“Have her upstairs? Did you? Have her?”
The woman's words peck rapidly at Edward. He shakes his head. An unease of craftiness sits in his eyes. I see no traces in him-nor indeed any hope-of the anger of which Jenny spoke. He looses it perhaps only in the dark places; hands incoherent with desire, he dare not bring into the light.
The man enters, a wraith of evident substance at my back. I do not turn. Having taken but a disdainful mouthful, and that too much, I return my knife and fork to the plate. His hands come upon my shoulders with a shock of weight. Ever be calm and receive. Descending, his fingers feel, fondle, and palpitate my breasts.
“She's all right, then?” His voice is nondescript.
“Ain't said nothing-ain't told nothing-nor to Jenny either. She don't like the food-good food it is-you can see that, you can tell she don't.”
“Been missing it, that's what she has. Been missing it, my lovely, haven't you?”
His joviality offends. His hands glide beneath my armpits where he expects perhaps to find moisture. There is none. Not yet. I am drawn up, backwards pulled, chair scraping, held at such an angle with my back to his chest that I have no point of resistance even if I sought one.
“Her skirt should have been up more.”
Breasts cupped by his hands, held helpless and inert, my eyes flare over those who sit and stare.
“Get the chair away,” he grumbles. Jenny's eyes scurry all about. My torso twists, though not violently. I am not minded to reject nor over-strongly to receive.
“I told you, Laura, you see. You wouldn't listen.” Jenny has risen, come to me, pushes the chair away and hoists my skirts to my waist.
The woman giggles, nudges Edward, nods.
No-no-no-no, I do not want. They will watch. The woman's eyes have a dirty look. I have never been watched. My hips squirm, writhe, the chair no longer my protector. I feel his bigness, his arising, against my knick-ered moon, pushed, propelled through the folded doors to a high-backed chair over which I am slung so that only my bottom, legs, are visible to them.
“Leave me!”
I grit the words and yet but in my mind. I shall not wail. Hands work at my drawers. I know them to be Jenny's, I know her breathing, the touch of her fingertips, tapered, resilient. The maroon cushion of the chair snuffles at my nose.
“Get it out for me, Jenny. Undo the buttons.”
“Oh, you're hard-he isn't half hard!” A giggle of a sort, though rather a puffball of a sound.
“All right-I've got her. Let's have you, Laura.” A growl in his voice, chasing at the heels of his words.
I am poised, at pillage, my legs straight in their brown stockings, laced boots. I see not Jenny nor Edward nor the woman, for I carry no images of them in my mind. A smack! My cheeks ripple and contract under the impact of his palm.
“Come on-get your legs open-you know I like your legs open.”
There have ever been ceremonies until now. Persuasions at the least by rote of words-masterful-quiet- by annotations and exegeses of hands moving with irresistible certainty up my legs. Silence is itself a ceremony when two move in concord. Even though I have tremored, hid my eyes, been turned about, bent over, and stilled, it has never been before others. That there might be a certain excitement in the prospect I do not in this moment deny. The moment, however, is not propitious. Insnorting of my breath. I feel his pego at my groove.
“Go on, Jenny-let Edward do it to you.”
The woman from the background speaks. Must the woman speak now? I care not for their invisible circus. A clattering of plates. Knives clink. How absurd the circumstance. A whine from Jenny: “Edward! Not so quick!”
Mouth open, I am entered, the knob thick-pulsing, surging up. My fingers on the cushion straighten, stretch. A yielding of my rubbery, my wrinkled, my receiver. A moan. I am undone upon that moan. A cry would fly from me-he rams full in, my cheeks in homage to his belly pressed. I hide my face, grimace, rotate my hips, then shamed at passion's loosing, still myself while Jenny is agog, at sea, something invisible is breached.
“I got you now-you know I got you now. Tight as you ever was. Hold still!”
Flirt-fumbling of his fingers at my quim-I, butterfly, the known, the unknown, am pinned. My prodder pants, groans-utters groans-draws out his steaming rod, re-enters, jerks. He has no stateliness nor poise. No fluttering of pigeons' wings, no gathering of aunts upon the stairs- not here-my bottom bulbing to his belly made to smack.
A knock sounds! Rattles echoe through the hall, pervade the dark suburban sanctuary of sin. A squall from Jenny, then a coarser cry.
“Oh Jesus Christ, oh gawd, oh lawks-now who'd be coming here?”
We like automatons are stilled. He hesitates in palpitating plunge.
“Edward! Get off her, off! You fool, it ain't the time for it, I'll go. Gawd, close the door, the door I tell you!”
The panic amuses. I had begun to enjoy. He, nervous, has withdrawn, as Edward has. I feel my emptiness-rise, turn, survey. Long have I wished to see the male in this condition, this pausing, this attrition. The view is sordid; not without excitement. Jenny all a-tumble totters, falls. Into a chair, her feet awry. Her face bears evidence of sin-the table an abandoned, ugly look, uncared for. As looks the man. He is in mid-life, as suspected, his prong a barber's pole of lust. His face is lined and heavy jowled. His eyes, black browed, are meaningless, dark holes in snow that crumble to the woman's quick return. She leans against the door as barricade.
“A gentleman, that's what. Says she's to go.”
“Ho yes?” He hesitates as if chewing upon the matter, then moves into the dining space, stands over Jenny, penis impudent. An insolence of superiority comes upon me as I watch. Seated, head inclined, she gapes.
“I ain't going to have it in my mouth, though, I ain't. Shut the doors. She ain't never seen us at it-you know she ain't.”
Her nod is to the woman and not I. His shirttail flaps, his trousers held. The condition of the male so seen is best not seen. It inclines to comedy, yet has its fascinations. There is a ruttishness about it which invites. Edward stands as one neither admonished nor praised, his erection viewed. I regard it not with favour. The doors are closed, I in a small space bound, smaller than our linen room at home.
“Nothing untoward happened. You wont say anything untoward happened? You was always all right before- here before you was.”
The woman tugs at my sleeve.
“My trunks must be removed. See that it is done. Summon the cabbie.”
“Nothing untoward-eh? What do you say?”
She is best ignored. Whether I leave in brown or black is of no moment. I restore my drawers more slowly than she would wish, before her going. The doorhandle rattles loose to my grasp and is not easily turned. There is grease upon it in addition to its looseness. The light in the hall is extinguished-an invasion feared. I advance without and encounter my uncle, who waits as might a postman on the path.
“They are coarse people.” Uncertainty tiptoes in his speaking.
“Shall we sit within-in the cab? I shall change upon arrival. Do you know where to go?”
A hotel close by Harrods. It is known to your aunt and I.”
“The Dover off Southampton Row would suit me better.”
“If you prefer it.” He nods, fumbles for a cigar. I have not questioned his coming, nor he my presence. He has not forgotten perhaps that he was summoned once for the birching of his factory wench.
CHAPTER SIX
The gold glow of the city rings my eyes, embellishes my expectations. I am free to choose whether it is tomorrow or today-this hour or that.
The guardian of the door at the hotel is as I recall him, sturdy in a long stiff coat that speaks of old Napoleonic wars. He brandishes a profession of remembering.
“Nice to see you again, Miss.”