Turn Us Again (11 page)

But some devil prompted her to mention Philip's name whenever Sam infuriated her, which was not infrequently. ‘Philip would not do that' or even ‘This wouldn't happen if I were with Philip.' At first Sam reacted with amused condescension.

“Who the hell cares whether Philip would do it or not, since he's not here? No doubt a good many people wouldn't do it.”

But then he began to ask her whether she liked Philip, and how much, and depending on her mood she would answer truthfully or coquettishly. Sam took everything she said at face value and was hurt by her casual, “He is very good-looking.” His relationship with Philip started to change, especially when the three of them were together. Everything was fine if Sam was part of the central conversation, exchanging witticisms with Philip or engaging in pleasant love play with Anne. But if he was shut out of the flow of conversation, or if Anne and Philip sat too close together and exchanged too many jollities, he would lapse into silence and watch them morosely.

Anne couldn't help but find the situation enjoyable. It suited the flirtatious parts of her nature, and she felt beautiful when she was alone with the two men. Most of the time it seemed obvious to her that Sam was her true love and Philip a pleasant diversion, but when Philip invested special meaning in the looks he bestowed on her above Sam's head, or dropped his beautiful blue eyes in distress when Sam touched her, she felt a rush of pleasure. When she tried to think about it, which wasn't often as it took so much energy, she knew that Philip's feelings for her were superficial and that Sam loved her truly. But that did not stop her writing:

Dearest debauched humane Philip. Dearest Sam, the coarsest and finest, the most sensitive and bestial of them all. Oh God, still my longing; grant me Sam, Philip, and every damn thing.

Once important issues such as booze had been sorted out, the venue question delayed the long-awaited party even longer. There were six other nurses finishing their general training at the same time, so the party would be large. After much negotiation they decided to host it in a private back room of their favourite pub, so that the party could continue after the pub closed. This involved some strenuous budgeting over several pay cheques, but the anticipated day finally arrived. Sam had asked if he could bring his brother Daniel, and Anne rejoiced at the prospect of meeting a member of his family. The trusty John Drake was coming, ousted but not yet defeated by Sam, and of course Philip.

Anne spent a good deal of time in front of the mirror in her blue woolen dress, holding up various beads, belts, sashes and scarves to explore the limits of its capacity for change. Finally she broke down and went shopping. The result was splendid. Whether it was her heightened pleasure at wearing a new dress or the beauty of the dress itself, which sported a daring neckline, she looked lovely and felt confident.

She sailed into the back room of the pub like a queen, rewarded by the attention of many admirers and a line-up of dancing partners too numerous to remember. She danced and drank and felt mad with happiness. At some point Sam touched her arm and introduced her to his brother, a tall, plain young man with a stupendous nose.

“We've met!” Anne laughed in happy recognition. “You're a doctor at the hospital. We worked together a couple of times during my general training. We almost went out for a drink once. Isn't that amazing! What a small world.”

Daniel looked down at her from his great height. “Possibly we met at the hospital, though I have no recollection of it. I don't think I asked you out.” And he smiled as if to say, ‘the idea'!

Sam turned to her in astonishment, “Why did you imagine he asked you out?”

Anne knew perfectly well he had asked her out, but she was embarrassed by his denial and did not want to argue about such a trivial matter.

“Perhaps I am mistaken,” she murmured and turned away, unwilling to think about the motives behind this strange behaviour. She was halfway to the dance floor when Sam caught her by the arm, “This isn't another lie, is it? Why did you say he had asked you out?”

“I remember he did, that's all.”

Sam gazed at her face, perplexed, “I never know whether you're telling the truth. I never understand the reason for your untruths.”

Anne shook him off. ‘Your brother is the liar,' she thought to herself, ‘but I don't brood about his reasons all evening like you do.' And off she flounced. The compliments flowing in her direction along with the wine dissipated the small cloud. It was just another little misunderstanding in the baffling sea upon which lovers were, apparently, tossed endlessly.

At some point in the evening, people in various stages of inebriation got on a makeshift stage and began to bang spoons against glasses. As soon as they caught a reasonable percentage of the room's attention they embarked on funny anecdotes and speeches. Anne stiffened to attention when Daniel climbed on an overturned beer crate.

“I've got a funny one about my brother — Gullible Sam Golden — wave your hand Sammy so we can all see you! He was in this race at school with two other boys, called Foster and Trent, and Sam was determined not to come in last. He didn't give a bugger about first, but it was essential to avoid the ignominy of coming last. He wasn't a bad runner, and there were only two combatants, so he ran along cheerfully enough, just ahead of the third boy. As he rounded the last corner and came abreast of the mass of onlookers he heard them yell at him, ‘Faster, faster!' He was so amazed and touched by this unexpected encouragement that tears sprang to his eyes. He started running his valiant best, goaded onto ever greater efforts as he gained on the first boy and the screams of ‘faster, faster' redoubled. He flew past the leader and pounded towards the finishing line, winning a brilliant first. In fact, the audience was yelling the name of his rival, ‘Foster' all along.”

There were laughs and claps on the backs of both Sam and Daniel, while Anne crept to Sam's side and placed her hand in his. There was something in the story that made her feel tender and protective towards him. He was so innocent, so different from the suave, accomplished Philip, or even Daniel. Sam never lied. In some ways he was so simple.

Daniel saw her and beckoned her away, leaning towards her confidentially.

“Sam is an exceptionally good person, you know. A moral force.”

Anne was relieved to see that Daniel didn't intend to revisit the question of whether he had invited her out or not. This almost, but not quite, emboldened her enough to ask if he really didn't remember.

“There is something noble about Sam,” Daniel continued. “We all look up to him in our family. He is better than we are.”

Anne drank in this praise about him with pleasure and was, as always, swayed by the truth that the moment contained. The innocence depicted in the Foster story was fresh in her mind. Maybe he was a moral force, a man to be revered. There was that in him.

“You are an important girlfriend for Sam. As any first girlfriend would be, for a passionate young bull like him,” he smiled at her, and she smiled back, ignoring the suggestion that any woman would have been an equally important ‘first.'

“He has told me that you are a spiritual being, and when I asked him why he thought so, he described how you sit at his feet and gaze at him when he talks to you about literature or spirituality. I'm not sure those are sure signs of a spiritual nature, myself. I see you dancing with other men, flirting with everybody. And why not? You're young, pretty. But an inappropriate partner for Sam.”

‘Who do you think you are' Anne thought, but continued to smile at him.

“Apart from any of the more obvious incompatibilities, he can never marry out of the faith. Never.”

“He doesn't seem very religious to me,” Anne said mildly, though a tight band of anger had formed around her chest and she felt like slapping him across the face.

“It's not about whether you keep kosher or not, it's about family and tradition and history. It would kill our mother, whom he loves very much. I am not exaggerating; I think she would die from the betrayal. You cannot understand.”

“I must get back to my other guests,” Anne said as coldly as she could. She went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on hot cheeks. ‘This is my evening,' she thought, ‘and I shall enjoy it. It's a shame that Sam's brother seems to disapprove of me, but that's not about me at all, it's about him.' She dried her face and said defiantly to the mirror, “Sam hasn't shown any great love for his mother to me — au contraire.”

By four in the morning some of the guests had staggered home to their beds, but a good portion still sat slumped on the chairs and the floor. Dancing had been rejected as too energetic a form of passing the time several hours ago. They chatted in a desultory fashion. Sometimes a challenging subject would come up, but nobody had the energy to pursue it for very long. Some enterprising chap had scoured the streets of Cambridge for food, and had returned bearing fresh bread, cheese and olives. The famished company fell on this and pronounced it delicious. Some insisted it was the best meal they had ever eaten and lingered on the last bites.

Anne made a cheese sandwich topped with olives, which she cut into little pieces and took to the sofa, blending the taste with small sips from a large glass of cider perched on the sofa's arm. John Drake was sitting at her feet on a little stool, focusing on the chewing movement of her mouth (was he hungry?) and saying something about money.

“If people sneered at American money their economy would just collapse. It is when acquiring money is rated as the number one priority in life that standards are skewed and men are judged not by their worth, but by the contents of their pockets. Do you follow me, my dear?”

“I agree with you one hundred per cent.” Anne finished her meal and lit a cigarette luxuriously, leaning back and smiling down on John's dear, serious face. Anti-American rants were frequent among the students.

“I don't think I've ever met an American who wasn't vulgar. They are all products of their culture's unhealthy obsession with money. Have you ever met a decent American?”

“I'm not sure I have ever met an American at all, John. I do value your opinion, so let me ask you this: if I sometimes wish that I had a bit more money myself, is that also contemptible? I don't obsess about it or anything, but does the desire alone make me vulgar?”

John leaned towards her. “You, vulgar? My dear Anne, the desire to have the wherewithal to buy a pretty dress or two does not make you vulgar.”

Nobody was close enough to overhear the unoffending gist of John's conversation, but there might have been something in his posture as he leaned towards Anne that betrayed his genuine affection. Sam, who had appeared to be asleep on the floor some distance away, leapt to his feet and aimed a kick at John's midriff. John, taken by surprise, sprawled on the floor.

Everybody else in the room froze. After a moment, some men began to inch closer to Sam, in case restraint would be necessary.

John picked himself up and said with great dignity, “You'll be sorry for that one day, Samuel.”

Sam didn't reply, just stood there looking at him. ‘Stupidly,' Anne thought, ‘like a huge, shaggy, stupid bear.' John turned and left the room.

SIX

‘H
ow important is this person to you?' Mary had written, and Anne stalked downstairs to the sitting room, where she could always be certain of company. Louise and Greta were sitting on either side of the fire, extending bread speared on the ends of pokers towards the fire.

“There is no point in asking my mother anything. She is incapable of giving a straight answer.”

A corner of Greta's bread burst into flame and she jerked it back. “Why does my toast always burn, while yours ends up golden brown? I hate burnt toast.”

“My mother always told me burnt toast makes your hair curl,” Anne said.

Greta's hair was ramrod straight, rejecting the appellation ‘full' even when it was back-combed to a frizz. “Oh right, I did it on purpose to get curly hair. Louise is more careful, I suppose, because she already sports kinky hair.”

Louise complacently turned her toast around to bronze the other side.

“I asked my mother how she would feel about a Jewish son-in-law, and she wrote back asking how important Sam is to me. Why can't she just tell me what she feels?”

“Maybe her feelings are dependent on yours. If you love him, she's happy,” said Louise.

“In other words, she would prefer me to marry a Protestant with a similar background, but if I love this man, then that's enough for her?”

“Why are you telling your mother about Sam now? You would have told me if he'd asked you to marry him.”

“You would have told all of us, repeatedly,” Greta interjected, inspecting the second side of her toast, which was an odd grey colour, though it had escaped incineration.

“I suppose I wanted to discover whether my mother would support any partner I chose, or whether she feels parents should have a say in marriage matters. Her letter proves that she won't interfere. It's out of date for parents to have marital expectations for their children, or oppose interracial marriages.”

“Like Sam's family, who are determined that he marry within the faith?”

“Yes! It's hard to imagine a brilliant Cambridge student linked to such close-mindedness. No chance of a bit of toast, is there?”

A delicious smell permeated the room as Louise smeared half of her weekly butter ration over her golden toast. “If you make the tea, I'll toast you the next bit.”

The kettle was already boiling, and Anne dropped a teabag into the teapot and poured the water over it. She pulled down her own jar of rationed sugar and hesitated. It would be rude to offer her own sugar to Louise and withhold it from Greta. On the other hand she did not want to divvy up her precious sugar. She snatched Greta's sugar jar and measured out two spoonfuls into her own jar with such nervous speed that some spilled on the counter. It would be so embarrassing to be caught.

“I should appreciate my family and the fact that they let me do whatever I want, even if it breaks their hearts,” she said as she re-entered the room.

Greta laughed. “You're like a pendulum, swinging from annoyance that your family never gives a straight answer, to approval. Poor things, they can't tell you what they think because it might cramp your freedom. Oh my, are you giving us both your sugar? How generous.”

Anne blushed, bowing her head in acknowledgement of her generosity at the same time. Louise looked at her with a half-smile. “You should try to understand Sam and his background as well, so you don't get resentful. It's a different culture.”

“Illuminate us,” Greta said with a slight sneer, “about different cultures.”

“I can't, unfortunately. I was brought up by a nice English family just like you.”

Anne gave her a kiss, “You do illuminate me, all the same.”

They all jumped as the door banged and Sam strode into the room, stopping midway and putting his hand over his heart. “Is there any smell as wonderful as toast, butter and tea?”

A chair was placed near the fire and Sam proceeded to finish off their combined rations of butter and sugar. ‘I'll bring over all my rations,' he kept promising between bites, while they removed anxious gazes from their disappearing butter pats. ‘You can divide all my butter and sugar between the two of you. Anne, you will have to do without. You finish off my meat rations every week, and no doubt the meat rations of a number of young Cambridge gents, eh my dear?”

Anne did not look at him.

They were compensated for his voracious appetite by the appearance of an entire carton of cigarettes, which he shared out among them. Then he tucked Anne's hand through his arm and bore her up to the bedroom, where he tried to pull her beside him on the bed. She resisted, and sat on a little chair close by.

“Please lie down beside me. My body is not complete without its other half.”

“I will not. Your behaviour at the party was too disgusting to talk about. I'm very angry.”

“If there had been a woman looking at me the way John was looking at you…”

“I've already said I don't want to discuss it. We were talking about American vulgarity, for your information. Shame on you!”

Sam catapulted off the bed and kneeled before Anne, placing his huge curly head in her lap. “I am ashamed, because I was drunk and the brute in me escaped. I couldn't bear the way he was looking at you. His chin was almost resting on your knee, for God's sake. You smiled and leaned towards him so he could see the shadow between your breasts — I could not stand it! I love you to distraction. Am I your man or not?”

“My man must always control the brute in him, else he shan't be my man for very long. Do I make myself clear? I will not tolerate that sort of behaviour.”

Sam raised his head and looked into her eyes. “But I am a brute, my dear. Most men are. We struggle to control it, but essentially we are animals protecting our mates against other males. Drink weakens the human veneer binding our brutishness, and out it comes. Shall you leave me, because I am man?”

“John wouldn't behave like that!' Anne exclaimed.

Sam rose to his feet and bunched his arms into fists. “Is John as much a man as me?”

Anne started to laugh, he looked so childish trying to enlarge his biceps. But as her eyes travelled the length of his body her laughter stopped short.

He was a man.

Sam threw himself on the bed and patted the covers. Slowly, Anne came to the bed and lay down beside him. He pressed himself against her, and warmth pulsed through her body. “Move away Sam,” she said. “You can hold my hand.”

They lay side by side on the bed, smoking. The cigarette calmed the delightful betrayal of Anne's body, and she smiled to think how easily she could hide her desire from Sam. And how unable he was to hide his.

As the cigarettes burned lower Sam moved closer, and she felt the need to renew the conversation about the party, to preempt further manifestations of his passion. Should she mention the conversation she had had with his brother? Perhaps not — Sam had chosen to believe Daniel when he denied asking her out. This still stung, but she had no idea how to raise the subject without fragmenting the fragile happiness between their entwined fingers on the bed. Instead, she asked him to tell her more about his family, aware even as she did so that even this request could result in an argument. But Sam smiled and closed his eyes in a ruminating sort of way, lulled into a feeling of security and love by the soft body against his.

“I judge my family as if they are not a part of me. I see a big, strong, nouveau riche family from a limited background. I feel contempt for their lack of education, for their obsession with money. They think of nothing but money. Today, I cannot bear to spend an hour in my mother's company. Yet I am frightened to death of her.”

“Surely she adores you,” Anne whispered. She felt the hesitation in her own voice, and it irritated her. Was it because he spoke so well that she felt her words might seem silly in comparison? Or was it because she wanted to explore what Daniel had told her about the family without mentioning his name and felt she was being deceitful in a way Sam would despise?

“She does adore me. They are all inordinately proud of my every accomplishment, my high marks at public school, getting an exhibition to Cambridge. Yet these things have distanced me from them. I reject them and their fiscal fixations. I reject their lack of spirituality. You should see their unseemly manner of observing the great holidays. They fast on Yom Kippur and spend the whole day lying around moaning and groaning about how hungry they are. The whole point of the fast is to open your mind and pray so you can forgive your enemies and apologize for the wrongs you have done others. It is a mockery to concentrate on the rumblings of your belly! That is the way the whole world is going. Nobody is spiritual anymore. The new God is Money. The baseness of the world is embodied in my family. That's why I love you. You are so free of rapaciousness. You are so open to spirituality.”

He kissed her, and she lost herself in the pleasure of his warm, full lips for a moment before pulling away. “I expect your family wants you to get top marks in university, don't they?”

“Nothing less than a first will satisfy them. Their expectations are a great burden.”

“But why do you care, if you think so badly of them?”

Sam stroked her back, “You would have to meet my mother to understand. She is formidable. I can mock her from afar but in her presence I am jelly. She would poison my life if I didn't get a first. She might even poison me literally. When will you let me make love to you, Madelyn?”

“Why do you call me Madelyn?”

“Anne is a good name for a boring person. Anne does not represent your soul. Henceforth you are Madelyn.”

A good day, I had a letter from home and have decided that in May I will a) write, b) dance c) learn Italian. Money? That would appear to be a problem. I must drink more
…
water. Had six hours sleep today and mood is consequently horrible. I walked into a chemist's shop this morning and bought 50 benzedrine. He was flustered and made me sign a little book; obviously didn't know if he was allowed to sell to nurses yet didn't want to refuse. Sam phoned me up and said he had just looked at a photograph of me and that Madelyn is the most beautiful woman in Cambridge. Madelyn. It has such a nice ring. I am torn between the desire to ask Sam how he dare change my name, and wishing I had thought of it myself. I realize I've always hated Anne. What a dreary name. But I shan't change it to Madelyn, there are many names to choose from. Celine? Athena? Rocelyn? Bathsheba? Margherita? Muriel? Michelle? Monika? I like the names starting with M. I like Madelyn. Shall I really adopt this name? Should I reject it, even if I like it, in order to show Sam that I am boss? Of course I am boss, of my own name. Yet how his control delights me. He is so much man, he is so…bestial. It is true that John is not a man in the same way. Sam's violence did revolt me at the time, truly it did, but something about it excited me as well. Is it terrible to admit this? I am attracted to the animal in him; he is so unlike everybody else. The power of the alpha male. Women are supposed to be attracted to that kind of male; we must propagate the species, the strongest must survive. We are animals like Sam said. There is nothing wrong in my reaction, yet Sam must never know of my weakness. He is noble, yet bestial at the same time. Moya Dusha, my mentor and my brute. I lie beside him and smell the male smell of him and I luxuriate in the difference between the sexes. John doesn't smell like that.

“My name is Madelyn,” Anne announced to the woman in labour that evening, “and I am assisting the midwife during your birth.”

“From now on please call me Madelyn,” Anne said to her three roommates the next day, when she entered the kitchen for her morning cup of tea. Lavinia and Greta sat at the kitchen table, while Louise stood at the stove, cracking eggs into the saucepan.

Lavinia was a mousy little thing who rarely opened her mouth, though she smiled often. She was afflicted with an eye that cried all the time, little tears constantly wound their way down the side of her nose. Hence her habit of smiling, to counteract the impression of unhappiness.

Anne/Madelyn stood by Louise and watched the bacon piling up on the side of the pan.

“Successful birth last night?”

“The woman's fifth. Slipped out like a raw egg. I could have done it myself.”

“After two weeks on the job?”

“This particular woman could have birthed without any help at all, as it happens. She just strained a couple of times and out it popped. A little boy of seven pounds one ounce. Looked around once as if to say, where am I, then opened his mouth and howled for an hour straight.”

“I wonder if they all think that. It must be a bit of a shock. Stop sniffing the bacon in that revolting fashion, Anne. I'll make you some.”

“My name is Madelyn.”

Greta flipped the paper over, “We heard you the first time.” Her face assumed a long-suffering expression. “I suppose it's your pompous ass of a boyfriend who suggested you change your name to Madelyn? Do you know how weird and controlling it is to change the name given to you at birth?”

“Oh come on. Do you think Little Screamer's parents last night had a special name for him? She asked me my father's name, she was so desperate to avoid wracking her brains for the fifth time. Most names are on-the-spur ideas. They cannot take into account the character or physical traits of the grown-up person, and they are often unsuitable.”