Stitch in Snow

'Well, he's every bit as glamorous as he was cast. And not stuffy or unpleasant. He told us he'd been in New York recently and a cabby had recognised him. Only…'

'Only what…?'

'The cabby said, "I saw your son on TV last night in the Corsican Brothers…" '

'Good God…' Dan roared with laughter.

'And the cabby said, "the kid's doing great." So Mr. Fairbanks replied that, yes, he thought the boy had a good future.'

Dan chuckled over that encounter as the credits for Gunga Din rolled past the Indian border.

'D'you mind?' he asked, indicating he intended to stretch out on the bed to watch the movie. I didn't mind. 'Then bring your knitting and join me. Best seat in the house.'

My father used to say that you had to see a man drunk to judge his character accurately. I prefer men driven to drink who don't feel obliged to test their capacity in the crisis. The old film was a godsend because Dan got so involved in it, as did I, with assorted reminiscences of our childhoods, that he was just taking the last of his double jolt when Cary Grant, slung over the shoulder of Victor McLaughlin, was hauled off to the jail, brandishing a bottle of Scotch.

'Can I freshen your drink. Jenny?' Dan asked during the next commercial.

'I wouldn't mind.' Surreptitiously I watched him splash reasonable amounts. Whatever had been riding him before seemed to have eased.

'How's the knitting going?'

I spread it out for him and he smoothed down the pattern but his eyes were on my face. He bent forward and kissed me gently.

'You've a soothing effect, Jenny, and I'm grateful.' He settled against the headboard as the last commercial ended and the screen faded into the movie again.

In the end, when the face of Sam Jaffe came up over the final battle scene and the sonorous lines of the poem, ' You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din…'faded into the final credits, I had a lump in my throat and a suspicious wetness in my eyes which I hastily brushed away.

'Don't, Jenny. It's an honest response.'

'I know, but… habit, I suppose. Tim, my son, used to get very upset when he saw me crying.'

'Did he have many occasions? You don't strike me as a weepy sort.'

'No, I'm not. Raymond, my husband, died of cancer of the lungs. Slowly. We knew it was hopeless. The doctor kept telling me that tears are nature's escape valve but Timmy was only five, a bit young to understand tears were therapeutic…'

' "The gentle rain, that droppeth…" No, that's wrong, too, isn't it.'

I used his malapropism as an excuse to laugh off the imminent tears of memories. 'Indeed it is. That's Portia talking about mercy, not weeping jags…'

'Okay, which act and scene, quickly now for $100.'

'Act IV, Scene 1, where's my hundred?-' I held my hand out.

'Not so fast, lady. I have to check your answer,' And he reached in the drawer for Gideon's Bible which made me laugh harder.

'No, not in that. Shakespeare, not Solomon. Don't you trust me?'

'Who trusts women nowadays with bra burners and petitions and all?' There was a mighty sharp edge to his voice and I know it stopped my laughter. He was immediately contrite, clasping my still out-stretched hand in both his. 'No, I trust you. Jenny. Yes, by God, I do!' He kissed my hand, first on the back and then, turning it over, in the palm in such a lovely fashion that it awoke an instant response in me. ' "There's a time and tide in the affairs of man…" ' His wry smile and the faint emphasis on 'affairs' made me chuckle.

'You're incorrigible and grossly incorrect…'

'As usual. Shut up and kiss me, woman!'

I did, since I had no option, being crushed against him in a fashion reminiscent of the swashbuckling antics of Douglas Fairbanks as a Corsican brother. I don't honestly think he intended to make love to me then: he was still distracted by his encounter with old Hearty. And I wasn't randy after last night.

The moment he began kissing me, I kissed him back and the contact was as charged as it had been the previous evening. He broke off, searching my face but he was too close for me to see anything except the intense gleam in his eyes.

'I'm being greedy, Jenny, but Christ, do I need you! May I?'

'Of course.'

Many years before, when Ray and I were first married, I had read an article by a committee of Quakers on extra-marital sex. They had decided that it could be morally wrong to deny a man the solace of intercourse, which, in their estimation, was as much a necessity to man, and woman, as water, food and shelter. They by no means condoned promiscuity or seduction but, between consenting adults, extramarital sex was permissible.

Dan-man needed me as a woman. And I rejoiced that he used me and experienced relief, gripping my arms so tightly in his climax that I suspected I'd have bruises by morning. He collapsed against me suddenly and by the evenness of his breathing, I knew he was asleep. I consoled myself with the rationalisation that I had done my duty as woman all too thoroughly. I was bloody wide-awake with some 200 pounds of immovable man squooshing me into the mattress. We hadn't turned off the TV so I watched a second showing of Gunga Din, the late news which added horror tales to the earlier version of people stranded in cars in snow drifts, of houses without food, water, electricity, special patrols snow-shoeing to the rescue and scenes of snow-drifted deserted city streets and facilities, like the Denver airport. Baby, it was cold outside!

The announcer was just giving me the glad word about the late show, a trite situation comedy from the frothy pre-war years, when Dan stirred, rolled off me and flopped on his right side, arms dangling over the edge of the bed. I slipped out, turned off the TV, got to the bathroom, put on my nightgown, got back into bed, turned off the light and hoped that I, too, could fall asleep, my virtues being my reward.

I think it was the snow pelting the windows which soothed me to rest. It wasn't my thoughts or my unslaked emotions.

Chapter 06

I wasn't so deeply asleep that I didn't feel Dan move: he tried to be considerate and if I'd been really down for the count, I wouldn't have roused.

'Go back to sleep, Jenny,' he said, patting my shoulder gently.

'There's roast beef sandwiches on the desk,' I said in a mumble.

'How'd you know I'd be hungry?'

'Page from your book. Plan ahead!' I flipped over and saw him pulling on his pants in the dark room. He moved to the desk.

'You're a doll. Want one?'

'I wouldn't mind. And there might be coffee in the machines by the ice-maker.'

'By God, there might. Want some?'

'Hmmmm.' I was hungry too, and blessed my plan-aheadability, though I hadn't envisioned a snack at whatever ungodly hour this was. He slipped out the door and the light from the corridor was enough to illuminate my watch dial. Four-thirty? Oh, well. He was back with two containers of coffee.

'It's black. They've run out of sugar and cream. But the night watchman told me there isn't even coffee on some of the floors.'

'Good Lord and the hotel's chockablock.'

'I gather a convoy will make it to our relief in the morning… this morning.'

'Ah, fair enough!'

We finished our snack companionably in the dark. He disposed of the sandwich wrappings and the containers, undressed and got back under the covers. He turned to me, pulling me close to him, settling me beside him. I was quite willing that he go back to sleep and therefore was pleased when his free hand began to explore my body gently, rousing responses I thought dampened.

'Your turn now, Jenny,' he said, his voice rippling with amusement and he held me closer when I started to protest. 'Turnabout's fair play, woman, and you're so damned responsive, it's a pleasure. Now relax and enjoy. This rape is inevitable!'