Trawl Read online

  INTRODUCTION

  This is one of the finest novels about seasickness ever written.

  A small field in which to be the leader, you might think, and not a great triumph in itself. But no matter. A writer should find his or her field, and find a way of excelling in it, and that is what B. S. Johnson has done here. He may not have thought he was writing a novel about seasickness, but that – if you expand your sense of seasickness to include the metaphor I’m about to develop – is what he so brilliantly achieved.

  He planned to write a novel about his own life, of course. B. S. Johnson only ever planned to write novels about his own life, believing, famously, that ‘telling stories is telling lies’. But having filled two novels with his own lived experiences he began to run out of material; and rather than fall into the common trap of writing a third novel about the agonies of writing a third novel, he decided to find more material by running away to sea.

  “Briefly, I’m going as supernumerary1 on the Northern Jewel from Grimsby 2.30am Monday [14 October] to distant-water fishing grounds: which might be Iceland, Greenland, North Russia, Bear Island, Labrador or Newfoundland – it depends where the skipper thinks he can best catch fish at this time of year.

  I’m making the trip to get first-hand material for a new novel, the theme of which is deliberate isolation in order to solve a problem mechanistically. The trip will last at least three weeks.’2

  When asked where they get their ideas from, most writers explain, patiently, that the conscious part of the process involves sitting at a desk with a blank piece of paper, making things up.3 But this answer wasn’t good enough for B. S. Johnson. The thought that he could simply fabricate ideas for stories was, to him, a corrupt one. He needed real, experiential truths he could use in a book. And, having the notion that he wanted to write a novel in which the narrator trawls through his own memories in order to deepen his sense of self, it only made sense that he should take a voyage on an actual trawler in order to have a framework for this act of recollection; to be able, as the narrator puts it early in the book, ‘to shoot the narrow trawl of my mind into the vasty sea of my past.’4

  I may be projecting wildly, but I have the feeling that B. S. Johnson anticipated this voyage as one which would toughen him up a little. I imagine he anticipated a rugged life amongst rugged men, doing the tough job of writing5 alongside the tough job of fishing in the glorious isolation of distant waters. So he must have been disappointed when he in fact spent the majority of the trip in his bunk, suffering from seasickness.

  Some people might have considered this a joke, a punchline to Johnson’s own hubris. But seasickness is no joke, as is made horribly clear by the narrator’s own description: ‘My stomach feels as though it is trying to unseat itself, impel itself upwards, eject itself free of my own shuddering body.’ To feel as though your digestive system is trying to vomit itself out of your body; that’s pretty serious. And yet seasickness is so often treated lightly, comically, as though it were some moral failing. Hangovers fall in to the same category. As does depression.

  (It may seem facile to compare depression, with which Johnson struggled throughout his life, to seasickness. But consider the parallels: both are conditions whose churning grimness is impossible to convey; conditions which other people struggle, despite their best intentions, to take seriously; conditions from within which it can be impossible to see an end. And in the 1960s the prevailing attitude towards depression, particularly from other men, would have been an awkward sense that a chap ought to pull himself together. Snap out of it. Get back up on deck.)

  The net6 result of these three weeks at sea, and of the writing which followed, was Trawl; a novel in which a man trawls through his own memories whilst huddling pitifully in his bunk. The memories come to him in miserable waves, and he wallows in them; a lost love, a mistreated girlfriend, a callous schoolteacher, the childhood of an evacuee inexplicably left behind long after the other evacuees have gone home. He circles around these memories with a kind of Prufrockian uncertainty (no that’s not it, that’s not it at all) and a very 1960s English self-deprecation: this is tedious, this is pointless, why bother with any of this at all? The narrative tone is claustrophobic, stifling – just as his bunk on the trawler must have been – and almost unbearably solipsistic7.

  Poor old Bryan Johnson. The reader spends much of the book wanting to take him by the shoulders and tell him to pull himself together; to enjoy the life and the world and the people he loves, to relish the things he writes about. The descriptions of life at sea, and the tasks of fishing, are brilliantly achieved, and the reader is sometimes disappointed when the narrative slinks back to that seasick bunk and to more wallowing in the past; no matter how vividly drawn those recollections might in themselves be, we want Bryan to get back out into the fresh air.

  But no, he can’t. His seasickness – his depression – doesn’t allow him to. Is the book, then, a failure? Did he go on this voyage of isolation in order to learn something about himself, and learn nothing, resolve nothing? Partly so. And yet the book is also a triumph, in that it gives the reader a vivid, churning sense of what it must have been like to have been poor old Bryan Johnson, curled up in a bunk, berating himself for even feeling sick; to have been poor old Bryan Johnson, curled over his writing desk, berating himself for being depressed. It doesn’t always make for an easy read, although it’s mostly a compelling one; it doesn’t always make the reader feel much sympathy for the narrator, but that should be beside the point.

  What Trawl does achieve is a vivid, lurching truth; a portrait of a man completely at sea, tossed around by his history and by the times in which he lived, struggling to find his bearings, clinging finally to the distant vision of a woman in a bright red coat. This kind of vivid truthfulness is what Johnson was aiming for, and it’s an achievement to be celebrated. And if any of it makes you feel at all queasy then just remember: always lean over the leeward rail.

  Jon McGregor

  December 2012

  Publisher’s Note

  B. S. Johnson was a formally innovative writer. During his life he took an active interest in the typography and production of the print editions of his books.

  In producing electronic editions of his work, it was necessary to balance our desire to respect the integrity of his texts with our desire to make his writing available to the widest possible readership, including those who read digitally. We have tried to represent Johnson’s original work in this new medium faithfully; however, the print book is a fixed format and the ebook a fluid one, so it is undesirable to make a facsimile in most circumstances. Johnson was rigorous about his writing, and resisted editorial intervention: we have sought to work in this spirit by adhering to a principle of non-interference. We have prepared these digital books from the first print editions and retained all Johnsonian idiosyncrasies of language and syntax. We have used a digital font that most closely approximates to the original typeface. The text has been optimised for the default type-size setting on most electronic devices.

  Trawl is a work of interior monologue and presented Johnson with two unique technical problems:

  The first was how to represent breaks in the mind’s workings; he decided on a stylised scheme of 3 em, 6 em and 9 em spaces. In order not to have a break which ran on at the end of a line looking like a paragraph break, Johnson asked that these spaces be punctuated by dots at a decimal point level. This system has be reproduced here.

  The second was that to make up for the absence of the paragraph breaks, the line length of the book was deliberately shortened to give the book a long, narrow appearance. We have increased the size of the margins in this electronic edition as best we can, but it is unfortunately not possible to reproduce the extremely narrow line length in the digital format. A pic
ture of the original is included for reference.

  α My name is . . .

  β What does it matter?

  α My country is . . .

  β And what does that matter either?

  α I am of noble birth . . .

  β What if you came from the working-class?

  α When I died my reputation was high . . .

  β What if it had been low?

  α And I now lie here.

  β Who are you and to whom are you telling this?

  Sepulchral Epigram

  attributed to Paulus Silentiarius

  for my parents

  Contents

  Trawl

  I · · always with I · · one starts from · · one and I share the same character · · are one · · · · · one always starts with I · · one · · · · · alone · · · · · · · sole · · · · · · · · · · · single · · · · · · · · · · ·  I

  I have no means of telling, here, down here, when they will shoot, but I do know, the sound reaches me down here, it is one of the few sounds that do reach me down here, when they are going to haul. CRAANGK! It has just gone, once, against the side: they release the towing block aft, it whangs hard against the side, and I know they have started to haul. · · · · · Sometimes it wakes me, sometimes more than once during the sixteen hours a day I spend asleep, or spend in my bunk, rather, for the towing block craangks against the stern just above my head: the towing block is just above, up, and outside, of course, right near my head: that is probably why this bunk was free, why the others were not using it, did not want to use it, that I could have it. · · · · · So every two hours or so, or two and a half, or sometimes longer, at the intuition of the skipper, CRAANGK! the towing block goes against my head, it seems, even inside my head, sometimes, it seems; and I am awoken often, if I am asleep, or disturbed in my thinking, if I have thoughts, perhaps as often, as rarely am I able to sleep through it: though last night I awoke, and it was five hours since the last time I looked, so I must have slept through at least one haul, which was good, which was welcome: when I am asleep I cannot feel sick, or at least do not feel sick, am anaesthetised, the pills I have do nothing for me, do not work, for me, themselves make me slightly sick, the taste of them, perhaps now by association, but I took them, at first, because they ought to work, the doctor said they would work, Best thing known for mal de mer, he said, pompously. Seasickness, same number of syllables, what does he save, or gain, calling it pompously? I shall upbraid him with his tablets’ uselessness when I return, if I return, oh, oh, in relieving my condition, this all too human condition. · · · · · · · · While they are hauling the ship wallows, and the motion is worse, I feel sickest at such points, when they are hauling: but lying down helps: I could not stand it on deck, my stomach feels as though it is trying to unseat itself, impel itself upwards, eject itself free of my shuddering body. Sometimes I wonder what stops it, at which point the body forces itself not to be seasick in order that it may survive, that the stomach may be still. · · · She wallows, wallows, slops from side to side irregularly, at the sea’s whim, force five only this morning, but oh she wallows when there is no way on her, when we haul! · · · · · But soon they will have shot again, they do not like it to be up out of the water long, the trawl, not useful, not earning for them, for long, though exactly when, I do not know, I cannot tell, down here, when they will shoot, but it will be soon, I hope, the sooner the, twenty minutes perhaps, between hauling and shooting again, it cannot come soon enough, perhaps I can think again then, or sleep, better to sleep, of course, but to think would be welcome, for which I am here, to shoot the narrow trawl of my mind into the vasty sea of my past.

  There, something to start me, from nowhere: · · Joan, her name was, Joan, it’s not a name I like, Joan, no, plain, untimely, out of its times, not a name I at all cared for, no: but then I was not at that time in a position to reject women, any women, because of their names, no, nor for many other reasons, either, so, when she said, in this pub, it was just off Sussex Gardens, church property, or it used to be, near Paddington station, anyway, that her name was Joan, I did not mind, I did not notice, or hardly, that her name was not one I would have chosen, if I could have chosen, which of course I could not. She was with her friend Renee when we met, in this pub, and Jerry and I both wanted Joan: I do not know what it was about her, perhaps Renee looked too disappointed, too thin, too small-minded, too unlikely to come across with it, perhaps: anyway, luckily Joan chose me, I do not know why, perhaps because I was noticeably younger than Jerry was, though he was not old exactly, not past it, or anything, certainly. · · Neither do I know why I wanted Joan: later I wished I had chosen Renee, or been chosen by her, or not chosen by Joan: but anyway, we went off to a new sort of coffee bar club place I had just found, by accident almost the night before, and I made out to the other three that I was very familiar with such places, lived in them almost, carried it off rather well, I thought, at the time, though now it seems pitiful, rather, deceitful, as well, however: Jerry felt out of place, felt up Renee to disembarrass himself, and so on, and she being mean about it, and we left as soon as we had finished our Danish open sandwiches and thick coffee: now I think how wrong we must have looked there, so out of place, so unaware of it, that is the worst part of it, now, the way it really hurts me, I feel all the embarrassment now that I should have felt then: odd. · · And back to their place, which was on the first floor in Sussex Gardens, the best floor, the piano nobile, as I know now: then I did not know, was ignorant of architecture, did not even realise it was an art, thought poetry could be the only art, in my ignorance, in my smallness, just thought it then a rather scruffy area, did not see the virtues of the houses, of the variations which broke the monotony of the long terraces without destroying their unity, coud not have put a name to the ionic capitals on the porticoes, for instances: really saw only the interior, the carpet and scuffed balustrade, the yellowed cream paint and dust-holding panelled doors, remember most of all the cupboards in which were fitted the kitchen and bathroom of this one-room complete conversion. Do not remember what preliminaries, what we said when this kitchen and bathroom had been wondered at, what happened before I remember being on the bed with Joan, and it must have been dark, the light must have been put off, I am sure, because Jerry and Renee were on the other bed, or was it on the sofa, Renee would not have the bed, yes, that was it, I could hear he was not getting very far, but I was luckier, I was trying to put my hand down the neck of her blouse, a red blouse it was, of silk or nylon or some such stuff, and not succeeding, the gap was very small, I almost tore it, or did I tear it? · · Then she said suddenly, Here, and she had pulled it up, the blouse, from the waist and there was her breast, her left one, I cannot remember whether she had no brassiere on or whether she had undone that, as well, but I felt the left breast, and it was flaccid: I was lying on the right of her, it was the one naturally to hand, her left breast, and she said, Try the other one, the children haven’t made that one all soft, and I thought Christ! · · And did not let myself think any further, but felt the right one, and it was much firmer, and the nipple stood already, all ready for me, and I thought, How is it that the children suckled only one, unless for such an eventuality? And she led the next step, put her hands down and unzipped, no, they were buttons then, unbuttoned my flies and weaved her hand through the thicket, the wicket gate, of my y-fronts, and sighed enormously as she felt the hardness of my penis and then ran my foreskin back and the soreness of it as it rubbed over the roughness of my cellular pants was exciting and painful at the same time and her great mouth stopped working on mine and she said, Have you got a rubber? And I said no, and she said Please don’t, then, another time when you have, but I mustn’t have a baby, I mustn’t have another baby, you mustn’t give me a baby. A
nd I thought she sounded serious, about letting me have it another time, that is, so I said, Okay, almost at once, and did not press her further, and we just lay there a little while, and I had my hand on it, a handful of sprats, as Jerry would call it, soft and warm and sticky and unusual to my fingers, until Renee called out she was going to put the light on and did so just before I had myself buttoned up: and Renee laughed, the first time I had seen her so much as smile, and I noticed Joan had dirty cheese between her toes, under her nylons, and I told her I would take her out on Friday: that was Tuesday, and Jerry and I went to where we had left his motorbike, a 500 AJS it was, and went back home, to the suburbs, not talking, me euphoric, him sullen because Renee had apparently insisted that her sprats went unhandled. · · · · · · · · The film we went to see was a Swedish one about unmarried mothers, which Joan chose, and another one with it about palmology, or palmistry, rather, chiromancy in any case, and they claimed that they could have told Hitler was a power maniac and murderers were murderers beforehand, because of their hands, because of the lines on their palms, and they said writers had two crossed lines at the base of one of the fingers, I forget which one it was now, but I could not see my own palm in the dark and kept trying to remind myself to look when I was outside, but Joan was very clinging, in this film, not in the other, she was engrossed in Swedish unmarried mothers, yes, engrossed is the word, and she somehow entwined her leg over mine in a most lascivious way, distracting me from whether I might be or not, and she fondling John Thomas, as well, the while, and me remembering which was the better breast. · · · · · When we came out, I looked, and I was, though who can believe in chiromancy, and I thought, I’d better talk to her, and said, Did you enjoy the film? And she said, I’m always interested in anything to do with mothers, so I said, carefully, Are you an unmarried mother, then? And she said, No, not unmarried. So I thought, again, Sod it, what’s so mysterious about all this, then? · · · · · She took a shilling off me for the gas and we had the gasfire on and from the worn chintz sofa progressed on to the carpet and I got up to put the rubber on, and nearly tossed myself off doing it, not being at all used to it, then back and she was lying there half her length bright from the gasfirelight and the other shadowed, and she said, rather cynically, in the circumstances, I thought, Ah I see you came expecting it: and I did not know what to say, in reply, but got on with it, instead, and she said, It’s rather big, I’ve had three babies, you know: and I thought Christ! again, but what the hell, and when I was in, not really knowing whether it was big or not, not having had very much experience, at that time, then suddenly she said, Here, I’ll make it better for you, and she closed her legs, and then took it in again somehow, and it was much better, and shortly a great relief to me: though nevertheless I went and washed in the cupboard bathroom afterwards in case of the pox, very cramped in that cupboard, and we sat again on the sofa and she made some cocoa, half milk and half water, and then Renee came in and wanted to go to bed so I went and caught a late bus, luckily. · · · · · · · · That was the Friday I had left a job as an accounts clerk, unbearable it was, because of this girl, Laura—no, take them one at a time. · · On the Sunday after that Friday I said I would see Joan. She wanted to go to see her children, or two of them at least, who were together in a council home somewhere up in Mill Hill, I think it was, north London anyway, and would I go with her, and I did, yes, and took the kids some sweets, and fruit, I think, yes, and it was painful, the kids in this great old Edwardian building, an institution painted in institution colours, milk chocolate and pastel green, and all the children dressed alike in well-washed, faded uniforms, denim were they? · · Yet I could not feel much, a lack in me, at that time, that I had no capacity for pity, no real capacity for that feeling, I could feel only in certain areas, and this was not one of them, compassion, nor pity, either, though I could make the right outward responses, say something like the right words, though it was easy to see through these, I think, for others. Mostly now I felt embarrassed. · · There were a girl of about eight and a boy of about five, and the other one, a younger one, was in a different sort of institution somewhere else, and I gave these two the sweets and stuff, and she gave them stuff she had brought, not much, that was, and we were talking, and suddenly she turned the girl round to me, and said to me, Look at this, and ruffled back the child’s hair, and there was a great white patch of scalp, white, bare of hair. He did that, she said, He hated the kiddies, yet aren’t they lovely kiddies? Yes, I said, and smiled rightly at them, their new uncle. · · Later she told me the girl had said, We won’t be seeing this uncle again, will we? And she had said No. This was when we had come back from the home, and we were eating in some place in the Edgware Road, a distressing atmosphere to be in because the place opened on Sundays, no one likes working on Sundays, but the welsh rarebit was good, I remember that was good. · · I can remember a time when food was good, strange, · · not now. · · I do not remember what she had, what I bought her to eat. The conversation was not much, after the uncle bit. She complained Renee had twice brought men in that week, who had stayed all night, which she thought was not fair on her, she had not felt it was fair to expect her to sleep in the same room, and I did not know what to say, but asked her when Renee would be in that evening, and she said after six, she finished at six, so I thought to myself, That gives us over an hour. Then back, I suppose it was about five, quite warm, still, without the gasfire on, and I undressed her, she said she had never had it in the nude before, oddly, she liked it though, and I was quickly come, and we lay there a little while playing with each other’s, and I stood again very soon, and she crawled over me, haunched up, and put it in, and said, Just let it rest there, just rest, but I could not keep it still, of course, and she winced a little, and I had to hold her hips to get proper friction, she was so big, but it came, long and ever mounting, the best I had ever, and we lay there panting together for a long while, and I could think of nothing but how I could do it twice within twenty minutes. · · · · · · · · What then? I must think of it all, remember it all, it must be everything, otherwise I shall certainly not understand, shall have no chance of understanding, that I most desire, that I am here for. · · I sat up, did not look at her, went to the bath, discovered I had lost the rubber, turned to her, told her, panicking. Forget what she said, all I could do was turn back and try to wash in that awkward space. · · This is all very painful, painful. · · Then suddenly she said I’ve found it, dismayed, and I pushed back the cupboard door (for I was modest) and she was standing by the bed and pulling out the sheath from between her legs and the emission was sliding down the inside of her left thigh, and I was relieved, and laughed, and she made a face but did not laugh. · · · · · Renee came in as we were having some tea, Joan had bought a quarter of brawn for our tea: Renee had been on Sunday shift, she was a telephonist, and she shared our brawn and we toasted bread, and Renee made joky references to what she knew we had been at, and it was all friendly and almost domestic, and soon a man named John arrived, unexpectedly, a friend of Renee’s, who just completed the four, who was very welcome, as it happened, and he told me he was a motoring journalist and he was on his way back from seeing his mother for the weekend, and Renee explained that he did not get on with his wife, and she looked very sad about it, and John looked very sad about it, and took Renee’s hand in his and then we all cheered up again and went and had a drink over the road at the Marquis, which had all kinds of hunting scenes painted on its walls, badly, and there was a shortstrung piano, or whatever it is called, low, anyway, so that the player could look over it, and we all had a perhaps overfriendly evening and took some back to the girls’ room, or flat, and there John took a packet from his overnight bag, and there were sandwiches in it, I can still remember how welcome they were, beef and thickly buttered and thin white bread: delicious. · · I can st
ill think of food as delicious. · · And John talked about the car he was then running, and told me my transport home that night was assured: and something he said about cars set Joan laughing, and she said she had had a good rebore today, from which I took it she had not had it for some time before meeting me, and we all laughed and laughed, knowingly, and rebore has never meant the same to me since. · · · · · The idea of going to bed with a woman, with somebody else, another couple, in the same room, would have appalled me, but now it was so natural, the four of us had been together all evening, it was natural: the light was out, and I heard Renee quietly ask What about protection? And John reply, I’m all the protection you need, darling: and Renee seemed to accept this, which I took to be whipping it out just before, coitus interruptus, the Latin came to me suddenly, in fact, from the books, and also that it was thought to be bad for the woman, and I began to think I would like to try that, I began to long for it without the intercession of the rubber, just her next to me, ah, yes, but that night I still used a sheath, and this time it was a long while before I came, and she became rather tired of it, but it was great for me, when I did make it, and she was all right then, stopped her complainings, perhaps she had been dry, unlubricated: then she chattered a lot, I forget about what · · I should remember, everything would help, if I could, but I cannot, no matter, I cannot recall what I cannot recall, so: · · I think she had her hand on it all the time we were chattering, but it did not come up again as it had in the afternoon, not hard, but as she fondled it, it was sort of partly distended, half and half, and suddenly she said, I bet I can get it in backwards, and I was suddenly surprised, and said, Up your. . . ., groping for a euphemism, but before I could find one she understood, and said, No, you can get put in prison for that, here, I’ll show you. And she wriggled round, her back to me, and bent and manipulated until she had it part way in her vagina, and then she said, Leave it there, just leave it there, and I think we fell asleep then—no, there was one other thing, she said, it must have been before she put it in backwards, yes, she said, When I get to know you better, I’ll do it with my mouth, and I thought a minute, and said, You know me well enough by now, and she thought a minute, and did take it in her mouth, but not for long, and only the head, and I hardly remember what it was like, I mean, there was very little to feel, as she did it, as far as I can remember. · · · · · John took me home, and I was worried that they should see where I lived, the girls, that is, they came too, but I wanted to get home, it was about four in the morning, as I remember, and I was to start a new job next morning, with an oil company in High Holborn: and I was still first at that office next morning, and the first time I went to their gents I stood there in the stall and John Thomas was slightly sore, and I thought towards him, This lot don’t know what we’ve been up to, do they, mate? And I thought again of interruptus and of a time when a sheath would not be necessary, not with Joan, but with someone. . . . · · no, why think of that again, I am going over it again, shirking the real thing I must think about, the end, the why? · · It lasted I suppose a couple of weeks, certainly less than a month, the time is not important, the end is, I remember · · —hard, but I remember, work at it, force it, the mind tries hard, does its best, to forget what hurts it, has hurt it, has threatened it to any point, let alone to destruction. · · We were in the Marquis of Whatever one night, a Saturday night, yes, and now I was with Barry, a friend from my old firm, before I went to the oil company, an asbestos belting firm in Hammersmith, vicious nineteenth-century type capitalists: Barry was a salesman and had a car and I was an accounts clerk and did not: I had rung him up and said, You know we were always looking for enthusiastic amateurs? Well, I’ve found a couple! And he had taken to Renee, though Renee did not much take to Barry, for later she would not let him have it, but did give him a shine, for his trouble, but · · that’s irrelevant, what happened in the pub is relevant, that evening, careful · · Now: I do not know whether Joan knew him from before, or not, but this man—tall, bulky, awkward-looking, stubbled hair going grey about the ears and round to the back of the neck, I can see him still—this man talked to her briefly, perhaps he was only excusing some clumsiness towards her, or something: but he spoke to her, certainly, and I was suddenly jealous, and when she came back to where the other three of us were sitting I said, Who was that oaf? · · Yes, oaf was the word I remember, I remember distinctly using it, for it is not a word I use often, oaf, it has too many borrowed class overtones, for me: but oaf, then, a word of limited use, but I used it on this occasion hurriedly, just to hurt Joan, just to express my jealousy: and it did hurt her, I see now, and probably saw then, she did not speak, drank her Dubonnet and lemon, she always drank Dubonnet and lemon, or did she? And did not speak, and Barry must have brought us into some other kind of conversation, he had a great line in chatter with women, suave fitted him, suave, another word I do not use often, but there are some words which fit some people exactly, better than any other words, and suave fitted Barry just right, so right. · · · · · The other thing was, when we were back in their room and had had coffee, yes, the dutiful coffee made by Joan, the little in return for our largesse, the slight domestic token recognising that no economic prostitution was involved, for all our consciences: then an atmosphere which I recollect with some surprise, for its freedom: Barry had taken off his shirt and was lying on Renee’s bed, and Joan was in her bed, she could not have been naked, no, that’s right, how funny now, she got into bed with most of her clothes on, and undressed under the bedclothes, so that the others would not see, and urging me to put the light out: but I was relishing a power, delighting in my control, and made a task out of washing up cups, and at length turned, and Renee had taken her blouse off, and stood leaning her bare arm against the mantelpiece, I can see that posture still, and in my sureness I went up to her and put my arm around her shoulders and said, quietly into her ear, just touching her ear with my lips, Look at them both lying there, wanting it, but we’re in control, aren’t we? She smiled, and I felt then, I’d rather have Renee tonight, I liked Renee much better since I had seen her with John, but some sort of loyalty told me I should not, and so I switched off the light, and went to Joan’s bed, and as soon as I was undressed and in beside her she said, What did you say to Renee? And I said, Nothing. And I could tell she was hurt, but she did not press me as we got down to it: I kissed her hard, anyway, and fondled the slack dug as well as the firm one, and tried to please; but she did not respond very well, and then when I was in I could not obtain a proper purchase, she felt loose, not gripping me, so I asked her to come down on to the floor, which she grumbled at, but did, and it was better with the hard floor under my knees than the flabby bed, much better: and afterwards she got back into bed, I behind her, and from the far side I saw that Renee was still standing whitely at the mantelpiece and that Barry was with her, trying to pull her down on to the bed, this seen in the light from the streetlamps out in Sussex Gardens. · · Joan just lay there, usually she liked to hold me, but now I had to put her hand on it, and she just let it stay there, not working me up, so that it was half an hour before I stood again, the while not saying anything, my left hand between her thighs, listening to the sounds, movements, from Renee’s bed: and when I did stand and turned to Joan for it, she grumbled again, complained, and did not want it another time, but my cock rampant would bear no denying, so to the floor we went again and with no help at all from her I mounted and laboured long until I came in a great burst, and she breathed or sighed long and hard and I took the rubber off into a handkerchief and left it near my trousers, or did I leave it under the pillow and did she find it there in the morning? · · · · · Perhaps I fell asleep then, perhaps she did, too, anyway, I remember next asking Barry if he was ready to go and he said Yes, so he and I dressed and then put on the light, and Renee still in her bra and panties got up to see us away, quite friendly to Barry now
, and to me, but Joan still slept, or pretended to, and I woke her and said I would see her on the Sunday, and then, realising I ought to try to make it up, solely to secure my immediate future sex, I said I would come about two and go with her to see the kids again, and she murmured Yes and I kissed her forehead and went. · · · · · And in the car going back, this little Anglia the asbestos kings allowed Barry the use of, he said Renee would not let him have it but he had shot his load God knows where, and he did not seem disappointed, and I asked him if he was going to see her again and—. · this is irrelevant! · · I certainly felt, feeling that sick awareness which comes with almost everything I have to do with women, that it was virtually all over with Joan: but I expected her to be there that Sunday afternoon, and she was not there, nor was Renee, so I went down to her landlady, who told me Joan had gone away for the weekend, and I was shocked, bewildered, and went to a café until four, the one with the good welsh rarebit, and then to a cinema until the Marquis opened at seven, where the girl behind the bar said she had last seen Joan on Friday night when she was in with a man whom I recognised from her description as probably being the oaf. · · It was just the betrayal at first, I call it a betrayal, dignify it by such a name, but it was that which hurt me in the beginning, only that, but later all that hurt was missing the sexual release. I did ring her up a day or two later, perhaps, and she said she had been down to South Wales to see her aunt, who had given her her dead mother’s wedding ring, or was it she saw her dying mother and she had given her the ring as the only thing she could give? Anyway, something about her mother’s wedding ring—yet wait, I saw the ring at some point, yet I did not see her after that Sunday, no, how could—I cannot remember. The point is, she went off to Wales for the weekend with this thick from the Marquis, and she said on the phone to me, He’s not an oaf, you know, he’s not. · · · · · · · · And I left it there. · · · · · Except that Barry and I a couple of weeks later took two other girls we had picked up in Richmond to the Marquis, one’s mother owned a hairdressers’ in Kensington and the other worked there, and as we came in through the door Joan and Renee were there with the oaf and Joan said, Oh, here come the boys: but otherwise they took no notice of us, and we did not tell the girls now with us. When we took these two home all my one gave me, the hairdresser’s assistant, was a slobbery kiss and an allowed hand on a tit half in and half under a bra, watched from the Anglia’s front seat by her employer’s daughter: then I thought of Joan, and missed having the release, at least, and thought of the oaf probably having her that minute, and was very sad and desolate and very bitter and wondered what I had done to make her just desert me like that, was baffled by her giving me up and I still ask, Why? Why?