Joe opened the door with his latch-key and went in with Laura. He switched on the electric heater in the living-room and, sitting down, began to take off his shoes. Laura poured herself a glass of milk and stood drinking it with her eyes upon his back.
“Have a whisky and soda,” she suggested.
“No, I don’t feel like it.” He picked up the Sunday paper which lay on the table and opened it at the financial column.
She studied him for a moment in silence, finishing her milk. For a few minutes she pottered about the room, straightening things up, as if waiting for him to speak, then she went unobtrusively into the bedroom next door. He heard her moving about, taking off her things and, lowering his paper, he grinned faintly. They went to bed every Sunday afternoon, quietly and decently, as people go to church, but lately since his own desire was less acute it had amused him to “kid Laura on a bit.” Now he waited a full half-hour, pretending to read, before, with an obvious yawn, he went into the bedroom.
She lay upon her back in his bed in a plain white nightdress of beautiful material and cut, her hair charmingly arranged, her clothes neatly folded upon a chair, a faint perfume of her, like an evocation, in the room. He had to admit that she had class. A week ago he had taken a little flutter with a munitionette from the Wirtley Works — gone home with her to her room in fact — oh, a nice enough girl, no doubt, her ginger colouring had appealed to him after Laura’s bushy darkness, but somehow her flashy nightdress, the poor sheets upon the bed had disgusted him. Yes, there was no question but that Laura had educated him: clearly the best way to learn manners was to sleep with a well-bred woman.
He undressed slowly, aware that Laura was watching him, taking a long time to arrange his keys, gold cigarette case and loose silver upon the chest of drawers. He even stood in his underwear, deliberately counting his money before he came over and sat upon the edge of the bed.
“Were you working out how much you’d give me?” she inquired in her controlled voice.
He broke into a roar of laughter, glad in a way to get rid of his simmering amusement in one explosive burst.
“As a matter of fact, Joe,” she went on in that same ironic manner, “I’ve just been thinking that I’m the one who’s done most of the giving. Cigarette case, watch, cuff links, all these little presents, the use of the car too. You even wangled this furniture out of me. Oh, I know you’re always going to give me the cheque and I don’t give a hang whether you do. I hope to God I’m not petty. It’s just that I wonder often whether you realise what I’ve done for you one way and another.”
He felt his biceps in high good humour.
“Well,” he said, “you did it because you wanted to.”
“So that’s the way you look at it?” She paused. “When I think how it began. That morning you came up about the counterfoils. A silly weak moment. And now this.”
“Ah,” he grinned sheepishly, “it’d have been the same in any case. You know you’re mad about me.”
“What a pretty way to put it. You know, Joe, I honestly believe you don’t care for me at all. You’ve simply used me, used me for all you were worth, used me to get on…”
“And haven’t I been some use to you?”
A silence.
“You’re an adept,” she said slowly, “at making me hate myself.”
“Ah, don’t say that now, Laura,” he protested. And, throwing off his singlet, he slipped into bed beside her. She gave a sigh that was almost a moan, as at her own weakness, her own desire, then turned upon her side, yielding herself to him.
They slept for about an hour afterwards, Joe rather restlessly. It always irked him that she clung to him after his own desire was satisfied. In their early days together it had gratified his vanity to demonstrate his own virility to her, to contrast his own fine body with Stanley’s obvious flabbiness. But now he was tired of that: he had no intention of depleting his physical resources for her. When she opened her eyes and looked at him he sustained her gaze across the pillow with a slightly mocking stare.
“Don’t you love me any more, Joe?” she asked.
“You know I do.”
She sighed: her eyes fell.
“Oh dear,” she said.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. You can be hateful when you choose. Sometimes you make me feel horrible.” A pause. “I am horrible, I daresay, but I can’t help it.”
He continued to look at her, conscious of that inward chuckle which had affected him all day. He had reached the subtlety of deriving a curious satisfaction from the play of emotion upon her face; he watched especially in their moments of climax, obtaining a sense of his importance as the mitigator of this inner turmoil. Yes, he was “the boss,” as he put it, right enough. He was still fond of her, of course, but it was good for her to feel her dependence on him once in a while. Now, since he saw she was in the mood for tenderness, he affected a playful briskness.
“I think we ought to have our tea,” he said. “I’m parched.”
He had begun to grin, when suddenly the telephone rang. Still grinning, he leaned across her and picked up the receiver.
“Hello,” he said. “Yes, this is Mr. Gowlan. Yes, Morgan…. Yes…. I don’t know, no I haven’t the least idea…. What!” Joe’s voice altered slightly. There was a longish pause. “Is that so…. Good God, you don’t say so… came to the office did it…. Yes, Morgan…. Yes, of course… I’ll be over shortly Yes, I’ll be over myself.”
Joe hung up the receiver, came back slowly to his own side of the bed. A silence followed.
“What was it?” Laura asked.
“Well—” Joe cleared his throat. “You see…”
“Well, what?”
He hesitated, picking at the edging of the sheet.
“A wire’s just come to the office.”
Laura raised herself in the bed. All at once she said:
“Is it Stanley?”
“It’s nothing,” Joe said hurriedly. “He’s absolutely all right. It’s only shell-shock.”
“Shell-shock,” Laura said. Her lips went quite pale.
“That’s all,” he answered. “Not a thing more.”
Laura pressed her hand against her brow.
“O God,” she said in an extinguished voice. “I knew something like this would happen, I knew it. I knew it.”
“But it’s nothing,” he repeated. “Don’t upset yourself. He isn’t scratched. He only got buried by a shell and they’ve sent him home to get over it. He’s not even wounded. I tell you, it’s nothing.” He tried to take her hand but she snatched it away.
“Leave me.” She burst into tears. “Leave me alone…”
“But he isn’t even wounded…”
She turned from him violently, jumped out of bed, and, sobbing, pulled off her nightdress. Naked, her white body bent, she fumbled at the chair, began to huddle on her clothes.
“But, Laura,” he said, protestingly. He had never seen her cry before.
“Be quiet,” she cried, “anything you say can only make it worse. You’ve done something to me. You’ve made me hate myself. And now Stanley… O God…”
Flinging on her jacket, she snatched up her hat and ran, bareheaded and sobbing, from the room.
He remained upon his elbow for a minute, then with a shrug of his bare shoulders he reached out towards the bedside table, yawned, and lit himself a cigarette.