and Paula went to evensong. Canon Mulgrave was on form.
Through Brentford and Shenfield and Chelmsford and Ipswich sped Pegasus towards the beckoning sea, past filling stations and drab dead houses, past grimy cafés and fields full of dead old cars, thinking that this time there was no need to feel excited about seeing Mrs Hassett, from now on he would devote himself solely to the learning of his art, and the last thing you wanted to do was to get tangled up with a married woman.
He looked forward to it all. The steady routine, the heat, the moments of furious activity when the orders came thick and fast, the hearty swearing of his colleagues. Alphonse, convinced that all the English were pigs. Tonio, convinced that all the English were pigs. Pegasus, the Englishman who would prove them wrong and one day outshine them both.
So far he had performed only routine tasks, flexing his taste buds. Soon he would create a great masterpiece — his own. He was so eager to get back to work that he didn’t even dread Rose Lodge.
They had some cake for him, and some tinned pears.
‘What sort of a time did you have?’ said Bill.
‘What did you do?’ said Brenda.
‘Tell us all about it,’ said Bill.
There wasn’t much to tell, but what there was he told. They listened as if it was the most exciting story they had ever heard.
‘I expect you were sorry to leave,’ said Brenda.
‘Though glad to get back,’ said Bill.
‘Yes,’ said Pegasus.
‘We’ll have that picnic soon,’ said Bill.
9
Even the faint scratching of his nail on her hand or the touch of her lips rubbed across his had been vibrant and thrilling. It had been lovely to live through that thrill. Now these same gestures were already memories, mere expressions of gratitude. And although he knew that this was how it always was, he asked himself whether his desire had all been an illusion.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
It was broad daylight in her bedroom. The sun shone in through the window. The afternoon was alive with sunshine and the possibility of unexpected window cleaners.
Tony had gone off for the day, ostensibly to an exhibition of ventilating equipment at Earls Court. He had announced last night, in the bar, that he was going. Mr Thomas, the milkman, had smiled at Mr Block the chandler as if he was a ferret let loose in a warren of innuendo. ‘He’ll be ventilating his equipment all right, but not at Earls Court,’ he had murmured. Pegasus had felt angry.
‘Feeling guilty?’ said Jane.
‘Just reflective,’ said Pegasus.
Guilt, you could easily mistake it for guilt. It was a vague sense of absurdity, nothing more. You were in bed, naked together, impelled there by impulses which already belonged to the past. It was impossible to go on without a sense of surprise. And in this case there were added dangers. A married woman. An employer employee relationship.
‘I hope all this isn’t against union rules,’ he said.
‘It’s a productivity bonus,’ said Jane.
‘An incentive.’
Jane sighed.
‘I’m complicated,’ she said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Married, for one thing. And I’m complicated in myself, too.’
‘Well aren’t we all?’
He held her cheek firmly to his, and she shrank away a little, either from his breath or from the patronizing nature of his gesture. This was one of the things Paula had objected to. He had found it delightful and clever that she managed to catch the train, managed to select the right platform, managed to put one foot in front of the other, organized so successfully the circulation of her blood. Paula had resented this.
These things he must not do with Jane. Nor must he think of Paula.
‘In what way?’ he said.
‘I need careful handling.’
‘You’ll get it from me, darling,’ he said.
He fingered her breasts absent-mindedly.
‘I’m glad you came in that day,’ said Jane.
‘I hope you always will be,’ said Pegasus.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It sounded sinister. Like a premonition.’
‘You’re imagining things.’
‘Well there you are, you see. I need careful handling.’
Pegasus had been having a drink in the bar. They had gazed at each other and then they had realized that the gaze was a declaration of intent. Now here they were in bed.
‘What I meant,’ said Pegasus, ‘if I meant anything, is that so far we’ve only done the easy bit. To agree what you want out of sex is easier than agreeing what you want out of almost anything else — unless one of you is some kind of a pervert, of course.’ He ran his hand slowly up her slim, widening thigh, feeling an echo of his past desire. ‘I mean you’d be far more likely to argue over what to have for dinner than about sex.’
‘There’s more choice.’ Her sudden smile was warm, wide and white.
‘Sex only becomes a problem between you when you don’t want it. Then it suddenly seems unimportant what you have for dinner.’
‘You’re very talkative.’
‘I’ve never heard of any totally satisfactory way of behaving after making love. Smoking strikes me as repulsive, falling asleep as worse, kissing as an anti-climax. I become talkative.’
He ran his hands over her gently curved, almost boyish, hips.
‘Why have you been faithful for so long?’ he asked.
‘Well I kept hoping things would get better between us. You do. You don’t let yourself admit that it could possibly be permanent.’
He held her more tightly, as if by hurting her he could convince her of his power to help. Then he let go, sat back and looked at her. She drew her knees up like someone much younger and he held her right knee firmly, enjoying its knobble.
‘I’m frightened of running this place,’ she said.
‘But I think you do it very well.’
‘I’m too thin,’ she said.
