women tonight.”
I was carried to the barricade by two men. I had one arm around each of their shoulders, and though I tried to put weight on my sprained ankle I found the pain was too great.
A movable section of the barricade had been opened and I was carried through.
I was confronted by several men. Each carried a rifle. I explained who I was and why I wanted to enter the town. I did not mention the Afrims, nor that I feared Sally and Isobel were in their hands. I said that I had been separated from my wife and daughter, that I had reason to believe they were here and wished to be reunited with them.
My possessions were searched.
“You’re a scruffy sod, aren’t you?” one of the younger men said. The other men glanced at him quickly and I thought I detected disapproval in the way they did this.
I said, as calmly as I could: “I’ve lost my home and all my property. I’ve been forced to live off the land for several months. If I could find a bath and clean clothes I’d gladly use them.”
“That’s all right,” one of the others said. He jerked his head to the side and the younger man moved away, glaring at me. “What did you do before you were displaced?”
“My profession? I was a lecturer at a college, but I was obliged to do other work for a time.”
“You lived in London?”
“Yes.”
“It could have been worse. You heard what happened up north?”