Up there, yes, the high mast, radar is it, crownlike, a turret, walkway, on the building, they were building it then, some sort of college of techology, was it, or communications centre? But they were building it at that time, Tony pointed it out to us as a new landmark which would be useful to us in finding our way about the city, only my second visit, and her first, Wendy's. We must have come up this hill, there, past here, and on, he leading, Tony, we two lovers, like Merlin in a tale, we were that besotted, or illfated, at least I was, June later said that I seemed besotted with her, or daft about her, or something like that. Very much in love with her, yes, Wendy, then. As not now, in this city memories are not now of her so much, but only of her in relation to him. So his death changes the past: yet it should not. Yet she too, Wendy, is changed in my mind by what happened later, it happens all the time, the intenseness of that . . . happiness is not the word, fierce joy, loving, besottedness perhaps, all that was changed, is changed now from the time we walked up this hill, behind our Merlin. He had booked for us at a guesthouse, boarding house, private hotel, I forget which gentility it was known by, at which his parents had once stayed, and which he therefore had some slight cause to recommend, as knowing it, as he did not know others in the city, which might be full of nits and bedbugs, fleas and vermin: just opposite the tech. Before leaving London we had in the Strand Woolworths bought a wedding ring which looked like gold, I thought, very nearly, it convinced me, who had little experience of gold, for perhaps two shillings, I do not remember now how much the ring cost, but it was a risible sum, even for students, as we were then, Wendy and I, I even forget who paid for it, it would have been like me at that time to have made a big symbolical gesture out of giving her the two shillings, was it, for the ring. But I do remember it was she who bought it, that is, it was she who went up to the counter and chose it and without visible embarrassment paid the girl for it and put it in her purse. She carried a purse, meanly, I always thought, the only thing in which she was like a housewife, and I resented her for it, curiously. Where was I when she was buying it? Somewhere near, watching, obviously, for I can remember how cool she was about buying it, about choosing it, for there was a choice, even at two shillings, or so, of designs. And examining it outside, in the Strand, and laughing about it together, and the deception it stood for which we thought of as revealing more of what we really were, in our ignorance, and walking off, our arms linked in that tight way which was made easy by the way our bodies fitted one another, we used to say, or I did, at least. A plain band circular in section as well as in plan, it would pass as gold anywhere we were likely to go, I thought, which was enough for us. I probably made a symbol out of that, as well, at the time, or later, of our love, of the dross, I was like that, once more, then. Or yet again, do I impose this in the knowledge of what happened later? A constant, ha, distorting process, what is true, about that past, about Wendy, about Tony?
Yet outside that private hotel Tony was not with us, I do not remember him there: for we did a double take, Wendy and I, went up to the door, forgot she had not put on the ring, withdrew a few yard towards the market square to take out the ring from her purse and put it on and the woman who opened the door did not even look at her hand, just mentioned our jointly married name as being booked and required no further deception from us than a nod. There seemed to be very few other people staying there at that time, very few other guests. But perhaps I could see no one but her, but Wendy, in this respect. Our bed had a green cover, sunfaded, and was harder than it looked, we sat down suddenly to try to bounce, expecting to boune, indeed, but no, it gave perhaps two inches, the mattress on a hard board, perhaps it had been an invalid's board bed, at some time, I now think, having had back trouble myself, and knowing the remedies they offer in such cases. The dress she wore was green, too, blue-green, turquoise, two-piece was it, knitted, very close-fitting, ah, on that hard bed, but she said No, later, fearing I think that the landlady might come and discover us, was it, and throw us out, guilt together with, feeding, excitement, I was always for making love the moment we were alone, safe, or fairly so, anywhere, that consuming besottedness, but, ah, yes, that must be it, Tony did not lead us, I impose Merlin, it must have been some other occasion when he led us, came with us, later in that extended weekend, for after we had seen our room, changed, we went to meet him, by the lions in the market square, near where Richard, Rhiain and I had left them at the end of the first time, yes, and so he must have given us a map to the guesthouse, indirectly to that bed, our first double bed, ah, though we had used others, but always single, mine, hers, before then, our love was by then some three months old, if not four, yes, and since we had hitched our way to this city and did not know what time we would arrive we had said if we arrived before six we would go straight there, by his map, or if around then, would first meet him at the lions, which were the only rendezvous I knew, at six. Six was some sort of earliest time, for Tony, or for June, or for both of them.
And that evening we were at their flat, the four of us together, the flat on the outskirts of the city, near the ground, yes, where they were at that time, the trolleybuses stopped nearby, it was a terminus for them, another landmark or guide to the city Tony pointed out to us, carefully solicitous of our finding our way about, in what was for us a strange city, Tony. And no less June. They had not been married long, then, Tony was a second-year student, as we were, and they had married perhaps six months before, were still putting together a home, in a furnished flat, and this I am sure, though I do not remember, we talked about, as Wendy and I would soon be, as I at least thought, in a similar position, though not until after Finals, and of how Tony's grant had been reduced because he had got married, his county authority did not like students marrying during their courses, and discouraged it by docking maintenance grants, and in his case even considered stopping it entirely. But, as he said, he was far more likely to work well within the emotional security of marriage than outside it, and he put this to the committee which interviewed him on hearing of his intended wedding. But the committee were far more concerned that Tony and June might have a baby. I remember Tony repeating their question, What happens if your wife falls ill? And his bald repetition of it rethought as What happens if she becomes pregnant? And his assertions that they did not intend to have a child before Finals: and the pressing But what if you do? And the meal, the last part at least being cheese and apple pie, a northern custom, they said, Try it, and it was good, the bland, delicate cheese, Caerphilly was it, and the apple pie. And a Burco boiler they had in that kitchen, living room, where we ate, their latest domestic purchase, as I remember, and the convenience of it since June was out at work all day long, a lace designer, in this city there is a lace industry, yes. Remember Wendy did not do anything domestic to help. She was not like that, her mother did everything for her, her suburban mother's ethos seemed to be to keep control of that part at least of her, by not showing her how to cook, not teaching her to sew, so that for these things at least she was largely dependent on her, perhaps I exaggerate in my bitterness, perhaps I am unjust. But certainly she did nothing to help June on this occasion. Our conversations I remember less well, for they merge now into so many subsequent ones, but we must have compared universities, talked of magazines, of the critical one he was now involved with, had founded with other students a year or two ahead of him. And of the article he had written for us, which was not I think out at that time, no, one of the things Wendy and I had come up for, had used as an excuse, was that we had to visit the printers to decide some difficult final detail on the spot, in person, and she by now was as involved as I was in the magazine, no, that is not true, I am probably romanticizing again, yes, but a weekend together, going up on the Friday, seeing the printers on the Monday, was what it was all about, was what we wanted, an extension of our loving together, yes. Tony showed really little interest in printing problems, techniques, comparatively. But one piece of conversation I do remember, do link with that particular flat, another room, an open fire, with Wendy sitting on the floor in that close turquoise dress, her breasts, ah, the long elegance of her bare arms, and He spoke then of a writer, just recently graduated, but researching whilst trying to be a writer, whose discipline it was to take a tray laden with milk and biscuits to his room early each morning and not emerge again for ten hours or until he had reached whatever limit he had set for himself that day.
This would be April, I imagine, yes, I do not romanticize, there, April, seven or eight, yes seven years ago, now.
Love it was in that guesthouse, of course, still I feel it, as it was, not as it is now, it is not now, but even in those three nights was, physically at least, a declining spiral of interest, or at least performance. But the first night, the first time she winced like a virgin as I entered her, though of course it was not the first time ever, most satisfying I found that, her pain, the opportunity to apologize, solace, perhaps she was merely dry, the lubrication of my preliminaries had not been effective enough, though I am sure it was long enough, or perhaps not, she was one for getting on with such things, with not wasting time, unfortunately, so perhaps that was it. And the light above the bed still on, I making sure, making love, that this was her, Wendy, that my dark thoughts supplied no substitute, that this was real, she beneath me, then, there, at that moment. And the second time, after not being able to sleep, how long was it afterwards? And waking in the morning to find as I moved slight soreness from sheetburns on my elbows, the sheets were coarse, of wool or some substance my elbows were not used to, there in that guesthouse, waking, then, to that, and waking her, and making love once more, before going to wash, the washing almost as sensual, remember the bathroom on a half-landing, down a couple of steps, washing, Wendy standing after dropping her dressing-gown, washing those breasts with a casualness inconsistent with the way they affected me, the way her pubic hair parted between her thighs, was not random, followed as the thighs, the cleft directed it, into a shape I could love, could recognize, could now know as one more part of her revealed to me, could observe, being recently spent, what I had really hoped for, that sort of broadening, accession of knowledge about her, what the King James version translators meant by knowing a woman, I suppose, very neatly, perhaps, my coming away with her, in wanting to be away with her for a weekend as distinct from the limited observations of our comings together at home, at our homes, at college. But that all seems exterior, now, only knowing from the outside. But how could I know any other way? And the way her breasts bobbed, undulated, oscillated, massily dependent, in their similar ways, but something differently, independently, as she held her arms up to wash the pits, first one, shifting her weight, then the other, the delicacy, ah! And the second night we were tired, so tired that we fell asleep after the first time, and the second time was not until morning. Or was it this night I tried to wake her in the dark when she was sleeping, to make love again, and she would not, she was quite violent in not wanting me, pushed me away, perhaps, and I lay there for a long while annoyed, not understanding, sulking. But in the morning she was all conciliation, apologetic, when I told her, said she did not remember rejecting me, it must have been in her sleep, and she began to kiss me, and eased her warm leg over mine, and soon we had joined, and were through, and come. At least I was, she never did, as I remember, was not capable of it, sometimes put it down to the toying and playing of her adolescence, not that she was One of my greatest disappointments, with her, was that I was never able to give her an orgasm, in no way, her mother had told her it only happened very very rarely, she told me, only in her mother's case when she was having a child, her. And on one other occasion. On the third night only once, and I do not remember if that was in the night or when we woke in the morning. Decline. No doubt I made something significant out of that at the time. But we were progressively more tired, as what we did in the day time became more exhausting, the taking in of new sights, all the senses being assaulted by the new, constantly, it tired one, I have frequently noticed it. Perhaps it was staleness, too, how glad now I am I did not marry her! That her betrayal as it seemed then had this beneficient effect in the celebrated long run, that it came right in the end, ad end, for me, in my way. But only once on the third night worried me at the time only because I felt that the night had been wasted, that not enough had been made of it. I was really dedicated to it, then. How did she feel, it was so often difficult to know how she was feeling, what she felt?
Outside the window of that room there was a yard of some sort, rubble, dustbins, a high wall in need of pointing, a wooden tongue-and-groove door. As I remember. What else? Zinc. I remember zincwork of some kind, flashing to the roofs somewhere, a zinc flashing, we must have been in one of the upper storeys, perhaps the highest, and towards the back, yes, higher than at least one other building whose roof was flashed with zinc. One morning of the three she made the bed, perhaps she made it every morning, her mother certainly taught her how to do that, ha, but on this one occasion I took a photograph of her without her knowing at the time, or until immediately afterwards, one-fiftieth of a second later, probably, or whatever it was, from behind her, as she knelt on the bed to reach across to the other side to tuck it in, I suppose, for me to catch, to record, that line of her thigh, swelling arse, to the dependent breasts and falling beechmast-brown hair. And were there not other, more absurd, photos of each of us taken by each other, both, making as if to feed the stone lions in the market square? Which is poor, as a joke, but no poorer than the story Tony and June told us of the same lions, and the photos perhaps taken as a result, how one year in a Rag they had been painted red, and how expensive it was to clean them, for the Council, and the next year the police were telephoned to the effect that Students were Painting the Lions, and squad cars came at the hurry to find the students were doing so indeed, but on canvas, their easels set up yards away. Long-striding down a hill, the four of us, somewhere, in quite a rush to go somewhere, the theatre? And passing a shop at which June suddenly stopped and told us this was where they bought engage- ment rings for each other, both red, rubies, or garnets, or was hers red? Certainly Tony wore a heavy gold ring with a single large red stone in it, probably a ruby. And we felt, Wendy and I, somewhat superior, in our small way, to those who had to give such outward expression to their love, as rings, ours did not need such baubles, we felt, to support it, symbolize it, we would never give each other engagement rings.
We must have visited the university as well, yes, remember seeing the paintings of the Fellow in fine art, nearly as large as the studio walls, dribbled paint, a follower of Jackson Pollock: were told he had invited sceptical students who thought it was easy to have a go, had thus silenced their criticisms of him. A good policy, having a painter work there, I presume, a good studio, a room split on quarter by a mezzanine floor, a paint-frame to give scope for such larger works as this man was then working towards, away from, how should I know which way he was going, I saw him only at the one point, and yes, Wendy was with me on that occasion. The Castle, too, a round of visits, obviously, on either the Saturday or more probably the Sunday. Wendy, her hair windblown across her face, the view across this city, the museum, the posters and displays commemorating labour troubles, this was some kind of centre for nineteenth-century resistance against the exploiters. Pubs in the evening, particularly two very old ones, students, locals, good drinking. Talking again, always, Tony was hardly interested in drinking, but only in the talk which accompanied it, only in the company he could hold converse with. And other friends, students, we met, joined with, exchanged banalities, ideas, in those pubs those nights. I suppose. His RAF career I remember him mentioning, can see the places we sat, the table, the low ceiling of that darkly-varnished pub. How he had unwittingly told one of his old teachers he was stationed at Fighter Command Headquarters, plotting, and had been shopped to the RAF police because of it. Was that it?
They asked us for that Sunday to lunch, we bought the meat, Wendy and I, I think, and when we arrived they were hardly ready for us, apologized. Later I said to Wendy that this was perhaps because they had seemed as if shamed, not up to the mark, by our physical loving and had stayed late in bed that morning—but it does not seem likely to me, now: or, rather, there is some link I have forgotten, something June did or said that led me to think like that but which I have now forgotten. It does not matter. What matters?
Their new flat. Either the Sunday or the Saturday afternoon we went to see the new flat they were about to take on or hoping to take on. It was in a superior area of the city, the Estate or something like that, great houses built during the boom in the lace industry, whenever that was, nineteenth century some time, late, probably, large redbrick mansions, no two alike but somehow all alike, set square into the steep sides of a series of small valleys, green spaces between, wide private roads, No Thoroughfare, gates at all entrances. We all four went there. It must have been for Sunday tea, yes, tea with the odd old woman who was to be their landlady, very welcome she made us, we two strangers as well. Tea in the drawing room, looking out through French windows on to a lawn, sloping, to the floor of one of the small valleys, and yes, there was a dog, she loved dogs, Wendy, and this was a spirited dog, perhaps it was still young, would rush about indefinitely on that lawn with her, making those rushes and last-second deviations which some dogs are given to, I have noticed, perhaps with them it is a form of organized sport, with its own rules, etiquette. I joined in, as I remember, joined in with her, to participate, rather than with the dog, to show that I was spirited, gamey, too, would not be left out, would make her share everything of hers as I made her share everything of mine. That was the way I wanted it. That was the way I went out to get it. And where I went wrong. It does not matter, now. At tea, genteel sandwiches with no crusts but made with margarine and salty luncheon meat. A piece of luncheon meat, a sliver, a wedge, spurted out from one sandwich and dropped in my tea as I was holding it. I hoped no one had seen it, drank and with some effort caught hold of the piece with my front teeth. Afterwards, walking up a hill with Wendy, away from the house, I embellished the incident, made her laugh by my telling of it, how, I can no longer remember. It hardly seems funny, now. This new flat a large one, of curious shape. Tony trying the high, thick bed, saying, I thought somewhat to June's embarrassment, We'll bounce in time on this one!