A Five Year Sentence (11 page)

She got up from the table and made her way to the door. She walked slowly, sensing that her legs were faintly unreliable. Outside, in the open air, she had to lean against the door, taking in gulps of fresh air to offset her sudden nausea. She recalled how once, in the orphanage, she had eaten two helpings of pudding, the second surreptitiously, for it had been Dodds' share. Dodds had a tapioca allergy which matron could never tolerate. Hawkins had done Dodds a favour, so that when matron came round after dinner, Dodds had proudly shown her empty plate. But Hawkins had heaved with sickness, and her sudden pallor did not escape matron's beady eye. She recalled Dodds' tapioca aversion and looked at her platter wiped clean. Beside it was Hawkins' green face, and matron lost no time in putting the two facts together. ‘Come with me, both of you,' she said, and trembling, they followed her to the cloakroom where
matron placed Hawkins in the middle of the stone floor. ‘Open your mouth wide,' she said, ‘and stick your finger down your throat.'

‘I can't,' Hawkins dared to suggest, preferring the disease to such a monstrous cure.

‘Do as I say,' matron said.

‘Go on, Hawkins,' Dodds said timidly from the sidelines. Had she had an idea of what was to be her punishment, she would have pleaded with Hawkins to keep a strong hold on every lump of the offending tapioca inside her, but she feared that matron's possible wrath with Hawkins could only increase her anger towards herself. ‘Go on, Hawkins,' she pleaded.

Now, standing alone in the middle of that cold stone floor, it seemed that everyone was against her, and there was no point in living any more, so she might as well choke herself, because that was what she truly felt matron was ordering her to do. She sent a swift and silent prayer to her Maker, and did as matron asked. Almost immediately she retched, and threw up her spurt of misplaced generosity on to the floor. Immediately she felt better, and so grateful was she for the relief that she was on the point of thanking matron, when, looking up, she saw her gazing at Dodds and connecting her with the mess on the floor.

‘Now get a cloth, Dodds, and clear it up,' she said.

Miss Hawkins wondered how poor Dodds had come to terms with that orphan-experience, and whether she too was knitting a scarf without end.

She managed to walk to the corner of the street, and into a narrow alley. There she applied matron's cure knowing the relief it would bring, and in no danger of feeling grateful to its source. She was careful not to soil her clothes, so she kept her person as far as possible from her relief, and when it was over, she wiped her mouth, unbuttoned her coat, and walked out of the alley, leaving Dodds' work to the rain, cats, or simply time. In her bag, she always carried packets of peppermints and indigestion tablets. She took one each of these, and relished the purging relief they gave. She walked to the bank, breathing deeply and
with her mouth open to rid herself of any tell-tale odour. In the bank she tried to write out a cash cheque without looking, as if someone else were overdrawing on her account. But for legibility's sake she was obliged to keep one eye open, so that the £25 she was donating to herself appeared as a blur, and fogged the sin of extravagance. Normally she would take the five separate pounds of her weekly allowance and press them neatly into her wallet. She always insisted on clean, unwrinkled notes which reflected her profound respect for hard-earned cash. Now she took the notes, and stuffed them without ceremony into her handbag. She had no intention of itemising her expenditures as was her custom. All she knew was that its disposal would be more ritualistic than its collection, and the less she thought about it, the better.

Brian was waiting for her outside the library. She noticed that he was smiling, and somehow she felt that the smile was not prepared for herself. His smile was internal, and he was possibly unaware of the creases on his face or his look of benign cordiality. When he saw her, he stiffened, as with sudden stage-fright, and the smile was forced now, and produced.

‘Hullo, Brian,' she said. She was careful to keep her distance in case the gin-port-lemon-lime concoction still hovered on her breath, then she went to his side and took his arm. ‘Where shall we go?' she said.

‘I can't stay long today,' Brian said quickly. ‘My mother's not too well.'

She should have said she was sorry, but all the regret she felt was that his mother was not ill enough. ‘Oh, I was so looking forward,' she said.

‘But I've got something for you,' he said. He took a large folder from out of the inside of his coat. She made to take it from him, but he held it back. ‘No,' he said, ‘it's for you to look at when I'm gone.'

‘Is it the —' She wondered whether there was a legitimate name for what the folder contained.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘It's what I promised.'

She remembered the order in her diary. It was imperative
that she see the list, otherwise there could be no bargaining. ‘Oh, let me see it now,' she said. He shook his head emphatically.

‘Please,' she said, but she could see that he was adamant. ‘All right,' she said, risking it, ‘then I won't take it at all.'

He didn't answer, but it was clear her response disturbed him. ‘Let's sit down in the park,' he said.

So they walked in silence. Miss Hawkins was confident she would finally get her way, while Brian searched in his mind for some valid reason why she should not see the bill of fare. In desperation, he thought he might try the truth.

They sat down on a bench. ‘I'm ready now,' she said, settling herself.

‘I can't show it to you. Not in front of me,' he said.

‘Turn your back then.'

‘It's not that. I just don't want to be present.'

‘Why ever not?'

He looked away and to the trees that bordered the park, he said, ‘It's sort of embarrassing.'

She took his hand. ‘It's embarrassing for me too,' she said, ‘but like you said last time, we're both beginners.'

‘You can see the first two parts of it,' he said, still not looking at her.

She reasoned that her diary would be satisfied. ‘All right,' she said, ‘that's a fair compromise.'

He took the folder out of his coat, and hiding it from her view, he folded over the first offerings of his price list, and laid it squarely on her lap. Then he got up. ‘I'll go for a bit of a walk,' he said.

‘Suit yourself,' she said, though she was glad to be left alone. She waited until he gone some distance and out of ear-shot of her tremblings, and she fixed her eyes on the parchment sheet. The yellow roses impressed her enough to make her dwell long on their iridescent tear-drops of dew. She thought Brian was very romantic, and she looked up from the sheet of paper and watched him weaving his way through the trees, like a poet she thought, in search of inspiration. Hers was a pure and innocent appraisal, which was just as well, since it would act as a bulwark
to the shock of the yellow roses' copy. She laid her hand over the whole section, lowering it item by item.

The first service read as follows: ‘To holding of hand, 2p.' And bracketed underneath was written, ‘To holding of two hands, 3p.' She appreciated the reduction, and thought that altogether it was a fair enough price for a gesture that gave her so much pleasure. Despite the diary, she felt it unfair to bargain on that item. Then she set to thinking whether he meant 2p each time, or whether that payment sufficed for each meeting. If she once let go of his hand, did she have to pay again to reclaim it? If such were the case, her whole nest-egg would evaporate on hand-holding. She resolved to clarify that item as soon as Brian returned. She looked up and saw him in the distance. His back was towards her. Then he stopped and slowly turned his head. He caught her watching him, and quickly he turned away and walked briskly to the far end of the park. He was clearly delaying his return. She was glad for she needed the time. She would insist that the hand-holding would be a single payment that covered the whole of each meeting. Then her diary would be satisfied. She lowered her hand to discover the next item. Her eye went first to the price column which had escalated considerably. For a touching of the elbow (through sleeve) was a princely 20p, a neck-hold was priced at 25p, and ankle embrace at 30p, and a knee-caress rocketed to 50p. She wondered why the knee was more expensive than the ankle. She personally would have interchanged the prices, but no doubt Brian's lust-graduations reflected more the quality of his appetites than her own. The ankle caress was the last permitted item. The taboos lay beneath the fold. Even though Brian was still some distance away, she was not tempted to take a peep. Besides, she was aware of a fever that crept through her during her perusal of the first items, and she thought it better to keep the rest of the offerings for the privacy of her own sitting-room, with Maurice's face firmly to the wall. She looked up and gauged her voice to the distance between them. ‘Brian,' she shouted, ‘I'm ready.'

He was glad there were few people in the park. Her shouting embarrassed him and it passed through his mind to put up his
prices. He was loath to return to the bench and face her red anticipation of his services. Her blushes would make them obscene and render illicit what was in his view an entirely legitimate bill of sale. Well, she could take it or leave it. The world was full of clients.

He strode aggressively towards her, and sat himself by her side. ‘Well?' he said.

She was astonished at his boldness and lack of reserve. ‘I like it,' she said. ‘But what about the 2p for holding the hand? Is that for all day?'

‘It's for as long as you can hang on,' he said.

‘Well I don't think that's very fair,' Miss Hawkins said timidly. ‘I think it should be 2p for each meeting.'

Brian was not pleased. If she was capable of bargaining on the smallest item, it was obviously a principle with her, and she would apply it to each available service. He did not feel he could yield. ‘I think it's a fair enough price,' he said.

‘But I'd spend all my money on just that one item. I'd have very little left for anything else. And I can guess what that is.' She looked away from him and nudged him in the ribs. Brian began to wonder whether she was a client worth wooing. A lifetime of hand-holding with Miss Hawkins could hardly underwrite one week's lodging at The Petunias. He couldn't afford to lose a customer, yet it was a blow to his pride to sell his services so cheaply.

‘I tell you what,' he said, knowing that holding two hands would be a rare necessity, ‘you can have the two for the price of one.'

She was satisfied. She had obliged her diary's order. He took the parchment and replaced the folder which he put into her hand.

‘I've got to go now,' he said. ‘You can take that home and study it. I'll see you on Monday afternoon.' He wanted to give her enough time to savour his offerings, but not enough to over-savour them, and therefore find his personal participation dispensable. He was aware of being in a tricky line of business.

‘Where shall we meet?' she said. Normally it was a redundant
question. The library was their accepted rendezvous. But she sensed that their next meeting might require some form of habitation.

He smiled. ‘Shall I come to your house?' he said.

She gave him the address.

‘I'll be there about three o'clock,' he said.

‘I'll put the kettle on,' she said, sensing in advance some need to invent a postponement to the serious business of their meeting.

They parted at the bus stop. She clutched the folder in her hand. As she passed the pub, the thought of a gin and lime quickly entered her mind and as quickly departed. Not because of the sickness it might entail – that was due to mixing, she was sure – but because she feared by instinct a growing drink dependency. If Brian hadn't entered her life, she might possibly have drunk her five years away into an alcoholic blur. Now she had been offered another addiction, and though possibly more costly, it would not blunt her responses to her enjoyment.

When she reached home, she kneeled on the floor of the sitting-room facing Maurice as he leaned against the wall. ‘Look what I've got for you,' she said, displaying the folder. ‘It's a secret,' she said, ‘but only for me. One day perhaps, I'll share it with you.' She turned him to face the wall, then she opened the diary and read the day's order aloud. For a while, she held the red crayon in her hand, wishing to prolong the gratification, then meticulously she ticked off each order, adding an extra tick to the pub where she felt she had acquitted herself beyond the call of duty. She took off her coat and placed the folder on the dining-room table. She did not want to give herself the comfort of an armchair. She sensed she would need all her wits about her to fathom the subtleties of Brian's list. On the hard dining-chair, she would feel sufficient discomfort to offset the pleasures of her list-perusal which she expected to be overwhelming. And as a practical prelude to the delights that were to come, she read and re-read the first section so that she knew it by heart.

When she was ready for Brian's main course dishes, she drew the curtains in the living-room, and switched on a small table-lamp. Then she remembered a bar of milk chocolate in the
cupboard, one left over from a number she had bought on the day of her first meeting with Brian. The romantic half-light shed by the lamp, the chocolate cream and the delectable reading-matter all added up to a grand celebration. She angled the light on the folder and unwrapped the chocolate bar. Then, shutting her eyes, she revealed the bill of fare. She counted to ten before opening them again, and her first sight was that of the crown of thorns. She felt a surge of gratitude for the aptness of the symbol. Whatever Brian had prescribed as his specialities, they lay well and truly within the confines of faith, and thus assumed an enviable virtue. She had no need to scruple. The crown of thorns was a plea for her worship and dedication. She had long since ceased to have any religious faith, but now she had discovered a framework for a seemly catechism. She would read the list aloud, in solemn and reverent tones, as if it were a prayer.