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William Sansom
image with his words — and thus losing the words their energy;
looking now not at the conceived image of something painted by
the desiring brain - but as at something unexpected, not entirely
known; as if instead of peering forward his head was leant back,
surveying, listening, as a dog perhaps leans its head to one side
listening for the whistled sign to regulate the bewildering moment.
But — no such sign came. And through his words, straining at the
diamond cunning that maintained him, he tried to reason out this
perplexity, he annotated carefully what he saw. A white face, ill
white, reddened faintly round the nostrils, pink and dry at the
mouth; and a small fat mouth, puckered and fixed under its long
upper lip: and eyes also small, yet full-irised and thus like brown
pellets under eyebrows low and thick: and hair that colour of
lustreless hemp, now tied with a bow so that it fell down either side
of her cheeks as lank as string: and round her thin neck, a thin gold
chain just glittering above the dull blue wool of that bed-jacket,
blue brittle wool against the ill white skin: and behind, a white
pillow and the dark wooden head of the bed curved like an inverted
shield. Unattractive . . . not attractive as expected, not exciting
. . . yet where? Where before had he remembered something like
this, something impelling, strangely sympathetic and - there was
no doubt — earnestly wanted?
Later, in contrast, there flashed across his memory the colour of
other faces — a momentary reflection from the scarlet-lipped face
on one of the magazine covers — and he remembered that these
indeed troubled him, but in a different and accustomed way; these
pricked at him in their busy way, lanced him hot, ached into his
head so that it grew light, as in strong sunlight. And then, much
later, long after this girl too had nervously begun to talk, after they
had talked together they made a cup of tea in her kitchen. And
then, since the July dawn showed through the curtains, she made a
bed for him on the sofa in the sitting-room, a bed of blankets and
a silk cushion for his head.
Two weeks later the girl Clara came home at five o'clock in the
afternoon carrying three parcels. They contained two coloured ties,
six yards of white material for her wedding dress, and a box of thin
red candles.
As she walked toward her front door she looked up at the win-
dows and saw that they were shut. As it should have been - Ron
was out as he had promised. It was his birthday. Thirty-two. For a
Various Temptations
425
few hours Clara was to concentrate on giving him a birthday tea,
forgetting for one evening the fabulous question of that wedding
dress. Now she ran up the stairs, opened the second door and saw
there in an instant that the flat had been left especially clean, tidied
into a straight, unfamiliar rigour. She smiled (how thoughtful he
was, despite his 'strangeness') and threw her parcels down on the
sofa, disarranging the cushions, in her tolerant happiness delight-
ing in this. Then she was up again and arranging things. First the
lights - silk handkerchiefs wound over the tops of the shades, for
they shone too brightly. Next the tablecloth, white and fresh, soon
decorated with small tinsels left over from Christmas, red crackers
with feathered paper ends, globes gleaming like crimson quick-sil-
ver, silver and copper snowflakes.
(He'll like this, a dash of colour. It's his birthday, perhaps we
could have gone out, but in a way it's nicer in. Anyway, it must be
in with him on the run. I wonder where he is now. I hope he went
straight to the pictures. In the dark it's safe. We did have fun doing
him up different — a nice blue suit, distinguished — and the mous-
tache is nice. Funny how you get used to that, he looks just the
same as that first night. Quite, a quiet one. Says he likes to be quiet
too, a plain life and a peaceful one. But a spot of colour — oh, it'll
do him good.)
Moving efficiently she hurried to the kitchen and fetched the hid-
den cake, placed it exactly in the centre of the table, wound a length
of gold veiling round the bottom, undid the candle-parcel, and ex-
pertly set the candles — one to thirty-one - round the white-iced
circle. She wanted to light them, but instead put down the matches
and picked off the cake one silver pellet and placed this on the tip
of her tongue: then impatiently went for the knives and forks. All
these actions were performed with that economy and swiftness of
movement peculiar to women who arrange their own houses, a
movement so sure that it seems to suggest dislike, so that it brings
with each adjustment a grimace of disapproval, though nothing by
anyone could be more approved.
(Thirty-one candles — I won't put the other one, it's nicer for him
to think he's still thirty-one. Or I suppose men don't mind - still,
do it. You never know what he really likes. A quiet one — but ever
so thoughtful. And tender. And that's a funny thing, you'd think he
might have tried something, the way he is, on the loose. A regular
Mr Proper. Doesn't like this, doesn't like that, doesn't like dancing,
426
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William Sansom
doesn't like the way the girls go about, doesn't like lipstick, nor the
way some of them dress . . . of course he's right, they make them-
selves up plain silly, but you'd think a man . . . ?)
Now over to the sideboard, and from that polished oak cup-
board take very carefully one, two, three, four fat quart bottles of
black stout - and a half-bottle of port. Group them close together
on the table, put the shining glasses just by, make it look like a real
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