going to complain?” asked Ronny, who had stopped work and was leaning against Gambol’s side.
“Yes, how do you know, Jeremy?” echoed June boldly.
“June,” said Stevens, “try not to imitate children. It is natural for Ronny to speak like that. In you it is neither amusing or cute.”
June turned scarlet and for some reason was immediately conscious of her legs. The worst of it was that Stevens was right; she had been imitating Ronny. As yet there were no women’s weapons which she could handle, and the old childish ones now seemed to be failing her. To her surprise Jeremy came to her defense.
“Well now, sir,” he said putting down his tools, “I don’t really see why you’re making such a point of Miss June’s being older than Ronny here. If we made such a fuss over a few years as that, none of us could speak to one another.” He had scored his point, but now with his particular turn of thought could not help adding: Anyway I guess in a hundred years we’ll all be saying pretty much the same things.”
“You mean we’ll all be ghosts?” shrilled Ronny.
Jeremy did not answer him, only gave him a quiet look whose meaning was concealed by his round cheeks and the bright health of his eyes.
Stevens, who had tightened his lips at Jeremy’s rebuke. now relaxed them and seemed to take a new tack. Sitting down carefully on the slope of an old wagon tree, he smiled. His smile was unexpectedly youthful and charming, as the smiles of blond men sometimes are. He had nice teeth and a youthful, pink lining to his lips and gums. His mouth lost its faint wrinkles and his eyes grew warmer as they were drawn up by his grimace. “Well,” he said, “now that we’ve had misunderstandings all around, we might just as well cool off.”
“Go swimming you mean?” asked Ronny with the forced expression of one who is making a joke. He looked at June and they both giggled.
Stevens turned to Jeremy. “They are both laughing,” he said magnanimously, “at the hair on my chest.”
“I guess Miss June will get over minding that pretty soon,” said Jeremy.
Stevens looked shocked but suppressed it at once.
“I won’t ever have hairs on my chest,” said Ronny, “only a-”
“Only a what?” asked Stevens curiously.
“Only a heart.”
“That would be in, not on,” said Stevens mechanically.
“On, not in,” said June.
“On and in, both, why not?” said Jeremy, and Ronny wondered if he knew. The other day, the day after, when his skin had been all sore and swollen he had taken off his shirt in the stable. Perhaps Jeremy had seen. He looked at Jeremy, but the caretaker had risen and, with his lawn mower now repaired, was leaving them.
“Wait a minute, Jeremy,” called Stevens, “you have not yet given me Mrs. Villars’ address.”
“I can’t seem to remember it,” said Jeremy, giving Stevens a straight, full, slow glance. He continued on his way out.
Stevens controlled himself carefully. He stood up. “Perhaps your wife would know. I’ll go and ask her.”
Jeremy turned around again. Starting with the feet, his eyes travelled upwards bit by bit until they reached the lapels of Stevens’ jacket. There they stopped and lost interest. “I don’t know how it is where you come from, sir, but in my family the man rules the roost.”
“You mean you refuse to give it to me?” demanded Stevens, who had grown rather pale.
“If you like,” replied Jeremy quietly and almost to himself. He shrugged his shoulders as though wondering at his own complexity and went away. The lawn mower made a clicking sound as it wheeled in front of him on the stable floor, like a fussy conversation, a chattering, useless résumé of all that had passed.
CHAPTER TEN
Ronny awakened suddenly from a long dream. The moonlight lay across the floor of his room but did not quite reach the bed.
“Nor the moon by night.” The phrase came mysteriously into his mind. Where had he heard it? Why did it have for him now this submerged and rhythmic meaning, like a murmur of the blood in his veins? He tried to recall his dream but only a tangled and unreal impression remained. He rose and went to the window, drawn by those white rays. The moon was not at full; on the contrary, it was wasted as though by a disease. “Nor the moon by night.” Again the words came into his mind. Then he recalled that they were part of a Bible verse which he had been forced to learn at school. Something about the sun not burning thee by day nor the moon by night.
Yet the moon was burning him as he stood in its rays; scorching the heart tattooed upon his breast. In the moonlight it stood out plainly: a blue mark, a valentine printed on him by Flo. He tried to read the letters underneath it, but bending made the skin wrinkle and they were lost. Besides, a slight scab still covered them. Never mind. They were easy to remember: JUNE. Flo had wanted to put an arrow through the heart as well, but Ronny had not let him.
Although the tattooing had really hurt more the second day, the making of it had been uncomfortable too. They had gone to the back of the barber shop in a space enclosed by a curtain. Here delicate operations were performed, such as hair dyeing or an occasional permanent wave—things that men like to have done in private. Sometimes Flo did a tattoo job here as well, although most people who wanted such ornaments went to New York and had them done electrically. Flo traced the drawing on a paper with soft charcoal and then pressed the paper on the boy’s skin. When he took it off the drawing remained. Then he set to work with five fine needles wedged into a cork so as to keep them together. He moistened the needles first with his tongue and afterwards dipped them in his special Chinese ink. Then he inserted them obliquely into the skin along the drawing.
Ronny had been surprised not to feel more real pain. Flo, in fact, was the more nervous of the two. He was sweating and breathing hard as he traced the heart. Flo loved working on this tight, fine-grained young skin and did not want to have a failure.
“Just over my own heart, Mr. Flo,” Ronny had begged, “a real heart just over my own.” He himself could not say why he wanted this. Surely he had had a reason once, long ago, five minutes ago, but now he had forgotten what it was. Why not, as Eddie suggested, a rose for luck or a ship for hope? No, it must be a heart and over his own, with June’s name underneath it.
During this time June had seemed to lose all interest in the proceeding and had gone to stand at the door of the barber shop, gazing out at the sodden dock. Ronny could not know that she was fighting nausea. Eddie for his part was covered with lather, being shaved in the front room by a round, good-natured barber.
When Flo had completed his work, Eddie and June came to take a look. Eddie was complimentary. “That’s a fine piece of work,” he said. “It’s got no frills, but it’s got class.”
June gave an unnatural laugh—a ‘ladies’ laugh,’ Ronny thought resentfully—and it was not until they had been on their way back through the streets that they had recovered their intimacy. They were brought together then by their common secret and the fact that they were late for Stevens.
Now Ronny wondered what time of night it was. One should be able to tell
