The Women in Black (9 page)

23

Patty had not taken note of Lisa’s extraordinary conference with Magda, although this was the sort of incident which normally elicited a sarcasm, and Fay couldn’t help noticing that generally speaking Patty wasn’t quite her usual self this Saturday morning. She had nothing whatever to say about Frank or about what they might mean to do this weekend, and that was all right, because Fay had after all had no reciprocal information to divulge about her own weekend plans, and the two women went about their work in an atmosphere of abnormal self-containment, Patty never caring what Fay might be concealing, and Fay never wondering what might be occupying the silent thoughts of Patty.

The morning had been mercifully a little cooler; there was a fresh breeze, and even now as she left to go home Patty felt the sunshine to be more pleasant than oppressive. She jumped onto her tram with a light heart: not even a Saturday morning in Ladies’ Cocktail had quite obliterated the strange sensations which had possessed her body and her mind since the events of the night before. But mingled with this pleasant and even mysterious feeling of disorientation, of translation into another element, was a shiver of fear and even of foreboding.

Frank had never before behaved quite as he had done last night; not even on their honeymoon had he so behaved; never before had Patty experienced the sensations she now so strangely experienced; never before had she sat on a bench in the tram feeling that she had just been allowed to learn a secret—but a secret so rare that there were no words for it, so rare that it was never mentioned or even alluded to, so rare that it might be the sole property of her and Frank. And the thought that it might be their sole property was one of its fearsome aspects, for they had never shared a secret before: this secret placed them in a different relationship with each other.

Patty did not articulate all this to herself as fully as it has been articulated here, but it was nonetheless articulated at some level of apprehension effectively enough for her now to be able to feel, and with justification, that it would be fearful, as well as exciting, to see Frank again—Frank alert and conscious, Frank awakened once more from the deep sleep in which she had left him this morning to come in to work. What would he do, what would he say? This would be their first fresh encounter in this new secret-sharing world.

Patty walked home from the tram stop in a dizzy state of mingled desire and apprehension, and as she opened her front door she felt her heart beating loudly.

The house was possessed by a silence which seemed in the circumstances awesome, and for a terrible moment Patty expected Frank suddenly to spring at her like a monster from behind a piece of furniture. But where, at this time of all times, was he? Could he really have gone out now, could he really at this time of all times have left her to return to an empty house, to his entire absence, have left her to experience by herself this strangeness, this solitary possession of their shared secret? It could hardly be possible. She glanced into the bedroom: it too was empty; the bed was unmade.

She went slowly, still astounded and marvelling, into the kitchen; then she proceeded by ever slower steps to make a complete tour of the house. It shunned her with its silence; she and it were quite alone. She returned to the kitchen and sat, dully wondering, as the sensation of strange pleasure drained away from her, leaving only the sensation of fear, and when by the dinner hour Frank had not appeared, the sensation of fear began to take on vivid and dreadful life, and to create vivid and dreadful shapes in her imagination. By the time she went to bed she felt stunned, except that, busily in her mind, these vivid and dreadful shapes sported and played.

24

The water in the Harbour had turned dark blue by the time Magda returned to the fl at: the afternoon was dying, sweetly, gently, as it does at that latitude. Stefan offered to make some tea.

‘Did you have a nice walk?’ asked Rudi, who appeared to have settled in for the evening. ‘Shall we go to a concert? There is a chamber music recital at the Con.’

‘You and your culture,’ said Magda. ‘I feel like a film. Let us not decide now. I must telephone Lisa’s mother to tell her that her daughter is safely en route, our walk took us further than was planned, she may be anxious.’

She went into the bedroom to telephone and returned a few minutes later.

‘How strange,’ she said. ‘She does not seem to know the name of her own child; “Lesley” she pronounces it. This Australian speech is very bizarre.’

‘Yes, not the English I should care to hear my own children speak I must say,’ said Rudi.

‘Which is an imminent problem,’ said Stefan to Magda. ‘Rudi here has been telling me that he wishes to marry.’

‘Of course you do,’ said Magda, ‘why not? But all in good time. At the moment you are still looking for a girlfriend, not to mention a fl at.’

‘To tell you the truth,’ said Rudi, ‘I am looking for a girlfriend suitable for elevation to the position of wife. I wish to marry soon. I am tired of the junket of girlfriends: I want to settle down.’

‘I can’t think of a single one of our friends who is the right age, or who has a daughter of the right age either,’ said Magda. ‘You may have to arrange this matter yourself, God knows how.’

‘I am not fussy,’ said Rudi.

‘No, you will only want a beauty, less than thirty years old, cultivated, if not also rich; it should be quite easy,’ said Stefan.

‘Certainly I want a beauty,’ said Rudi, ‘the age is less important. Cultivated—well—I have heard that there is such a thing—’ ‘What do you take us for?’ said Stefan. ‘Naturally we are cultivated, we reffos, we are famous for it, or rather notorious, it is one of our most despicable qualities.’

‘Oh, you have misunderstood me!’ said Rudi. ‘I am not looking for a reffo; I have decided to marry an Australian.’

‘You must be mad!’ cried Magda. ‘What do you imagine she will want with you? An Australian. The cultivated ones are anyway all either married, or else they have gone away.’

‘Gone away?’ asked Rudi. ‘Where have they gone?’

‘They go away to London, sometimes Paris or even Rome,’ said Stefan. ‘You will hardly ever find one here; if you do she is saving her fare to London, I can guarantee it.’

‘Well then,’ said Rudi, ‘I will take an uncultivated one and cultivate her myself. I should enjoy that.’

‘Psssht,’ said Magda. ‘Leave the poor girl alone. She is happy as she is.’

‘Do you really think so Magda?’ asked Rudi. ‘Be honest. Did you ever see such—’ ‘As a matter of fact, no,’ said Magda. ‘I am afraid you are quite right. Very well, you wish to meet an Australian, uncultivated, you will make her happy, or happier, perhaps cultivated too. It is all quite simple.’

‘A nice, strong, healthy Australian girl. Some of them are very beautiful,’ said Rudi. ‘Haven’t you noticed? That is what I would like.’

Stefan laughed.

‘Oddly enough,’ he said, ‘we know no one of this description, no one at all.’

‘This is true,’ agreed Magda.

And then she was struck by a thought.

‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘this is
not
true. I do know such a one. She is about thirty or less, she is not quite beautiful, but not bad, her
maquillage
is terrible of course and she has no style, but she is strong and healthy as far as one can see, and now I think about it I must say she has by no means the air of a woman in love.’

‘I am very desirous of meeting her,’ said Rudi. ‘Do please arrange it.’

‘I’ll see,’ said Magda. ‘I do not know whether you deserve her. I’ll see. Now, shall we go to see a film, or not? Let us decide.’

And they began to argue the pros and cons of the available films, and the chamber music programme, as the darkness swiftly fell.

25

It was almost six o’clock when Lisa at last reached home. She burst through the back door, still glittering with the elation of the afternoon, to find her mother standing at the sink peeling potatoes.

‘Hello Mum!’ she cried. ‘Look!’ and she smiled like a film star and whirled around on the spot.

Her mother regarded her with a face like a hot-cross bun.

‘I should think I would just look!’ she said. ‘I should think I would. Now perhaps you’ll tell me what on earth you’ve been up to. I’ve had a telephone call from that Magda you’ve been with, Mrs Zombie-something, who rang to say you were on your way home, and she doesn’t even seem to know your name! Maybe it’s her funny accent, but she tried to tell me—me!—your name is
Lisa.
Imagine!

And here you are so late home, and where are your glasses? Did you leave them behind? And why are you so late? You told me you’d be home at four o’clock. I don’t know what to think!’

Lisa’s elation vanished in the moment and she sat down suddenly on a nearby chair. She took her glasses from her bag and put them on the kitchen table, and sat hunched over, thinking. Then she took the lipstick from her bag, and opened the case. It was an expensive kind, in a heavy gold metal container; the colour was called ‘Angel’s Kiss’. She painted her lips, and then she held out the lipstick.

‘Magda gave me this,’ she said. ‘Would you like to try it? It tastes nice, too.’

She pressed her lips together.

‘She gave me this, too,’ she added, pulling at her belt. ‘Do you like it?’

Her mother stared at her, speechless.

‘I’m sorry I was late, Mum,’ Lisa continued, ‘but we went for a walk, and it took longer than I thought it would. We looked at all the houses, and Magda talked about Slovenia. That’s where she comes from. And then I had to walk up to Spit Road, and the tram didn’t come for ages. I’m sorry, honestly.’

‘I don’t know what to think, Lesley,’ said her mother. ‘I’ve never seen you like this before. I don’t know what to think.’

‘There’s nothing
to
think,’ said Lisa. ‘But Mum, I wish you’d call me Lisa, too. That’s what they all call me at Goode’s. I told them that was my name. It’s on the form and everything.’

‘It’s what!’ exclaimed Mrs Miles. ‘It’s what! What do you mean? Your name is Lesley!’

‘But I don’t like it,’ said the girl. ‘I want to be Lisa. And I will be. And I am!’

And she burst into tears at the same moment as her horrified and overwrought mother began to weep. The two women cried separately for a minute, and then Lisa looked up. Mrs Miles was wiping her eyes on her apron.

‘Lisa,’ she said, ‘Lisa. How do you think it feels to have your own child telling you she wants a different name? You’ve always been Lesley to me, you always will be. What’s wrong with Lesley?

It’s a lovely name. Lisa. It’s like a slap in the face. Perfect strangers—’ ‘Magda’s not a perfect stranger, she’s my friend,’ said Lisa.

‘Some friend!’ cried Mrs Miles. ‘I don’t even know her!’

‘Well, that’s not my fault,’ said Lisa. ‘She’s still my friend, and so is Stefan.’

‘Who’s Stefan?’ asked Mrs Miles, alarmed.

‘Only Magda’s husband,’ said Lisa.

She thought she had better not mention Rudi just now.

‘He’s very nice. We talked about books. And I’m going to their New Year’s Eve party too,
if you’ll let me.
Magda said I had to ask your permission.’

‘I should think so!’ said Mrs Miles.

She looked down at the linoleum; secretly she was somewhat mollified by this piece of Slovenian politesse.

‘I’ll see,’ she said. ‘But Lisa! Lisa! How could you do such a thing? To change your name like that, and not a word to me. It’s so sly.’

‘Oh Mum,’ said Lisa. ‘I didn’t mean to be sly, I didn’t. I just wanted—I wanted a real girl’s name. Lesley is a
boy’s
name.’

‘It’s a girl’s name too,’ said her mother. ‘It’s spelt differently for a boy.’

‘But it sounds the same,’ said Lisa, ‘that’s what counts. I wanted a proper girl’s name, for when I grew up. I’ve been a child for so long now; I want to be grown up.’

‘Oh Lesley—’ said her mother, ‘Lisa. If you only knew what being grown up can be like, you wouldn’t want to do it any faster than you have to.’

‘Oh Mum,’ said Lisa, suddenly appalled, and she got up and went over to her mother and they put their arms around each other.

Mrs Miles’s eyes had filled again with tears which began to slide down her cheeks.

‘Please don’t cry, Mum,’ said Lisa.

‘Oh dear, I don’t know what to think,’ sobbed Mrs Miles. ‘I suppose I always knew I’d lose you one day, I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon!’

And she wept more loudly.

‘Mum, Mum,
please
don’t cry,’ said Lisa, on the verge herself of fresh tears. ‘You haven’t
lost
me, you aren’t
losing
me: you’ll never lose me. You’re my mother, how could you lose me? I’ll stay with you
always.

’ ‘Now Lesley, Lisa, you know you can’t say that,’ said her mother, wiping her eyes again. ‘You’ll marry, or you’ll go away, even go abroad—all the girls do that now. You can’t stay with me always, can you? It wouldn’t be right. I’m just being selfish, I suppose.’

‘No, you’re not,’ said Lisa. ‘But even if I marry or go away, you’ll still be my mother, and I’ll always see you, often.’

‘I hope so,’ said Mrs Miles.

They glimpsed the long prospect before them and turned their eyes away from its impossibly mysterious and even tragic vistas.

‘Just try to be a good girl, Lesley,’ said her mother. ‘That’s what matters.’

‘Of
course
I will,’ said Lisa. ‘You can go on calling me Lesley if you like,’ she added.

Her mother now at last smiled.

‘I’ll see,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to see what I think. I might manage to call you Lisa sometimes, if you’re very good. It depends.’

They both laughed and let go of each other.

‘But right now I’d better get on with my potatoes,’ said Mrs Miles, turning back to the sink.

As she did so, she looked at Lisa from the corner of her eye. The girl was leaning over the kitchen table, retrieving her glasses and the lipstick and her handbag, and Mrs Miles was struck by the feminine grace of her form, set off by the wide leather belt.

‘You know, that belt looks really nice,’ she said. ‘It must be a very good one. Magda was very kind to give it to you, it must have been very expensive. I hope you thanked her for it properly.’

Lisa smiled brilliantly.

‘Of
course
I did,’ she said. ‘
And
for the lipstick. Do you want to try it now?’

‘I will later,’ said her mother. ‘It’s a very nice colour, it looks very nice on you. I must say you do look very nice: Magda must like you, to go to so much trouble.’

‘Well, I suppose so,’ said Lisa, uncertainly.

‘But I can’t think why,’ said Mrs Miles.

‘No, me neither,’ said Lisa, ‘a horrible girl like me.’

‘Well, you’re still growing up,’ said her mother. ‘You’ve got a bit of time. You might be quite nice in a few years. We’ll have to see. Right now I want you to sit down and shell those peas for me.’

‘So can I go to the party?’ asked Lisa.

‘I’ll see,’ said Mrs Miles. ‘Just shell the peas first, and I’ll think about it.’

There was silence for a time, and then she was heard to say, half to herself, ‘
Lisa.
I never.’