Vjnapter 19

That afternoon, we put the truckle-bed back in the attic - I think its castors had got permanently skewed - and I moved my night-things to Florence's room, and put my gown beneath her pillow. We did it while Ralph was out; and when he came home, and gazed at the place where the bed had used to be propped, and then at us, with our blushes and our shadowy eyes and swollen lips, he blinked about a dozen times, and swallowed, and sat and raised an issue of Justice before his face; but when he rose to go to his room that night, he kissed me very warmly. I looked at Florence.

'Why doesn't Ralph have a sweetheart?' I said, when he had left us. She shrugged.

'Girls don't seem to care for him. Every torn friend of mine is half in love with him, but regular girls - well! He goes for dainty ones; the last one gave him up for the sake of a boxer.'

'Poor Ralph,' I said. Then: 'He is remarkably forbearing on the matter of your - leanings. Don't you think?'

She came and sat on the arm of my chair. 'He's had a long time to get used to them,' she said.

'Have you always had them, then?'

'Well, I suppose there was always a girl or two, somewhere about the place. Mother never was able to figure it out. Janet

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don't care - she says it leaves more chaps for her. But Frank' -this was the older brother, who came visiting from time to time with his family - 'Frank never liked to see girls calling for me, in the old days: he slapped me over it once, I've never forgotten it. He wouldn't be at all tickled to see you here, now.'

'We can pretend it's otherwise, if you like,' I said. 'We can bring the truckle-bed back, and pretend -'

She leaned away from me as if I had sworn at her. 'Pretend? Pretend, and in my own house? If Frank doesn't like my habits, he can stop visiting. Him, and anyone else with a similar idea. Would you have people think we were ashamed?'

'No, no. It was only that Kitty -'

'Oh, Kitty! Kitty! The more you tell me about that woman, the less I care for her. To think she kept you cramped and guilty for so long, when you might have been off, having your bit of fun as a real gay torn ..."

'I wouldn't have been a torn at all,' I said, more hurt by her words than I was willing to show, 'if it hadn't been for Kitty Butler.'

She looked me over: I had my trousers on. 'Now that,' she said, 'I cannot believe. You would have met some woman, sooner or later.'

'When I was married to Freddy, probably, and had a dozen kids. I should certainly never have met you.'

'Well, then I suppose I have something to thank Kitty Butler for.'

The name, when spoken aloud like that, still grated on my nerves a little and set them tingling; I think she knew it. But now I said lightly, 'You do. Be sure you remember it. In fact, I have something that will remind you . . .' I went to the pocket of my coat, and drew out the photograph of Kitty and me, that I had got from Jenny, at the Boy in the Boat; and I carried it to the bookcase and set it there, beneath the other portraits. 'Your Lilian,' I said, 'may have got a thrill from gazing at Eleanor Marx. Sensible girls used to put pictures of me on their bedroom walls, five years ago.'

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'Stop boasting,' she answered. 'All this talk about the music hall. I've never heard you sing a song to me.'

She had taken my place in the armchair, and now I went and nudged at her knees with my own. 'Tommy,' I sang - it was an old song of W. B. Fair's - 'Tommy, make room for your uncle.'

She laughed. 'Is that a song you used to sing with Kitty?'

'I should say not! Kitty would have been too afraid, in case there was a real torn in the crowd who got the joke and thought we meant it.'

'Sing me one of the ones you sang with Kitty, then.'

'Well..." I was not sure I liked the idea; but I sang her a few lines of our song about the sovereigns - strolling about the parlour as I did so, and kicking my moleskinned legs. When I finished, she shook her head.

'How proud she should have been of you!1 she said softly. 'If I'd been her -' She didn't finish. She only rose, and came to me, and drew back the shirt where it flapped beneath my throat, and kissed the flesh that showed there, until I trembled.

She had seemed chaste as a plaster saint to me, once; she had seemed plain. But she was not chaste now - she was marvellously bold and frank and ready; and the boldness made her bonny, made her gleam, like a kind of polish. I could not look at her and not want to touch her. I could not see the shine upon her pink lips, without wanting to step to her and press my mouth to it; I couldn't look at her hand as it lay limp upon some table-top, or held a pen, or carried a cup, or did any kind of ordinary business, without longing to take it in my own and kiss the knuckles or put my tongue to the palm, or press it to the fork at my trousers. I would stand beside her in a crowded room and feel the hairs lift on my arms - and see her own flesh pimple, and her cheeks grow warm, and know she ached for me, to match my aching; but she would take a dreadful satisfaction, too, in lengthening the visits of her

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Mends - in handing out a second cup of tea, and then a third -and all while I looked on, tortured and damp.

'You made me wait, for two years and a half,' she said to me once; I had followed her into the kitchen, and put my shaking arms about her as she lifted a kettle to the stove. 'It won't hurt you, to wait an hour till the parlour clears ..." But when she said a similar thing another night, I touched her through the folds of her skirt until her voice grew weak - and then she led me into the pantry, and put a broom across the door, and we caressed amongst the packets of flour and tins of treacle while the kettle whistled and the kitchen grew woolly with steam, and Annie called out from the parlour, What were we doing? The fact was, we had both gone kissless for so long that, having once begun to kiss again, we could not stop. Our boldness made us marvel.

'I had you down for one of those terrible grudging girls,' she said to me one night, a week or two after our visit to the Boy. 'One of those dry-rub-it-on-the-hip-don't-touch-me sorts . . .' 'Are there such girls?' I asked her. She coloured. 'Well, I have lain with one or two ..." The thought that she had lain with different girls - with so many girls that she could put them into categories, like breeds of fish - was wonderfully astonishing and stirring. I put my hand upon her - we were lying together, naked despite the cold, because we had bathed in a steaming tub and were still warm and prickling from it - and stroked her, from the hollow at her throat to the hollow of her groin; then I stroked her again, and felt her shiver.

'Who would ever have thought that I should touch you so, and talk to you so!' I asked her - whispering, because Cyril lay beside us, asleep in his crib. 'I was sure you would prove prim and awkward. I was sure you would be shy. Indeed, I didn't see how you could fail to be, being so political and good as you are!'

She laughed. 'It ain't the Salvation Army, you know,' she answered, 'socialism.'

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'Well, maybe ..."

We said nothing more, then; only kissed and murmured. But the next night she produced a book, and had me read it. It was Towards Democracy, the poem by Edward Carpenter; and as I turned the pages, with Florence warm beside me, I found myself growing damp.

'Did you used to look at this with Lilian?' I asked her.

She nodded. 'She used to like to have me read it to her, as we lay in bed. She couldn't have known, I suppose, that it was sometimes hard to do it..."

Perhaps she did know, I thought - and the idea made me damper. I handed the book to her. 'Read it to me, now,' I said.

'You have already read it.'

'Read me the bits you used to read to her . . .'

She hesitated, then did so; and as she murmured, I put my hand between her legs and touched her, and her voice grew less steady, the more firmly I stroked.

There are books written especially for this sort of thing,' I said to her, thinking back to the many times I had lain doing something similar with Diana - on the very same nights, probably, that Florence had lain squirming next to Lilian. 'Wouldn't you rather I bought you a book like that? I can't believe Mr Carpenter really intended his poem to be enjoyed in such a way.'

She put her lips against my throat. 'Oh, I think Mr Carpenter would approve all right.'

She had let the book fall on to her breast. Now I pushed it aside, and rolled upon her.

'And this,' I said, moving my hips, 'is really contributing to the social revolution?'

'Oh, yes!'

I wriggled lower. 'And this, too?'

'Oh, certainly!'

I slid beneath the sheet. 'And how about this?'

'Oh!'

'Lord,' I said a little later. 'To think I have been part of the

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socialist conspiracy all these years, and never knew it till now . . .'

We kept Towards Democracy beside the bed permanently, after that; and just as Florence would sometimes say to me, when the house was quiet, 'Sing me a song, in your moleskins, Uncle . . .', so I would occasionally lean to whisper to her, over supper or as we walked side by side: 'Shall we be democratic tonight, Flo . . . ?' Of course, there were certain songs - 'Sweethearts and Wives' was one of them - I would never have sung for her. And Leaves of Grass, I noticed, stayed downstairs, on the shelf beneath the photographs of Eleanor Marx and Kitty. I didn't mind it. How could I mind it? We had struck a kind of bargain. We had fixed to kiss for ever. We had never once said, I love you.

'Isn't it marvellous to be in love, in spring-time?' Annie asked us one evening in April: she and Miss Raymond were sweethearts now, and spent long hours in our parlour, sighing over one another's charms. 'I went visiting a factory today, and it was the grimmest, most broken-down old place you ever saw. But I came out into its yard and there was a piece of pussywillow growing there - just a piece of common old pussy-willow, but with a bit of yellow sun on it, and it looked so exactly like my dear Emma I thought for a moment I would fall down and kiss it, and weep.'

Florence snorted. They should never have let women into the civil service, I said it all along. Weeping over pussy willow? I never heard such rubbish in my life; I really wonder, sometimes, how Emma can bear you. If I heard Nancy likening me to a sprig of catkins, I should be sick.'

'Oh, for shame! Nancy, have you never seen Florrie's face in a chrysanthemum, or a rose?'

'Never,' I said. 'Though there was a flounder for sale on a fishmonger's barrow, in Whitechapel yesterday, and the likeness was quite uncanny. I very nearly brought it home ..."

Annie took Miss Raymond's hand in hers, and gazed at us in

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wonder. 'I swear,' she said, 'you two are the most unsentimental sweethearts I've ever known.'

'We are too sensible for sentiment, aren't we, Nance?'

'Too busy, more like,' I said, with a yawn.

Florence grew sheepish. 'And, well, we shall be even busier before long, I'm afraid. For, you know, I promised Mrs Macey at the Guild that I would help with the organising of the Workers' Rally -'

'Oh, Florence!' I cried, 'you didn't!'

'What's this?' asked Miss Raymond.

'Some wretched scheme,' I said, 'dreamed up by all the guilds and unions of East London, to fill Victoria Park with socialists -'

'A demonstration,' interrupted Florence. 'A wonderful thing, if it works. It is to be at the end of May. There will be tents, and speeches and stalls, and a pageant; we hope to get visitors and speakers from all over Britain - and some, even, from Germany and France.'

'And now you have said you will help to run it. Which means,' I said bitterly to Miss Raymond, 'that she will have taken far more duties upon herself than she should have, and so, as usual, I shall be obliged to help her - to sit up late at night writing letters to the president of the Hoxton Fur and Feather Dressers' Union, or the Wapping Small Metal Workers' Society. And all at a time -' All at a time, I wanted to say, when I longed only to tip her satchel of papers into the fire, and lie kissing her before its blaze.

I thought Florence looked at me a little sadly then. She said, 'You needn't help, if you don't care to.'

'Needn't help?' I cried. 'In this house?'

And it was just as I had supposed. Florence had committed herself to a thousand duties, and I, to stop her working herself into a fit, took on half of them - wrote letters and figured sums at her direction, and delivered bags of posters and pamphlets to grubby union offices, and visited carpenters' shops, and sat sewing tablecloths and flags, and costumes for the workers'

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pageant. Our house in Quilter Street grew quite dusty again; our suppers became ever more hasty and under-prepared ?I had no time for stewing oysters now, but served them raw, and we swallowed them as we worked. Half of the flags I sewed, half of the letters Florence wrote, were stained at the edges with liquor, and spotted with grease.

Even Ralph was involved in it. He had been asked, as secretary of his union, to write a little address for the day itself, and deliver it - in between the grander speeches - before the crowd. The title of the address was to be 'Why Socialism?', and the composing and rehearsing of this threw Ralph - who was no very keen public speaker - into a fever. He would sit at the supper-table for hours at a time, writing until his arm grew sore ?or more often gazing bleakly at the empty page before him, then dashing to the bookcase to check a reference in some political tract, and cursing to find it lent out or lost: 'What has happened to The White Slaves of England1? Who has borrowed my Sidney Webb? And where the blazes is Towards Democracy?'

Florence and I would gaze at him and shake our heads. 'Give the thing up,' we would say, 'if you don't want to do it, or feel you can't. No one will mind,' But Ralph would always stiffen and answer, 'No, no. It is for the sake of the union. I almost have it.' Then he would frown at his page again, and chew on his beard; and I would see him imagining himself standing before a crowd of staring faces, and he would sweat and start to tremble.

But here, at least, I felt I could help. 'Let me hear you read a bit of your speech,' I said to him one night when Florence was out. 'Don't forget I was an actress of sorts, once. It's all the same, you know, whether it's a stage or a platform.'

That's true,' he said, struck by the idea. Then he flapped his sheets. 'But I am rather shy of reading it out before you.'

'Ralph! If you are shy with me, in our parlour, what will you be like before five hundred people, in Victoria Park?' The thought set him biting at his beard again; but he held his

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speech before him as requested, stood before the curtained window, and cleared his throat.

'"Why Socialism?'" he began. I jumped to my feet.

'Well, that is hopeless, for a start. You can't mumble into your hands like that, and expect the folk in the gallery - I mean, at the back of the tent - to be able to hear you.'

'You are rather harsh, Nancy,' he said.

'You will thank me for it, in the end. Now, straighten your back and lift up your head, and start again. And talk from here' -1 touched the buckle on his trousers, and he twitched -'not from your throat. Go on.'

'"Why Socialism?" he read again, in a deep, unnatural voice. 'That is the question I have been invited to discuss with you this afternoon. "Why Socialism?" I shall keep my answer rather brief.'