A Five Year Sentence (7 page)

Some events in her orphanage life remained close to the surface, and these she could deal with without pain. They belonged to the period of matron's holidays when she was said to be up north with her mother. At these times Miss Weeks took over, and she was fat and jolly and never wore a uniform. She dispensed with the daily inspection of ears and necks and the rigid going-to-bed rules were bent during her week in charge. The dormitories were left to gather dust on the shelves and the unmade beds, and the washing-up piled high in the kitchen sink. On the day before matron's return, Miss Weeks would enlist all the children into a minor spring-clean, both of the house and of themselves and matron returned to find all as she had left. Miss Weeks would never send Miss Hawkins a-knitting, but there were enough matron memories to purl and plain away a lifetime.

Once, a strange grown-up couple came to the orphanage, and all the girls were lined up for inspection. ‘Only the girls,' matron barked, as some little boy tried to sneak into the line in the hope of a break from the monotony of his daily routine.

‘It's always the girls,' one brave little boy dared to complain.

‘Nobody wants naughty little boys to live with them,' matron said. Then it was brightly clear to the scrubbed female line-up that one of them, one lucky one, would escape from matron for ever. One little girl, Brownjohn was her name, Miss Hawkins suddenly recalled, an acne-ed child, who received far more than her share of matron's rebuff and hostility, rushed forward in desperation, and clutched the strange woman's coat. ‘Have me,' she pleaded, her acne leaking. ‘I'm nice, really I am.'

Matron laughed at the utter impossibility of anyone on earth desiring such a child, and guided her gently, for the small public's sake, into a group of little boys. The child was clearly not in the running. The couple had scanned the line-up at a distance, and Hawkins felt the woman's eyes rest on her. Her heart pounded with the possibility of escape and she shut her eyes, praying that the choice would fall on her. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes. The woman smiled at her and the man who was with her nodded his head. ‘Not that one,' matron said, loud enough for everybody to hear. ‘She's a
wetter.' The woman dropped her hand from Hawkins' shoulder and moved along the line. Hawkins opened her mouth to protest that she was dry, that never, never in her orphanage life had she wet the bed, but her mouth was dry with hate and fear, and now in any case it was too late, because the ginger-headed Stewart passed in front of her, flanked by her new foster parents on her trembling way to freedom. Later that day, when Hawkins was helping the maids with the washing-up, matron came into the kitchen and gave her one of her rare smiles. ‘Can't afford to lose you, can I, dear? You're the best domestic in the house.' She was drying a large dish at the time, and, in small reply, she dropped it and watched the flowered china pieces scatter over the stone floor. And when the noise had subsided, she took a pile of plates that she had already dried, and staggering under their weight, she lifted them off the draining board, and sent them to join the scattered remains on the floor. The clatter was tremendous and she was looking around for further avenues of destruction as a way of invaliding herself out of that prison, when matron struck her across the face, and grabbed the apron bow at the back of her waist, propelling her through the kitchen and up the stairs to the end of the corridor and the single isolation punishment room. ‘It's bread and water for you, my girl,' Matron shouted. And that's how it was, Hawkins remembered, for two stomach-rumbling days, and no sight of another creature save the stiff and conquering form of matron as she dispensed the daily ration.

By the time Miss Hawkins reached home, her fists were tight and white with fury, and even before ticking off the wool-buying order in her diary, she had cast on a hundred stitches, each single thrust of the needle, a well-aimed stab in matron's stubborn heart. She knitted until she cooled, then she ticked off the wool shop in her diary. When she left for the library, she hesitated at the door. ‘Goodbye, Maurice,' she called, and as she walked up the street, she understood how pleasing it would be to leave somebody behind in the house, someone to whom one could, with greeting, return. To know that in one's absence some object may have been moved on a mantelpiece, some book may
have been taken from a shelf, some shape, other than her own, had acquainted itself with the uncut moquette of the settee, and she resolved that her home would soon be Brian's as well.

He was waiting for her outside the library, and they ascended the steps arm in arm. She offered to return the books for him at the desk, while he went to the shelves to make his weekly choice. She watched him from a distance and noted how he collected books at random, without even a glance inside. The lurid quality of the covers seemed to be his only guide. From the back he looked younger than his years, which she put in the mid-sixties. His mackintosh was brown, belted, and probably buckled in the last hole, since it hung loose and draped about his thighs. A small grandchild might have grabbed it as a lead, unperturbed by the huge indifference of the brown and slightly stooped back. For there was an overall unawareness about him, an isolation, as he stood there, uncomfortable at the shelves, impatient to collect his mother's quota. He turned suddenly, the six gory titles under his arm. He looked irritated but managed a smile when he caught her watching him.

‘Well that's your good deed for the day,' she said, hoping that licence was now given to be as sinful as he pleased.

‘I hope she hasn't already read them,' he said.

‘She'll never notice.'

‘You don't know my mother,' he said, and there was no concealing the anger in his voice. If his mother were to be slandered it was only he who had the right to malign her and he resented any stranger's invasion into his private battlefield. Miss Hawkins sensed she'd made a bloomer and she hastened to take his arm as her only known means of making amends.

‘You said it yourself. The other day,' she said.

And because she was right, he resented it even more. She squeezed his arm and wished she knew more about the subtleties of courtship.

They were approaching the cinema. She wondered whether she ought to make a show of paying for her ticket. She knew it was the man's job to do the paying, but she did not have the confidence to see herself as part of a pair. His paying for her
would confirm a relationship, his role as protector, and perhaps it was too soon to expect a commitment from him. So in order to avoid a possible disappointment, she began to rummage in her purse. They made for the ticket box and joined the line. He placed himself in front of her and Miss Hawkins saw that as a very hopeful move. When his turn came, he turned to her. ‘D'you like to sit upstairs or down?' he said. Upstairs was posher, she knew, and far more expensive, and not knowing what her share of it would be, she hesitated. Then, ‘Upstairs', she risked. She heard him as he instructed the cashier. ‘One circle seat,' he said. He took out a small leather purse and counted out the exact change, while Miss Hawkins fumbled frantically in her bag hoping she had enough. As she counted out her change, he stood and watched her, and even when she found herself a few pennies short, he made no move to assist her. Sadly, she withdrew a five pound note from her wallet that she was loath to break into for a few mere pennies. She counted out her change and followed him into the darkness. A torch guided them down the circle flight of stairs and as she groped for her seat, she remembered her diary's order. ‘Enjoy yourself.' She sat down and took honest stock. No, I'm not enjoying myself, she thought. She tried to ascribe his lack of courtesy to an unwillingness to commit himself, an unreadiness to play the role of consort. Yet the thought niggled her that he was just plain downright mean, and she wished she'd had more man-experience to understand whether stinginess in men was a norm. She was angry. The act of breaking into a five pound note was always depressing, but it pained her less if it were for a largish sum, at the supermarket, for instance, for a week's shopping. To break it down for the sake of a few pennies seemed an extra extravagance and she regretted that she hadn't opted for the stalls. She looked sideways at him and he smiled at her, then out of the blue, he took her hand and instantly she forgave him. He squeezed her fingers, but such sudden ardour made her suspicious. Perhaps, she thought, he was celebrating the discovery of a companion who could pay her own way. Am I enjoying myself? she thought. She longed wistfully for a red tick, but she could not in all
honesty feel that it was yet merited. She relaxed her hand in his, and decided to give him another chance. ‘Shall we have tea in a cafe afterwards?' she asked.

He nodded, his eyes on the picture. She would give him a chance to pick up the bill, and if he paid, she could sincerely tick off the diary's order. If not – she postponed thinking of that alternative and decided at least to enjoy the picture.

It was called
The Splendours of the Night
, and the titles were just creeping up on the screen. It was years since Miss Hawkins had been to the pictures. Since her acquisition of a television set, she had seen no reason to duplicate her pleasure and pay for it into the bargain and she tried not to think of the broken five pound note again.

The film now seemed to have started in earnest, for at least five minutes had passed without a printed credit. They were in a ballroom. There was old-fashioned dance music, and beautiful fancy dress, and immediately Miss Hawkins was swept into the romance and glamour of the occasion, oblivious of the man at her side. So oblivious, that she didn't notice that he let loose her hand, for he too was transported into the unknown longed-for country, and for each of them, the other had no possible part of it, for their fantasy was so extreme, it could only contain themselves. Thus, side by side, they were separately transported into a beat of life that was never ugly, never lonely, never poor, and never sick. Miss Hawkins picked on the central figure of a beautiful girl with whom to identify, and with her she would stay throughout the picture. At her side, Brian too was fixing on his dream-image and on a far less obvious target. His focus was the grandfather of that same young beauty, whose youth now throbbed vicariously at his side. The old man sat both at the summit and centre of his lineage, attended with equal fervour by his peers and his inheritors. The young nurtured and sated his carnal appetites; a single movement of a finger was enough to conscript an army to fulfil his smallest wish. And on every level, large or small, this continuous and loving service was prompted above all by respect. Brian sighed. Yes, that was his final thrust of joy. Respect, that acknowledgement that all his
life he had constantly sought, and had constantly eluded him. He blamed his mother for it, as he blamed her for everything. He had tried to understand her. Often enough he had dwelt on her past miseries, how his father had left them both, and penniless, and not a word from the brute since he had disappeared. Daily she cursed him and all his kind, and as she looked at Brian in his rompers, or school-clothing, or even later in his army uniform, she heartily wished he was a girl. But since he'd turned out like his father, then, as a man, she would use him. And gradually over the years, she made of him her surrogate husband and punished him as she would have done his prototype, had he been around. All this Brian understood in hindsight, but understanding did little to increase his tolerance or to diminish the bitterness of his feelings towards her. What worried him most was that he himself had been party to her practices, that it took two to do almost everything, including her own brand of colonisation. He bit his lips in anger, as he recalled his years of positive submission, and at that moment he resolved that when he got home there would be an end to it. That he would look after her only if she begged, and only if he had nothing better to do. Then slowly he would reverse the roles that she had insisted on. But suddenly he remembered too, that often in his life he had made that decision, but somehow, in the end, she had overcome. So he sat there gritting his false teeth with hatred, while on the screen, a young man was ushered into his presence, bowing and scraping his way into his affection.

Miss Hawkins saw in the young man her suitor, and as he was asking the old man for her hand, Brian was demanding a little more reverence before granting it. Which the suitor gave now on bended knee. But still the old man withheld his permit and Miss Hawkins curled her lip in disgust, convinced that the old lecher wanted her for himself. He was to come back in a year, the old man said, having fulfilled some impossible mission, the attempt at which would most likely entail his death. ‘Mean old thing,' Miss Hawkins whispered to her companion as the scene changed on the screen and there was an interval to daydreaming.

‘Serves him right,' Brian said, still in the ebb of his fantasy.
For Brian was relishing the aftertaste of power. ‘I don't think I want to go to a cafe afterwards,' he said, feeling a sudden need for self-assertion. But he could be persuaded, he knew. But only if she said ‘please' often enough, to the extent of begging, or even buying his favours, and he would be content. It was a negative form of self-assertion, but at least it was a beginning.

‘Oh please,' she said. ‘I do like a cup of tea. With a cream cake as well.'

‘I don't like cakes.'

‘What do you like then?'

‘I like something savoury. Welsh rarebit, or mushrooms on toast.'

‘We can have that then.'

‘I can do without it,' he said.

‘Please,' Miss Hawkins said, ‘I was so looking forward.'

‘It'll be costly,' he said.

‘I'll treat you,' Miss Hawkins almost shouted, and regretted it as soon as it was out, recalling the order in her diary to enjoy herself.

‘I'll think about it,' he said, having already made up his mind.