Dark Places (17 page)

Agnes and Una were women of much movement, given to gesturing with cigarette-holders and making much play with fans. They were not such fools as to pretend, as Norah did. They did not lie on brocade, fatigued by nothing, with camphor-cloths on their foreheads, nor did they languidly finger the keys of an insipid piano. Agnes and Una, the dears, were full of raucous laughter like birds, and their flesh was not trammelled with corsets, but flowed and shook beneath kimonos covered with tiny mirrors stitched all over them, that fell apart at the breasts and parted at the thighs.

Oh, how Norah would turn her nose up at it all! How her upper lip would wrinkle, and the word
common
would hang in the air around her. However, there was no possibility that Norah would ever see these rooms. I guessed that she did not even dream of their existence. Did a lady know of such places? Or was she so ignorant of the needs of the male that the idea did not occur to her?

Agnes and Una fluttered and caressed, brought me little drinks on little trays, rubbed my feet, made me laugh with little silly womens' stories of this and that, uttered charming ripples of laughter at my own little stories of the business world; I always felt my spirit expand in their company, and realised how little I was appreciated elsewhere.

In the house of the Smiths, I was a giant among men, and afterwards I stared into the tiny mirrors stitched onto the silk of Agnes' wrapper, each one smaller than my own eyeball, and saw a dark glooming shape I knew must be the reflection of my own eye. Eye to eye with myself, I lay in bliss with Agnes—or was it Una who wore the mirrored wrapper?

Seventeen

THE BUSINESS ran like clockwork now as long as I paid a few surprise visits to the lower regions once in a while, and made an example of any employees I found to be wasting their time and mine.
Singer Enterprises
, as it was called now, held no secrets from me. I knew how many pounds of tea and sugar my employees consumed in their morning and afternoon tea breaks, and how many times a day the female employees used the privy; I knew the exact state of health of the father of Rawlinson the clerk, who had once been impertinent to me, but was a changed man now he had an ailing father; I knew that a dozen envelopes wrapped in blue paper with a white band around it and the
Singer
emblem embossed on it was worth threepence more a dozen than the same envelopes sold loose out of the box; I even knew how many bales of hay the horses consumed per week, and what the lad who mucked them out was paid, and when he had last asked for a new shovel.

I was no gentleman dabbling in business with his face turned aloofly away, who thought it vulgar to speak of pounds and pence: I was a worker like the rest, doing his job to the very best allowed by his talent, and was entitled to my reward.

Young Mr Singer had seen fit to abandon most of the traditions his father had started within the walls of
Singer Enterprises.
In the face of steady resistance from Rundle, we stocked lined notepaper now as well as the linen-faced variety, and the very same cheap japanned document-cases that I could remember Father pointing out to me with horror in the window of Anderson's, and there was a new line of scented notepaper with violets printed on it which would have made Father's blood curdle.

But there was one tradition which I continued, and that was the tradition that Mr Singer should sometimes seat himself in the padded oak chair at the end of the shop, and watch as his business was performed around him.

There were my clerks, those grave adenoidal cautious fellows; one was wrapping up three dozen of the finest monogrammed envelopes for a gentleman with a cane, not exactly dallying, but being sure to take his time about it, so that the gentleman with the cane also found that his eye was caught by the leather writing-cases. At the next counter, pen nibs and pen-nib wipers were being gravely handed around and commented on by various unhurried gentlemen under the supervision of a pimply but respectful youth.

And, more interestingly, there were my shop-girls, charming their way into the purses of dowagers, laying out a fan of deckle-edged on the counter as gently as a diamond necklace, inclining their trim heads murmuringly towards their customers, making up neat bundles with flicks of string and expansive gestures with sheets of brown paper.

All those pretty little slips of girls in the shop, hand-picked by Father, were precisely the kind of thing I would have chosen myself. Little Dora Gibbs—I had not forgotten Miss Gibbs of Pens—was not the only pretty one. There were several pairs of moist cushiony lips, and more than one globular bosom that made black fabric gleam and swell in fascinating ways.

It was the most natural thing in the world that Miss Gibbs should accompany Mr Singer one day into the stockroom at the rear of the building, to discuss pens. I had already had Miss Patterson and Miss Dimpleworth (wonderfully well-named, to those in the know), in the stockroom, to inspect envelopes and sleeve-protectors respectively. Now it was Miss Gibbs' turn.

Mr Singer was no sneak: he made no secret of his visits to the stockroom with his girls.
Miss Patterson and I will just run our eye over the new consignment
, I would tell Miss Gumble, or Rundle if he was there. Or,
I will just take Miss Dimpleworth in the stockroom
, and the faces of Miss Gumble and Rundle would go respectfully blank, and they would nod,
Very good
,
Mr Singer sir.

Back there in the stockroom, the air was always cool: beams of sun slanted in from the big dirty window overlooking the street, breaking the dimness up with bright shafts full of dust-motes. Above us we could hear the continual tramp and creak as the clerks up in Accounts walked backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, on the bare boards. It was a disturbing noise, sudden and close, the sort of noise that makes you glance over your shoulder for no good reason; but in other respects the stockroom was ideal, for the stairs up to it crackled like gunfire when walked on, so that in spite of the constant distraction of the footsteps above, there was no way in which one could be taken by surprise there.

In this brown light, with the late sunlight making the shadows soft, little Dora was like a beauty in a Dutch painting: her skin was like a ripe fruit, her fine bosom buoyant under its coverings. Was it my imagination, or did Miss Gibbs point that fine bosom towards me rather more than necessary? Was there even a certain amount of thrusting going on in the bosom region?

Miss Patterson and Miss Dimpleworth had been found to be straightforward enough propositions, worldly girls who could take anything in their stride, girls who knew which side their bread was buttered. But I could not quite get the measure of Miss Dora Gibbs, and I went carefully. She was very young, and there was a guilelessness about her which was appealing. But there was a strong possibility that she might be a knowing little piece of work, just the same. There was a way she had, of tilting her face up to me, that might have been a child's artless way of looking up to a fatherly employer; on the other hand it could just as easily have been something she practised in front of the mirror. Damned women, that you never knew where you were with! What if she ran shrieking down into the street crying accusations? On the other hand, what if she laughed at me for failing to get on with the job:
Come along
,
Mr Singer
,
no need to be shy!
So I proceeded with the greatest caution.

Miss Gibbs was nearly young enough to be my daughter, and I was the picture of the bluff and fatherly employer. I was a gentleman whose mind was on pens and ink, and who was quite unaware of the fragrant proximity of Miss Gibbs; I was a gentleman who had quite lost track of the time in his enthusiasm for the new filling mechanisms. He was far too engrossed in the new shipment to be aware of anything as trivial as the time: he needed to try all the new nickle-plated nibs, and see if the new type of bladder in the Stylus range filled properly, and consider the merits of the various colours.

Miss Gibbs would have seemed a very poor sort of employee if she had drawn Mr Singer's attention to the time. Once or twice she glanced uneasily towards the door, so I came around beside her and insisted that she try a few out, sitting at an old desk there, in order to see how they worked
in situ
, as I said. I could tell that she wondered what I was talking about, and her uncertainty suited me.

The robust sounds of
Singer Enterprises
at work gradually died away: doors slammed in distant corridors, voices called out farewells, footsteps hurried along the linoleum towards home, and the startling noises from the ceiling fell silent. Dusk settled pleasantly around us; on all sides the orderly rooms were silent.

An indefinitely extended discussion on the relative merits of platinum or gold nibs did not seem likely to advance the cause for which Dora and I had come together, so when all was quiet outside I took the plunge. ‘You have very dainty hands, Miss Gibbs,' I said, and took one of them, and before she could snatch it away, if she had intended to, I exclaimed, ‘By Jove, Miss Gibbs, just stand quite still, there is a little spider,' and brushed my hand against her hair. She did not recoil, but stood under my ministrations like a patient child having her plaits done, so I went a little further, placing my hands on her shoulders to direct her backwards a step or two, so that she was gently impelled to sit down on the old settee (what was an old settee doing up here, I wondered, and thought again about Father).

‘My word, Miss Gibbs, that beam of sunlight lights up your hair so that you look quite like an angel, upon my soul!' I cried in a hearty avuncular way, and stood in front of her admiring the picture she made, conscious of how my trousers were on the level of her eyes. While I ran on, remarking on how pleasant it was back here in the stockroom, and what a good spot it was, how pleasant to have a few minutes alone here, alone that is, in such very pleasant and charming company, I saw her eyes flicker down to the region of my flies, and I knew then where I was with her.

Her eyes darted away and up to my face, but against her will they were drawn back and back to my flies: she was like a bird beating against a window. I watched her, and under my gaze she could not stop herself twisting her hands around each other, rubbing her palms together, tucking her fingers into her armpits, crossing her arms over her breasts: and with each movement betraying knowingness.

‘Stand up, Miss Gibbs, if you please,' I said, and I planned a little confusion of feet and knees, and an awkwardness with elbows, so that I would have to lay hands on her and steady her so that she did not fall. But she was ahead of me: she positively leapt out of the chair, and before I could put into action my scheme of ankles and feet she had sunk back with a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh, Mr Singer, I am a bit faint all of a sudden, it is that close in here.'

Ah! I was sure now, or almost sure. There was still the possibility that she was simply faint, such a skinny little thing, and probably not eating a proper breakfast, although there were still other possibilities: I could imagine her regaling her friends,
Oh
,
I thought he would never work himself up to it!
and all their little mouths laughing at a man of doubts.

I crossed to the window, wrestling with a lock gone rusty but finally able to fling back the dirty window so that pigeons fluttered up in fright. Then I could help Miss Gibbs over to the window, my hands under her armpits so that I could feel the stuff of her dress tight over her hard little breasts. ‘Stand here, Miss Gibbs, and get some of this fresh air,' I said, and like a child she was obedient to a fault, taking the air as if it were medicine, in great gasping breaths. ‘Oh,' she laughed suddenly, pink in her cheeks and peach-like. ‘Oh, Mr Singer, I am come over all dizzy now, it is all that air,' and she stood with her hands balancing on the air in front of her breasts.

I looked out into the dreary street, given a moment's glamour by the golden late-afternoon sun that made even the peeling paint of the warehouse opposite seem picturesque. Down on the street someone must have spilled a bag of wheat, for directly below us a sea of pigeons seethed, a shoal of silver backs churning and cooing. ‘Look,' I exclaimed, and took advantage of the moment to lay my hand along her arm, as if she could not see those roistering birds. ‘Look, Miss Gibbs, doves!' I leaned out, and tightened my grip on her arm; I could feel her tremulous through my tweed. I felt myself becoming a man in my trousers, feeling her quivering against me, and said, ‘It is their courting ritual, Miss Gibbs, they are preparing to copulate.'

Ah, what an unscrupulous rascal I was! I felt Dora flinch, but she did not fling away in disgust, did not even remove her arm from the grasp of my hand. I took her hands and pressed her against me, saying, ‘Miss Gibbs, I am overcome, Dora, oh! Dora!' and other exclamations under the cover of which I wrapped my arms around her. ‘You are loveliness itself, Dora my dear.' I spoke into her hair and against my fine woollen chest I could feel the thrust of her breasts, heaving up and down against me in an inflammatory way.

Nothing stopped her from removing herself from my embrace: nothing stopped her from saying
Kindly keep your hands to yourself
,
Mr Singer.
No, she stayed where she was, and proved herself to be just another trollop.

I knew I could have her now, on the table strewn with pens, or on the settee, or even on the splintery floor. I went ahead, naturally, and did not let myself down; but something within me had lost interest. It was all too easy: a man needs a difficulty or two, to make his satisfaction more piquant.

And did Norah never wonder at her husband's irregular hours, or the way he radiated a certain kind of glow on his homecoming on certain evenings? Did she never wonder where her husband disposed of his excess of virility, now that he so rarely coupled with his wife?

No! She did not wonder, because she did not care. Her husband was nothing more to her now than the provider of Wedgwood and spotted batiste, the figure in the other armchair with whom a wife was expected to exchange a few banalities in front of the servant.