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ed lips and thin transparent tops. He just looked at her sometimes as
in a state of shock, or as if she was some grown up boy in disguise. But
the miracle was here. She could still hear the sound of his voice : “Oh,
Muriel, I love you, I love you so much. If I’d but known that you liked
me... Muriel, will you stay with me for ever?” All the romantic crap, but
she knew it was real. He had been shy, she realized, he believed that she
was too beautiful, too good for him. It could have lasted for years like
this without the incident last night, when she had slightly cut a finger
with a sharp knife, as she was trying to peel a custard apple for him in
the kitchen. He had gone all white, as if he was about to faint; then
he lent her his hankie, he wanted to suck her finger as if the fruit was a
poisonous snake in a tropical adventure story. Then he had felt stupid
and tried to explain: “Muriel, I don’t want any harm to come to you,
you know, I like you very much. —It’s nothing, it’s not your fault, she
said. I like you too. —Do you mean you really like me? More than Steve,
for example? —What makes you think I like Steve? —Oh, nothing. But
would you let me kiss you, if I asked you?” He had come closer to her,
just sideways, a bit clumsy but looking her in the eyes, as she was holding
her bloody finger in his hankie, not feeling the pain any more. Then she
had half closed her eyes, saying: “Yes, Joe, I would let you.” And now
she felt she was a real woman; it had been so slow, so perfect in spite of
Joe’s obvious lack of know-how with the girls, not a quickie, as with the
other guys, Steve or Fred; she felt she had experienced what real love was
all about. And she had this dream:
It was a lovely winter day in the old country, one of these days
when the morning light rises slowly over the mist in the meadows and
the mist becomes intensely bright and white, a soft translucent white
at the same time, made whiter and more delicate because of all the
deep green, the greys and blues that appear under and above, like clean
curtains blown horizontal by the breeze, but with no breeze. The mist
was in levitation, of its own will, like the happy body of a woman with
her arms effortlessly stretched and spread over her head and her white
breasts peacefully resting on their own cushioned mass. Was it Sussex
or Flanders? She was a little girl, she felt little, walking in the early
morning with her hand in her father’s big paw. She could feel her father’s
presence, the weight of his bulky body at her side, walking longer steps
than her, dragging her a bit at times, stopping a few moments at times,
stooping to show her something, a big black and white cow licking her
calf that was a different colour, or some sheep, a flock of birds in the
sky... But she could not see her father, just his square hairy hand holding
hers, his thick jeans, his big leather shoes. Then they were in the large
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