Chapter 14 Back in the Saddle
“If you must know,” said Honor, “Robbie told me. Living on top of each other the way we are, surely you didn’t think you could keep it a secret?”
“Robbie’s got it wrong,” said George irritably. What did he mean, she wondered, by telling tales to Honor?
“You promised. You promised you’d keep away from him.”
“I suppose I did. I’d almost forgotten; it was weeks ago.” She was so tired. “But does it really matter so much if Jimmy and I are chums? He’s not interested in me in that way, so you needn’t worry.”
Honor looked at George. She was pale and thinner than usual; her skin had lost that velvety plumpness, and her lips had cracks at the corners. But nothing could hide her beauty. Jimmy not interested in her in that way—Honor had never heard anything so ridiculous in all her born days.
George had heard of girls who were themselves again in no time, who got straight back in the saddle.
But for days and days after the abortion, it took real effort just to drag herself about.
She felt gloomy every time she looked in the mirror; her cheeks had deflated, and her under eyes were bluish-gray, as though swiped by charcoal.
Even her hair, usually shiny and bouncy, looked like old string.
After she brushed it, many long strands were left in the bristles.
She felt exhausted, yet she slept poorly, waking with a vertiginous lurch from dreams where some version of Dr. Jenkins was looming over her with his instruments.
In those moments the smell of him, of that horrible flat, would seem to linger in her nose.
Every morning, she layered on powder and rouge until she was halfway presentable—so long as you didn’t get too close.
And every afternoon, whether or not she’d been to work or to see friends, she lay on her bed (the mattress now flipped), her limbs like deadweights.
In these moments, time seemed to slow down.
Her mind emptied out as she listened to the blood moving sluggishly through her veins, the very workings of her circulatory system an exertion too far.
Ten days after her visit to Battersea, she began to feel slightly more energetic and remembered that she ought to buy Jimmy some new towels.
She went to Peter Jones, and on her return she took the shopping bag up to the attic, planning to leave it on the landing for him.
But as soon as she set the bag down, he opened his door.
“New towels,” she said. “Sorry I didn’t replace them sooner.”
“You didn’t have to do that. Are you busy? Come in for a minute.”
She peered past him into the tiny room. “Oh, I…”
“I’ve been hoping to bump into you. I didn’t want to intrude by knocking on your door, but I wondered how you were doing. After… you know.” He held the door open for her. “Don’t tell anyone, but it’s my birthday today.”
“Happy birthday!” She sat on the edge of the bed.
He smiled embarrassedly. “You won’t mention it to anyone else, will you? I don’t want any fuss. Anyway, how are you feeling? You still look a bit fragile.”
“Definitely still a bit fragile. But on the mend.”
“Do you know if things will be okay? When you decide to have babies, I mean.”
After a surprised pause, George said, “I suppose only time will tell.” Her theoretical future fecundity was the last thing on her mind. “But no, I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’m just really tired at the moment, that’s all. It’s probably a touch of anemia.”
“You want to drink Guinness. It’s full of iron. And eat spinach, like Popeye.”
She made a face. “Ugh, no thanks to both. I’d far sooner eat a few steaks.”
“By the way, we’re breaking the rules, aren’t we? Socializing together, I mean.”
She opened her mouth, hesitated. “Wait, what do you mean?”
“Mrs. Wilson doesn’t want me anywhere near you, by the sounds of it.”
“Right,” said George slowly. “That was my impression. But what exactly did she say to you?”
“She said nothing. She sent Mr. Reznikov to have a word. Man to man, like.”
“Really? How very Jane Austen. Did he say why he’d been entrusted with this mission?”
“He didn’t, no. I ought to have asked. I just think… I think Mrs. Wilson doesn’t want me here. And doesn’t want me getting my feet under the table, as it were.”
“Oh, I’m sure that she—”
“It’s all right. I don’t care.” He looked at her, pensive. Then he grinned. “So those two. Mrs. Wilson and Mr. Reznikov. Are they… you know?”
George raised her eyebrows. “Are they what?” She smiled. “I’m only teasing. I really mustn’t say.”
“Oh, come on!” Jimmy’s voice was mock-outraged. He pressed George’s knee imploringly. “You have to tell me now.”
“I don’t believe it, personally. But according to gossip, they were once an item. Before my time. I just can’t see it. Can you?” Before he could answer, she exhaled and said, “Do you know, I feel a bit dizzy. I think my little outing to Peter Jones has tired me out. How ridiculous.”
“You are an odd color, you know. Here, lie down. That’s the best thing if you think you’re going to faint.”
George kicked her shoes off and did as he suggested.
She closed her eyes. If she kept her head perfectly still, the woozy sensation lessened.
She must have drifted off, because she didn’t remember Jimmy lying down next to her and gently embracing her from behind.
It felt so relaxing and safe that she drifted off again.
When she opened her eyes, the room was in semidarkness.
She gazed at the skylight, deep sapphire with a murky smudge of moon, and remembered where she was.
She must have been asleep for some time.
“Gosh,” she said, yawning. “I do apologize. I must have fallen into a properly deep sleep. I’ve not been sleeping at all well lately.
But that was glorious. I can hardly open my eyes; I feel like a newborn kitten.
” She still had her back to Jimmy and turned around to face him.
Their noses were a couple of inches apart; she looked at his thick eyebrows and a tiny round scar on his left cheekbone, then into his eyes.
She closed hers again and waited for him to kiss her—which he did, but on the forehead, in a brotherly sort of way, which wasn’t the idea at all.
Stretching and yawning, she positioned herself so that her thighs were pressed against his.
“Everything’s all right now, you know,” she whispered. “All shipshape. In case you were—”
“Shh,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and bringing her head to lie on his chest. “You don’t have to be like that with me.”
George burrowed her nose into his shirt.
She tried to remember the last time she’d been alone with a man, let alone in a bed situation, and he hadn’t tried to get her clothes off.
Certainly, it was before she grew breasts.
A discomfiting feeling expanded in her ribs, not quite shame but something akin to it.
She disentangled herself. “I’d better go,” she said lightly.
Jimmy, sitting up, nodded wistfully and didn’t try to detain her.
A few nights later, George was lying in bed, ruminating on Jimmy’s surprising gallantry, or restraint, or whatever it was.
She kept tossing and turning; every time she edged near drowsiness, some irrepressible inner agitation made her eyes fly open.
Would no man ever want her again? Was she shopworn, sterile, her body’s subliminal signals no longer guaranteeing the usual enthusiastic advances?
True, at times it had been onerous, dealing with male attention.
That was putting it mildly. They simply had no compunction or scruples—this was the astonishing thing one learned, all too early in one’s romantic career.
George had been twelve, still a child in every sense, when she began noticing a predatory gleam in men’s eyes.
And not only hormonal youths, but older men whom she’d considered ancient, paternal.
Surely those days weren’t over already?
She got out of bed, removed her sleepwear of moth-eaten pullover and knee-length drawers, and slipped on a black negligee. It was an old garment, frayed and not quite clean. But she had nothing else suitable.
Her head clear and determined, she padded up the stairs and tapped on Jimmy’s door. He opened it immediately, almost as though he’d been expecting her. He wore only cotton undershorts, his chest bare. Yet he looked startled. “George, whatever’s the matter? Are you ill?”
“I’ve never felt better. I just can’t sleep. And I had such a lovely nap with you the other day. You don’t mind, do you, if…”
“Oh… well, I suppose… yes, of course.” He drew her in and closed the door. “Though we ought to—”
“I’ll disappear first thing, don’t fret.” She flung herself down on the bed and lay on her side, propping up her head with a fist.
There was another tap at the door.
“Who could that—” George began.
Jimmy, shrugging and smiling, told her in urgent tones to shush.
“But supposing something’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened,” whispered Jimmy. “Come on, let’s get some sleep.”
“I know you don’t allow unmarried carryings-on under your roof,” said George to Honor now. “I certainly shouldn’t want to break the rules!”
Honor lifted Lulu the dog into her lap and caressed her little head. “George, I never, ever wanted you to hear this. You must believe me. I’m desperately sorry.”
George lit a cigarette and looked at her, confused. “Sorry about…”
“I’m afraid there’s no other way to say it. Jimmy is your brother.”