The manager was a plump, dark man with a tight suit and a flower in his buttonhole. His face was red with rage as he looked us up and down. "Filthy little brats!" He turned on me. "And I've seen you here before. You're nothing better than a common prostitute. I've a damned good mind to call the police. Indecent exposure. Disturbing the peace." He ran the heavy words easily off his tongue. He must have used them often before in his sleazy little house of private darkness. "Names, please." He took a notebook out of his pocket and licked a stub of pencil. He was looking at Derek. Derek stammered, "Er, James Grant"—the film had starred Cary Grant. "Er, 24 Acacia Road, Nettlebed." The manager looked up. "There aren't any roads in Nettlebed. Only the Henley-Oxford road." Derek said obstinately. "Yes, there are. At the back," he added weakly. "Sort of lanes." "And you?" He turned toward me suspiciously. My mouth was dry. I swallowed. "Miss Thompson, Audrey Thompson. 24"—I realized it was the same number that Derek had chosen, but I couldn't think of another—"Thomas"— I almost said Thompson again!—"Road. London." "District?" I didn't know what he meant. I gaped hopelessly at him. "Postal district," he said impatiently. I remembered Chelsea. "S.W.6," I said weakly. The manager snapped his book shut. "All right. Get out of here, both of you." He pointed out into the street. We edged nervously past him, and he followed us, still pointing. "And don't ever come back to my establishment again! I know you both! You ever show up again, I'll have the police on you!"
The small host of sneering, accusing eyes followed us. I took Derek's arm (why didn't he take mine?) and we went out under the hideous bright lights and turned by instinct to the right and down the hill so that we could walk faster. We didn't stop until we got to a side street and we went in there and slowly started to work our way back to where the MG was parked up the hill from the cinema.
Derek didn't say a word until we were getting close to the car. Then he said matter-of-factly, "Mustn't let them get the number. I'll go and get her and pick you up opposite Fullers' on Windsor Hill. 'Bout ten minutes." Then he freed himself from my arm and went off up the street.
I stood and watched him go, the tall, elegant figure that was once more proud and upright, and then I turned and went back to where a lane led up parallel with Farquhar Street toward the Castle.
I found that I still had my pants crushed in my hand. I put them in my bag. The open bag made me think of my appearance. I stopped under a streetlight and took out my mirror. I looked dreadful. My face was so white it was almost green, and my eyes belonged to a hunted animal. My hair stuck up at the back where it had been rumpled by the floor, and my mouth was smeared by Derek's kisses. I shuddered. "Filthy little swine!" How right! All of me felt unclean, degraded, sinful. What would happen to us? Would the man check on the addresses and put the police on us? Someone would certainly remember us from today or from other Saturdays. Someone would remember the number of Derek's car, some little boy who collected car numbers. There was always some Nosy Parker at the scene of a crime. Crime? Yes, of course it was, one of the worst in puritan England—sex, nakedness, indecent exposure. I imagined what the manager must have seen when Derek got up from me. Ugh! I shivered with disgust. But now Derek would be waiting for me. My hands had automatically been tidying my face. I gave it a last look. It was the best I could do. I hurried on up the street and turned down Windsor Hill, hugging the wall, expecting people to turn and point. "There she goes!" "That's her!" "Filthy little swine!"
Four: "Dear Viv"
THAT summer's night hadn't finished with me. Opposite Fullers' a policeman was standing by Derek's car, arguing with him. Derek turned and saw me. "Here she is, officer. I said she wouldn't be a minute. Had to, er, powder her nose. Didn't you, darling?"
More trouble! More lies! I said yes, breathlessly, and climbed into the seat beside Derek. The policeman grinned slyly at me and said to Derek, "All right, sir. But another time remember there's no parking on the Hill. Even for an emergency like that." He fingered his mustache. Derek put the car in gear, thanked the policeman and gave him the wink of a dirty joke shared, and we were off at last.
Derek said nothing until we had turned right at the lights at the bottom. I thought he was going to drop me at the station, but he continued on along the Datchet road. "Phew!" He let the air out of his lungs with relief. "That was a close shave! Thought we were for it. Nice thing for my parents to read in the paper tomorrow. And Oxford! I should have had it."
"It was ghastly."
There was so much feeling in my voice that he looked sideways at me. "Oh, well. The path of true love and all that." His voice was light and easy. He had recovered. When would I? "Damned shame, really," he went on casually. "Just when we'd got it all set up." He put enthusiasm into his voice to carry me with him. "Tell you what. There's an hour before the train. Why don't we walk up along the river. It's a well-known beat for Windsor couples. Absolutely private. Pity to waste everything, time and so on, now we've made up our minds."
The "so on," I thought, meant "the thing" he had bought. I was aghast. I said urgently, "Oh, but I can't, Derek! I simply can't! You've no idea how awful I feel about what happened."
He looked quickly at me. "What do you mean, awful? You feeling ill or something?"
"Oh, it's not that. It's just that, that it was all so horrible. So shaming."
"Oh, that!" his voice was contemptuous. "We got away with it, didn't we? Come on. Be a sport!"
That again! But I did want to be comforted, feel his arms round me, be certain he still loved me, although everything had gone so wrong for him. But my legs began to tremble at the thought of going through it all again. I clutched my knees with my hands to control them. I said weakly. "Oh, well..."
"That's my girl!"
We went over the bridge, and Derek pulled the car in to the side. He helped me over a stile into a field and put his arm round me and guided me along the little tow-path past some houseboats moored under the willows. "Wish we had one of those," he said. "How about breaking into one? Lovely double bed. Probably some drink in the cupboards."
"Oh, no, Derek! For heaven's sake! There's been enough trouble." I could imagine the loud voice. "What's going on in there? Are you the owners of this boat? Come on out and let's have a look at you."
Derek laughed. "Perhaps you're right. Anyway, the grass is just as soft. Aren't you excited? You'll see. It's wonderful. Then we'll really be lovers."
"Oh, yes, Derek. But you will be gentle, won't you? I shan't be any good at it the first time."
Derek squeezed me excitedly. "Don't you worry. I'll show you."
I was feeling better, stronger. It was lovely walking with him in the moonlight. But there was a grove of trees ahead, and I looked at it fearfully. I knew that would be where it was going to happen. I must, I must make it easy and good for him! I mustn't be silly! I mustn't cry!
The path led through the grove. Derek looked about him. "In there," he said. "I'll go first. Keep your head down."
We crept in among the branches. Sure enough, there was a little clearing. Other people had been there before. There was a cigarette packet, a Coca-Cola bottle. The moss and leaves had been beaten down. 1 had the feeling that this was a brothel bed where hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lovers had pressed and struggled. But now there was no turning back. At least it must be a good place for it, if so many others had used it.