Old Filth - Jane Gardam [91]
She was ordinary.
She was big and ordinary and bored.
She had a cigarette in her hand and leaned back against the door saying, “Come on in then,” as if he had come to read a gas meter.
Her hair was untidy and too long. Her feet were bare and she wore a shapeless sort of dressing-gown.
“Ciao,” she said, closing the door behind him. He saw how tired she was, and sad.
And maybe disillusioned? Was she disillusioned about him, too? She’d last seen him in hospital, pale and almost dying, the centre of attention. But she had made no effort of any kind though she’d known he’d be coming. He’d written a fortnight ago. She looked as if she’d just turned out of bed. She was even yawning.
“You’re tired?” he said.
“No. Well, yes. I’m always tired. Ghastly job.”
“I thought you were some sort of egghead hush-hush type?”
“I am. Of a cryptic variety.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Secret. D’you want—?”
She vaguely gestured towards the kitchen.
“Tea or something? A wee?”
“No. I thought of taking you out to lunch. To the Savoy, or somewhere?” He’d heard of the Savoy. He looked anxiously at her night clothes.
“I was there yesterday.”
“Isobel—what is it?”
“What’s what?”
“What have I done? Have I changed or something? You said to come.”
She put out the cigarette on the hall table ashtray, caught sight of herself in the mirror and said, “Oh my God! I forgot to comb my hair.” She turned to him and grinned and it was as if the sun had come out. The sloped cat’s eyes were alive again. Her long arms went up behind her head to gather up her hair into a bundle and she pinned it there. A piece of it fell down, a lion-coloured tress. Slowly, she pinned it back again, her fingers long, and lovely, and her fingernails painted the most unflinching vermilion. The dressing-gown fell open when she dropped her hands and stretched them out to him.
“Oh Eddie. You are golden brown like a field of corn.”
Her fingertips were at his collar. When he took off his British warm, then his officer’s jacket, he saw that she had loosened and then removed his tie. She draped it over a wall-light and then was in his arms.
On the kitchen floor, naked, he thought the taxi must still be outside. He had got out of it only a minute ago. Then he forgot all that; where he had come from, where in the world he had landed, which was upon a kitchen floor, the filthy lino torn and stuck up with some sort of thick paper tape. There was an old fridge on tall legs. It was gas. Lying on the floor beside her, then above her, he could see the fridge’s blue flame. It must be the oldest fridge in the world—oh, my God, Isobel. Isobel.
Later, oh much, much later, they rolled apart.
“I don’t like this lino,” he said. “It’s disgusting.”
“You’re spoiled. Living in palaces.”
“I was not living in palaces when you last saw me.”
“You were hardly living at all.”
They had moved on to a tiny sitting-room which was in darkness. It smelled of booze and dust. They felt their way to a divan that stank of nicotine.
“Why is there no light?”
“Do we need it?”
“Oh, Isobel.”
“It’s blacked-out. Permanently. Convenient. We’ve never taken down the shutters since the Blitz.”
“We?”
“The other girl and I.”
“Is she likely to come in?” His head was on her stomach. His tongue licked her skin. She was warm and alive and smelled of sweat and spice and he went mad for her again.
Later, “Who is she?”
“No one you know. She’s Bletchley Park. Like me.”
“It’s a man, isn’t it?”
“No. No, certainly not. Shall we go upstairs?”
The bedroom was lighter. It had a sloping ceiling and the windows looked country as if there had once been fields outside. It had the feel of a country place; a cottage. So here’s London.
“It is a cottage,” she said. “London’s full of cottages. And of villages. This bed is a country bed. We found it here.”
The bed was high and made of loops of metal. Its springs creaked and groaned beneath them.
“Please never get rid of it. Keep it forever.”
The hours passed. Wrapped, coiled, melded together they slept. They woke. Eddie laughed, stretched out to her