Ten Tales Tall and True (5 page)

“How many women have made you feel the same way?” demands Vlasta, then sees Lillian is sobbing. Vlasta places a hand on her shoulder and says hoarsely, “Yes weep, weep little Lillian. I wept when I came here. YOU have not wept yet!” she tells Alan accusingly.

“And I'm not going to,” he declares, sitting up and wriggling down to the bed-foot on Lillian's side. He hesitates then says awkwardly, “Lillian, I haven't had time to tell you this before but I love you. I love you.”

He looks at Vlasta and says, “I don't love you at all. Not one bit. But since you don't love me either I don't know why you're so keen to crush me.”

“You deserve to be crushed, Alan,” says Lillian in a sad remote voice. He wriggles close to her
pleading: “I honestly don't think so! I've been selfish, greedy, stupid and I told Vlasta a lot of lies but I never tried to hurt anyone – not even for fun. My main fault was trying to please too many people at the same time, and believe me it would never have happened if only you had been punctual Lillian…”

In order to see her face he stands up and shatters the figurine under foot. The women also stand and look down at the fragments.

Slowly he kneels, lifts the two biggest fragments and holds them unbelievingly at eye-level. He places them carefully on the floor again, his mouth turning down sharply at the corners, then lies flat again on the bed. Lillian sits beside him, supporting herself with an arm across his body. She says sadly, “I'm sorry that happened, Alan.”

“Are you sympathizing?” cries Vlasta scornfully.

“I'm afraid so. He's crying, you see.”

“You do not think these tears are real?”

Lillian touches his cheek with a fingertip, licks the tip, touches the cheek again and holds out her finger to Vlasta saying, “Yes, they are. Taste one.” Vlasta sits down too, presses Lillian's hand to her lips, keeps it there. Vlasta says, “What beautiful fingers you have – soft and small and shapely.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I'm more than a little butch, you know. How else could I have given myself to a thing like
THAT?”

But Lillian is tired of this game and pulls her fingers away.

And leans closer to Alan, lays her hand gently on his neck and murmurs, “I'm sure Archibald Shanks has made hundreds of little statues. You can always get another.”

In a muffled voice he says, “'Snot just that. I've ruined everything between you and me, you and me.

Lillian says, “I don't hate you, Alan,” and snuggles closer. Vlasta, watching them, feels excluded again, but knows anger and denunciation will exclude her even more. She also feels a softening toward Alan. Is it pity? No, it is certainly not pity, she has no pity for men and enjoys destroying them, especially smart manipulators like Alan. But when you have knocked such a man down, and don't want to go away and be lonely, what can you do but help set him up again, like a skittle?

“I too cannot exactly hate you Alan,” she says, snuggling close to his other side. And he, with heartfelt gratitude, thanks God he is home again.

In her mid-twenties she does not move or dress attractively so only looks handsome when still, like now. She sprawls on floor, arms folded on seat of the easy chair she uses as desk. Pencil in hand, notepad under it, she studies open book propped against chairback: the one book in a room whose furnishings show only that the users are neither poor nor rich. This a room to lodge, not live in, unless your thoughts are often elsewhere. She frowns, writes a sentence, scores it out, frowns and writes another. A vertical crease between dark eyebrows is the only line on her face.

A door opens so she puts cushion over book
and notepad then sits back on heels, watching a man enter. Ten years older than she he wears good tweed overcoat and looks about in worried way muttering, “Keys. Forgot keys.”

“There!” she says, pointing. He takes keys from top of sound-deck, returns toward door but pauses near her asking, “What did you hide under the cushion?”

“Nothing.”

“Don't be silly.”

“Why not look and see?”

“Thanks. I will.”

He grasps cushion, hesitates, pleads: “Do you mind if I look?”

“Oh look look look!” she cries, standing up, “I can't stop you. It's your cushion. It's your room.” He moves cushion, lifts book and turns to the title page:
The Pursuit of the Millennium, a Study of Revolutionary Anarchism in the Middle Ages
. “Very clever,” he murmurs, and puts the book where he found it and settles on a sofa, hands clasped between knees. This depressed attitude angers her. Looking down on him she speaks with insulting distinctness. “Shall I tell you what's in the battered green suitcase under our bed? Sidney's
Arcadia
. Milton's
Paradise Lost
. Wordsworth's
Prelude
. And a heap of notes for a thesis on the British epic.”

He sighs. She walks up and down then says, “You'd better hurry, you'll be late for the office.”

“What office?” he asks, astonished.

“Wherever you work between nine and five.”

“You know nothing about my life,” he tells her sharply, “Or have you been reading my letters?”

“Nobody writes to you.”

“Good! When I go through that door each morning I become a mystery. Maybe I don't need to work. Maybe each morning I go to see my mistress. My other mistress!”

“Then you'd better hurry or you'll be late for your other mistress.”

But he does not move.

She sits, tries to read her book, fails and puts it down.

“Listen,” she says in a softer voice, “I know men hate clever women. I've known it since I was twelve. But we've got on well together. Forget I'm clever. I won't remind you.”

“I'm not depressed because you're clever. I saw you were deep from the moment we met. I'm depressed because now I know what happens in your head. Next time you frown I'll think, ‘Damn! She's worrying about her thesis.'”

“Why damn? Why will it upset you?”

“Because I'll feel obliged to say something cheerful and reassuring.”

“Do you really resent making ordinary, friendly little remarks?”

“Yes.”

“What a selfish attitude! Anyway, you couldn't reassure me on my thesis. You're too ignorant.”

He stares at her. She blushes and says, “Sorry. You've no books and I take books too seriously. You're probably as clever in your own way as I am, what do you do for a living?”

“I won't tell you.”

“Why?”

“If you get to know me well you'll despise me.”

“Why? Are you in advertising?”

“Certainly not. But familiarity breeds contempt.”

“Not always.”

“Yes always!”

She rises and walks about saying, “Our friendship has taken a steep turn for the worse in the last five minutes and it's not my fault.”

He sighs then asks, “Were you ever married? Or (because it comes to the same thing) did you ever live long with someone?”

“No. But men have lived with me.”

“Long?”

She thinks for a moment. Her last lover was an exciting young man whose work and opinions, good looks and quick speech sometimes got him asked onto television shows. He needed a lot of admiration and support. She had easily supplied these until she found he was also the lover of her close friend and flat-mate, then she noticed he was an emotional leech who had stopped her investigating Chaucer's debt to Langland for over a month. She says grimly, “Far too long.”

“Then you know about lack of privacy. We start
sharing a bed and some rooms and meals which is fun at first, even convenient. Then we start sharing our thoughts and feelings and end in the shit. Have you noticed how cheerful I am in the morning?”

“I hear you singing in the lavatory.”

“Does it annoy you?”

“A bit, but I can ignore it.”

“You couldn't ignore it if you knew me well. My wife couldn't ignore it. If I sang or whistled or hummed she said I gave her a headache, so I crushed the melody in my bosom and became as miserable as she was. She was always very quiet in the morning. She got brighter in the evening, but not the early evening. I would come home from work and find her brooding. It was very strange. I knew that if I left her alone she would brighten eventually, but I couldn't. I found her black moods as much a pain as she found my cheerful ones. I would try nagging her into happiness: ask what was wrong then explain it was unimportant. Whenever we weren't equally bright or equally dull we nagged each other till we were equally miserable. All our conversations became wrestling bouts, like this one.”

“This one?”

“This is our first real conversation and you've already called me selfish and ignorant. That nearly floored me.”

“You started it.”

“Yes guilty! Guilty! I'm like an alcoholic who can keep off his poison for weeks but after one sip
can't stop till he's flat on his back. I've moaned to you about my marriage, I've started telling you about my bad habits, if you don't shut me up you'll soon know about my childhood, schooling, how I make my money…”

“Are you a hit-man for the Mafia?”

“Don't be silly. When I've cut myself into small pieces and handed them to you on a tray I'll get you to start talking.”

She says shortly, “I don't like talking about myself.”

“I know, but talk is the most infectious disease in the world. In a week or month or year we'll know each other thoroughly. You'll no longer be the lovely stranger who approached me in the singles bar, the mysterious she who shares my bed and breakfast. I'll have turned you into what we all are, basically – a pain in the arse with a case history behind it.”

She laughs at that. Despite his words he is excited, almost cheerful, and watches her closely.

She sits down beside him, elbow on knee, chin on clenched fist. He lays an arm carefully round her shoulder but a slight shrug tells him she doesn't want that so he withdraws the arm. She is thinking that the trouble with his wife was probably sexual. In bed he leaves most of the initiatives to her. She does not mind this because though her last lover was more exciting he wanted applause for his performances and she
found this exhausting. Does the man beside her think the last fortnight (the most restful and productive fortnight of her life) has been romantic adventure? Someone who can say I crushed the melody in my bosom without irony is almost certainly romantic. In a low voice she asks, “Do you really think me what you said? Lovely – mysterious?”

“I've managed it so far. You've been the greatest thing in my life since wee Moody.”

“Wee Moody?”

“She visited me when I'd done too many things in too short a time. The doctor ordered a week of complete rest so I sent the wife and kids away for a holiday, unplugged the phone and stayed in bed doing nothing but doze, watch the box and eat food out of tins. The privacy was wonderful. On the second day a cat ran in when I opened the door for the milk. She was a neat little thing with a smooth black coat but hungry, so I fed her. When I returned to bed she came and curled in the hollow behind my knees. I liked to stroke and pat her, she was so graceful and … suave. When she wanted out she patted the door with her paw and I let her out, but she came in again next morning with the milk. We kept company for nearly a week without nagging or bullying each other. That was the happiest time of my life, before I met you.”

“Thank you. What became of her?”

“When the kids came home they adopted her – they saw more of her than I did when I returned to
work. When the family left me they took her with them.”

“A pity. You wouldn't need me if she had stayed.”

“Nonsense! You're a woman with arms, legs et cetera, the whole female works. You're much nicer to me than wee Moody ever was.”

She gets up and walks away. Strong feelings stop her speaking: amusement, pity, despair and anger. Anger is uppermost. She forces it down, hearing him say, “Our friendship is entering a new phase, isn't it?”

“No!” she tells him, turning, “It had better not. I agree with you about talk. Words do more harm than good if they aren't in a poem or play, and even plays have caused riots. Let's switch on the silence again. We came together because like most mammals we can't bear sleeping alone. You find me fascinating because you don't know me. I like living here because you're clean, gentle, undemanding, and don't interest me at all. Have I floored you?”

He nods, his mouth open and face paler than usual. She laughs and says, “Don't worry! I'll pick you up. I'm your mistress, not your cat. I've got arms.” She lifts keys off the top of the sound-deck where he has dropped them again, puts them in his coat pocket, grasps his hands and pulls. He sighs and stands.

“Kiss me!” she says. He doesn't so she kisses him hard until his lips yield.