JOANNE WANTING

a novel by

philip gillett

chapter 1 

The traffic moves slowly. The afternoon sun glancing off the windows of a tower block makes drivers screw up their eyes. The air is heavy with fumes. The girl drums her fingers on the steering wheel. In her mirror she watches the driver of the Cortina immediately behind her, his bare chest adorned by a medallion. He notices her interest and grins. She smiles back before twisting the wheel. The sports car edges from the stream of traffic and overtakes four cars. An old man at the wheel of a Morris Minor glares at her. Despite the heat he wears a tweed sports jacket with a shirt and a tie.  Drivers in the opposite lane sound their horns, but the girl pays no attention. The sports car draws level with a lorry. Above the throb of the engine she can hear the radio in the driver’s cab. The heat of the exhaust makes her wrinkle her nose. The driver glances down at her. She cannot read his expression. His shirtsleeves are rolled up. She can see grime staining the fabric. 
The sports car stops at the next junction. When a chance presents itself, the girl accelerates across the oncoming traffic, the exhaust crackling. In the side road there is nothing to delay her. The car is in the shadow of nineteenth-century tenements where children play among the clotheslines in the yard. A cat scuttles beneath a car to watch the intruder. Nobody else takes any interest.
Slowing beside an abandoned cemetery where trees and shrubs grow densely and bindweed clings to the rusty railings. Past padlocked gates choked with weeds. Past a huddle of houses and a pub which survived the war. Into a busier road of rundown shops, houses and factories. The West Indian is smartly dressed, his shirt a bright red, the trousers of his suit sharply pressed. He smiles at the girl as the car pulls into the kerb beside him. She leans across the passenger seat.
‘Do you know Argosy Street?’ 
‘Argosy Street,’ he ruminates. ‘There’s no Argosy Street around here.’
‘Okay. Thanks anyway.’ 
‘Sorry.’
She settles back in the seat. The man watches appreciatively as the car pulls away. She ignores the next pedestrian – an old woman in a filthy raincoat who pushes her belongings in a lopsided pram. Instead, the car pulls up outside a cafe. As the girl in the miniskirt lopes to the counter, the few customers follow her progress. Conversation becomes desultory. 
‘Is anyone serving?’ she calls above the hissing of the urn, tapping her key on the yellow Formica counter. The atmosphere is oppressively humid, in spite of the door being left open. There is a smell of frying bacon. In the clear plastic dome, only small packets of biscuits are left. 

An elderly man, wizen and unshaven, appears from behind the opaque glass screen. The collar of his nylon shirt is unfastened, the fabric stark white against his skin. He looks startled by her presence. He is wiping his hands on a tea towel.
‘Do you know Argosy Street?’ the girl presses. 
‘Argosy Street,’ he muses, scratching his chin. The skin is red and greasy. ‘It’s around here somewhere.’ 
‘Off Dalby Road,’ one of the customers offers.
‘Not Dalby Road way,’ another argues. ‘There’s no Argosy Street down there. It’s over by the docks.’
‘It is. The other end of Dalby Road.’ 
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘I thought it was by the docks.’ 
‘Can you give me directions?’ the girl asks, turning to other customer.
‘Keep on going to the big garage and Dalby Street is opposite. You can’t miss it. Then keep going and you’ll see Argosy Street on the left-hand side.’ 
‘Thanks.’ She smiles at the man behind the counter. All eyes are on her as she goes back to her car. 
‘Stuck up,’ the man behind the counter sums up.
‘Bet you wouldn’t turn it down, Bert.’
He does not answer.
The car shoots away from the kerb, only to slow a few moments later as the girl looks for the garage. She expects to see a large service station; instead the garage is a workshop spread over two floors. She almost misses it. Only the street name shows that she has found the right place. 
Dalby Road is lined with town houses. Front doors are crudely painted in orange, purple and red. Windows are decorated with sun-bursts in psychedelic colours. Thudding music comes from an open sash.
She noses the car into the final turning. Argosy Street is a place of more shabby terraces with rotting window frames, peeling doors and weeds growing from broken downpipes. Not all the houses are numbered. The car is crawling now. She pulls into the kerb outside an unnumbered house. Nothing to distinguish it from the others. With the engine switched off she gets out of the car. 
There are three bell pushes, all unmarked. She hears the ringing when she presses the top one, but there is no response. She tries the second. It sounds more distantly. There are steps on the stairs. 
The dusky-featured girl who opens the door looks wary. Her tousled hair is combed out, giving the illusion of a halo. 
‘I’m looking for Mike,’ the visitor explains. 
‘He’s not here at the moment.’
‘I’m Joanne. I don’t know whether he mentioned me.’
The other girl shakes her head. 
‘This is awkward.’ Joanne hesitates. ‘The thing is he invited me to live here.’
The other girl looks surprised rather than put out. She grins, opening the door wider. ‘You’d better come in then.’
‘It might be better if I came back later.’
‘It’s okay,’ the other girl assures her. ‘He’ll be in soon. I’m Liz, by the way.’
‘Please to meet you, Liz.’
‘Do you want to bring your cases in?’ 
‘Perhaps I’d better.’
‘I’ll help you.’
They haul the two cases from the car and up the steps. 
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ Joanne presses as Liz closes the front door. The hall has a musty smell. The girls edge around the bicycle and the stacks of abandoned post. The sound of a guitar comes from upstairs.
‘People come and go in this place,’ Liz explains. ‘If you want to live with us, you’re very welcome. We’re up on the first floor.’
Clattering up the bare stairs. The bright yellow paint on the walls and woodwork is chipped and scuffed. Bob Dylan’s voice provides a wry accompaniment to their progress. With the cases left on the landing Liz leads the way into the kitchen at the rear. A youth with dreadlocks sitting at the kitchen table looks up suspiciously. A girl with long hair and a cheesecloth blouse is preparing a salad. She smiles. 
‘Joanne’s come to live with us,’ Liz announces. ‘Mike invited her.’ 
‘And didn’t tell you,’ Joanne adds. 
‘It’s okay,’ Liz says. She waves to the others. ‘This is Elaine and Doug.’
‘Hi,’ Elaine greets her. 
‘Pleased to meet you. This is going to cause you lot of problems, isn’t it?’
‘No problem,’ Elaine assures her. ‘So long as you like salad and brown rice.’
‘Looks great.’
‘Mike should be in soon, then we’ll all eat together.’
‘Give me a chance to get to know everybody.’ 
‘I’ll show you where to put your things,’ Liz says, breaking the developing silence. 
The two girls go back to the landing. 
‘That’s the living room,’ Liz explains, gesturing to the door at the front of the house. The bedroom’s along here.’ She drags one case to the rear of the landing and opens a door to reveal a room with apple green paint over the wallpaper. Two double mattresses occupy most of the floor. On the far side are a large, Edwardian wardrobe and a scratched chest of drawers with one handle missing. 
‘The thing is will there be enough room for you?’ Liz is watching for Joanne’s reaction. Joanne has put down the second case. ‘Come and have a look.’ 
Liz walks across the mattresses and after a moment’s hesitation Joanne kicks off her shoes and follows. She watches Liz struggling with the wardrobe door.
‘There we are.’ Liz finally pulls the door open. ‘What do you think?’ 
Joanne surveys the array of dresses in faded colours. She guesses that they belong to Elaine. 
‘This is fine,’ she insists.
‘There’s some more space in the chest of drawers.’
‘I can always leave things in the cases.’
‘Then everything gets creased. If you empty them, we can put them in the junk room next door.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Liz hesitates. ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’
‘I’ll come through when I’ve done.’
‘Let me know if you want anything.’
‘Thanks.’ 
Joanne watches the other girl tramping across the mattresses. With the door pulled to, the music still reaches faintly into the room. Her attention is held by a painting of a lotus pinned to the wall. Subtle variations of colour give it an almost hypnotic intensity. She draws her eyes away and begins the unpacking. Any smell from the jumble of shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe is overlain by the scent of the rose petals strewn among them. As she kneels on the mattress to open the nearest case, she stares at the painting again and reflects on whether she has done the right thing. 
The front door slams. A man's steps sound in the hall and ascend the stairs. Joanne holds her breath. 
‘Don't start rattling the money box as soon as I get in,’ he calls from the landing. Not Mike's voice. Joanne’s excitement dies. As she hears Liz greeting the newcomer, she tries to push the clothes along the rail. The wardrobe already seems overfull. She drags the case across the mattress to the chest of drawers. The top drawer sticks. The one underneath is stuffed with a tangle of socks, tights and underwear belonging to both sexes. There is a smell of dirty socks.

Joanne goes out to the landing. Her clothes are still in her case in the bedroom. Voices come from the kitchen. Quietly she opens the adjacent door to find a room smaller than the kitchen. Two easy chairs rest upside down on a table. A sideboard is piled with suitcases and cardboard boxes. Drab fabric lampshades are pressed one upon the other like some strange sculpture. An easel by the door holds a stack of canvases against the wall. She pulls them forward, letting them rest against her legs, so that one painting is revealed. The depth and brightness of the colours make them glow in their shabby surroundings. Yellows blaze with the fierceness of a mustard field caught full in the afternoon sun. The whites have the intensity of a full moon. The colours are thickly applied to create a three-dimensional effect. From the centre, colours swell in darkening circles to a deep, infinite blue. Joanne stares, not understanding why the colours disturb her. She runs her fingers over them cautiously, afraid of entering their mystery, but she encounters only hardness and coldness. The very lightness of the canvas serves to emphasise that she is party to an illusion. She turns over another painting, this time of a man’s face. It is painted in similar style, with each colour thickly applied and sharply delineated. The immediacy of emotion in the features compels attention. She cannot analyse why there is sadness in the eyes, though she is certain of her instincts. The elusive quality fascinates her, yet makes her uneasy. She does not want to be alone with the face. She lets the canvas fall back and rests the easel against the pile again. The dust on her clothes betrays her curiosity; when she tries to brush it off, the mark only seems more obvious. She tiptoes back to the bedroom.
‘This is Joanne,’ Liz announces as Joanne pushes open the kitchen door when the unpacking is done. Liz has her arm around a man in bus conductor's uniform who is introduced as Bob. He is clean-shaven, almost baby-faced, with trusting eyes which make Joanne want to cuddle him. Liz’s eyes sparkle as she looks at him. He points at Joanne.
‘You're Mike’s mysterious stranger.’ 
‘Is that how he described me?’
‘We got a full description.’ 
‘I don't know about being mysterious.’
‘Anyway, good to have you here.’ 
‘Thanks.’
‘It'll be good to have another face. Gingers things up.'
‘Getting bored with my face then?’ Liz enquires with mock seriousness before breaking into a smile. She kisses him, pushing him against the table.
‘Watch out!’ Doug snaps.
‘Where 's the bathroom?’ Joanne asks, holding up a towel and sponge bag. ‘I've got these to offload.‘ 
‘We have to keep everything in here,’ Elaine explains, opening a cabinet below the draining board. ‘The towel rail's on the door. It's a bit inadequate, I’m afraid. We’ll have to think about how we can reorganise things.’
‘We have to share the bathroom upstairs with the other two flats, so we can’t leave our stuff in there.’ Liz adds, seeing Joanne’s frown. ‘Or you can, but people help themselves to your talc and your bath salts.'
Joanne is conscious of being watched by Doug as she looks in the cupboard. Before she is provoked into saying anything, she hears the front door bang. There are steps on the stairs. She is facing the door as it is pushed open. Mike's surprise satisfies her. She cannot stop herself from smiling.
'You did tell me to come.’
'Sure.’ He looks bewildered. ‘Sure.’
‘Didn't you expect me to?’
‘I didn't know.’ 
‘You hadn't told anybody.’
Elaine says brightly, ‘All we're waiting for now is Steve. I don't know what’s happened to him.’ She looks to Liz for support.  ‘What shall we do?'
'I think we should eat,’ Liz decides. ‘We won’t know how long he's going to be.’
Elaine turns to Mike. To Joanne’s eyes she looks disappointed with Liz’s decision.
‘Might as well,’ Mike agrees. ‘If we run out, he can always get a takeaway.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Joanne assures them. ‘I never eat all that much.'
They carry the bowls of salad and rice into the adjoining room, while  Doug remains in the kitchen, reading. The living room is sparsely furnished. Evening sun reaches into the bay. Walls, ceiling, woodwork and fireplace are painted white. The varnished floorboards are spread with bright rugs. Pre-Raphaelite posters adorn the walls. The alcoves on either side of the fireplace are crammed with shelves of paperbacks and records. Tall ferns stand by the window. Spread over the centre of the floor is a white linen cloth.  Bob drags two single mattresses from behind the door and puts them on either side. They are covered by red blankets. Nobody seems to notice that the radio is still playing in the kitchen. Everybody is barefoot.
‘It looks marvellous,’ Joanne exclaims. 
Doug appears from the kitchen when everything is ready. He lies on his stomach across one mattress, still engrossed in his magazine. Mike sits cross-legged beside him. Bob and Liz sit opposite, with Elaine next to them. Joanne sits beside Mike. She faces Elaine.
‘This is an Elaine salad,’ Liz explains, giving out the earthenware plates. ‘It’s better than mine.’
‘It’s different,’ Elaine corrects her. ‘I go in for lots of nutty things where Liz uses lots of herbs.’ She grins at Mike. ‘Mike’s salads are too greasy, so we don’t let him make many, unless we feel like living dangerously.’ 
‘I made one salad that was a bit over the top and she holds it against me,’ Mike defends himself.
‘Your salads always swim.’
‘Joanne won’t want to try one if you tell her that.’
‘I’ll give them a try,’ Joanne promises.
The bowls of food are passed around. Joanne takes a token amount of rice and salad. Liz and Bob fill each other’s dishes.
‘It’s good,’ Joanne decides after her first mouthful. ‘Full marks for Elaine’s nutty salad.’
Elaine looks pleased. ‘You might get sick of it after a few times,’ she warns. ‘That’s why we take it in turns.’
‘Do you live on salads? Do we live on salads, I should say.'
'We have one pretty well every day. We’re a healthy lot here.’ 
‘You’ll find mine rather dull, so be prepared.’
‘I used to say that about mine, but there’s no such thing as a dull salad. Honestly.’
‘Wait till you’ve tried mine.’
‘We’ll have to figure out some different seating,' Mike intervenes. 
‘It’s the same as when we have visitors,’ Elaine points out. ‘Somebody has to sit at the end. It doesn’t take much figuring.’
‘I suppose so.’ 
‘Joanne’s going to think you don’t want her here if you start looking for problems.’
‘Do you think that?’ he asks, looking at Joanne. 
‘I begin to wonder when you don’t tell anybody I’m coming.’
‘I wasn’t sure I’d converted you.’ 
‘You make it sound like a religion.’
‘We’re anything but that,’ Liz assures her. 
Joanne shakes her head. She is smiling.
‘You only came for the party. Don’t tell me.’
‘The party! Shit.‘ Liz sits up suddenly, making everybody look at her. She explains, 'I was going to make some of those crunchy things, but I shan’t be able to get the ingredients now. All the shops are closed.’
‘I'll get something tomorrow,’ Elaine reassures her.
‘Not that it matters much. I don’t know why I bother when everyone gets so pissed they don’t even notice what they're eating. Half of it ends up on the floor.’
‘I like your crunchy things,’ Bob consoles her. 
‘You can’t have them, can you? I'm not taking tomorrow off to do them.’
‘It’ll spoil the party, not having your crunchy things.’
‘If you're good, I'll make you some next week.’
‘Promises, promises.’
‘Would I let you down?'
‘You might change your mind.’
‘When have I changed my mind when I say I'll do something?’
‘Sometimes you need a bit of prompting.’
'That's not nice.' She feigns hurt. ‘You’ve done yourself out of your crunchy things.’ She turns away. ‘You can't get round me now.’
Bob brings his face close to hers and she softens. They touch noses. Liz responds. 
As everybody begins eating again, the front door bangs. There are steps on the stairs. Elaine is rising, her food forgotten. She runs out to the landing, her excitement like that of a little girl.
'You're late,’ she is saying. ‘I wondered what had happened to you.’
‘I stayed in the cause of poetry.‘ The man's answer is slow and deliberate.
‘We've got a surprise for you. Come on.’ She reappears, dragging the man into the room. Her self-possession has gone. ‘Joanne, meet Steve.’ 
‘Hi,’ Joanne greets him. She has to twist around to smile at the newcomer.
‘Hello Joanne.‘ Steve answers gravely, weighing the import of every word. From where Joanne is seated, he looks like a giant. His face is devoid of warmth or humour. She could be looking upon an animal with instincts instead of emotions. The sensation is unsettling. She takes in his appearance: unkempt hair and beard, white shirt with a worn collar, black tie as though he has come back from a funeral and, shiny black suit which is darned around the turn-ups. He reminds her of a clerk from a Dickens novel. She feels no liking for him, but Elaine is clinging to him and looking so happy that Joanne feels bound to smile. Steve looks down fondly at his Elaine, stroking her head absent-mindedly as he might stroke a dog.
‘So we have a new friend, do we? Friends are always gratifying, but how has Joanne suddenly entered our life?’
‘She’s come to live here. She was looking for Mike.’ 
Mike raises his eyebrows. ‘We are multiplying. Our ideas are spreading. It’s most gratifying.’
‘Do you mind sitting at the end, or do you want my place?’
‘I shall assume my place at the head of the table.’ Steve lowers himself on a rug. ‘This makes me feel like some ancient patriarch. When Doug finds a mate, we shall have to invest in a larger cloth. Our whole social dynamic will be changed.’ He shakes his head. ‘What developments in our little company.’
While the others resume eating, Elaine scoops food on Steve’s plate. 
‘Was this a conversion in true biblical style?’ he enquires, looking at Joanne, ‘or did a divine light lead you to Argosy Street?'
‘I wish it had – it took me ages to find the place. I should have brought an A to Z.’ 
She neither knows nor cares whether he is being serious.
‘It was a long, hard conversion,’ Mike explains. ‘Took a lot of coffee before she was convinced.’
‘Which I bought,’ she reminds him. ‘I don’t think it was just philosophy that was on your mind.’ 
Steve stares at her with renewed interest. ‘You must be the mysterious girl in Oxford Street.’
‘None other.’
'Well, well.’ Steve looks at her with exaggerated surprise. ‘So we have a fully-fledged public relations consultant in our midst.’
‘An ex-public relations officer, to be precise. And I never got as far as running a consultancy.'
‘Would you care to give your promotional talents to a struggling but worthy magazine devoted to the progressive elements of expression in every form?’ He holds out his hands towards Joanne. ‘Discard the rat race. Join us in an exploration of the frontiers of creativity.’
‘I did say I've got out of that field now. I have officially retired.’ 
'Aren't you a little young to retire?’
'It’s why I've come here – to give myself a change of direction.’
‘This is a working community, Joanne. We do not retire. We do not retreat from the world to contemplate our souls or our navels. We are not dilettanti.'
‘It's not a permanent retirement.’
‘I'm glad to hear it.’ He watches for Joanne's response, but as she concentrates on her food, he turns his gaze to Elaine. ‘One of your salads?’ 
‘Don't you like it?’ Elaine’s face has clouded. The concern in her voice makes Joanne look up. The others appear not to have noticed. 
‘I didn't say that, did I?’
‘But you don’t like it. Do you want an omelette instead?’
‘Your salads are always delicious, my dear Elaine. It's because of the nuts.’
‘What about mine?’ Liz asks, turning to face him.
‘Yours are also perfect in their way, but as you know, I’m biassed. Nuts are my staff of life.’
The conversation lapses as everybody eats. Joanne glances at the two couples whose relationships are unfamiliar to her. As Mike catches her eye she smiles briefly, not speaking, and turns back to her food. She looks up again as he asks her, ‘What decided you to come?’
‘Because you asked me and because I was interested. Perhaps you should have been a salesman.'
‘Anything but.’
‘Why didn’t you think I’d come?’ 
‘Not your sort of scene.’
'Then why were you so insistent?’
‘You sounded interested.’
‘And you fancied her,’ Steve interjects.
’That as well,’ Mike agrees.
‘What is my sort of scene?’ Joanne enquires.
‘That’s pretty obvious.’
‘Is it?'
‘You’d been shopping in Bond Street.’
‘So? Lots of people shop in Bond Street.’
‘Sure – people with plenty of money to throw around on luxuries.’
‘Lots of people go window-shopping.’
‘You were buying.’
‘So? What’s wrong with wanting good-quality things?’
‘Fine – if you can afford them. Most people can’t.’
‘My shopping tastes didn't seem to put you off.’ 
‘We try to be free of prejudice,’ Steve explains. ‘We want to put ourselves in the position where prejudice becomes absurd.’
'Even if it means taking in people who shop in Bond Street?’
‘The principle works if people want it to work, which I suppose can be said for all principles if they are not to degenerate into meaningless rituals.’
‘Did you bring your car?’ Mike interrupts, looking at Joanne. 
‘Why?’
‘I’m guessing the red sports car outside is yours.’
‘Is it against the house rules? A clapped-cut sports car isn’t exactly a status symbol.’
‘I was thinking more of the fact that you might find your wheels nicked.’
Joanne shrugs. ‘I can't bring it inside.'
‘Obviously something to be discussed at greater length,’ Steve concludes.
‘Is it really worth having a long discussion about where I park my car?'
Steve assumes a shocked expression. ‘It strikes at the very core or our concept of communal living, my dear Joanne. Everything here is shared. A car owned by one person could shatter our painfully-wrought equilibrium. And you do not know how painfully wrought.'
'Anybody with a driving licence is welcome to use it, so long as they pay for the petrol.’ 
‘The expense of running a car must be shared equally. That is the basis of how we live. So can we bear such a burden?’
‘If I put enough into the kitty to run the car and cover my share of the rent, will that do?’
Steve holds out his upturned palms to the others. ‘Who thinks such a course would be satisfactory?’
There are murmurs of assent. 
Steve turns back to Joanne. ‘All objections are overruled, so Joanne, you may keep your car. Capitalism encroaches upon us and we accept it with equanimity.’ 
‘It is quite useful to have a car.’
‘No objections were even mentioned. Perhaps I should have raised them for the sake of form.’
Nobody shows signs of sharing Steve's qualms. Doug signifies that he has finished eating by letting his fork clatter on the empty plate. He rolls on his back and stares at the ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. Nobody comments when he belches. 
The meal is finished in silence, as though Steve's conversation has dulled their spirits. Joanne helps Elaine to collect the plates and bowls and take them into the kitchen.
‘If you can get some dishes out the cupboard, that would be great.’ Elaine hesitates as she takes a bowl of diced fruit from the food safe. 'Did Mike tell you we were vegetarian?’ 
'I guessed that from the salad.’ 
‘So long as you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all.’
Elaine grins. ‘I used to get the urge for a ham sandwich, but I don’t mind so much now.’
‘When were you converted?'
‘Before we came here, but we didn't keep it up then. It's easier when there's a whole group of you.’
‘How long have you been here?’ 
‘Six weeks.’ She smiles at Joanne’s surprise. 'How long did you think?’  
‘Much longer than that.’
‘It's worked out pretty well, so I suppose we've settled in.’ She hesitates. ‘Let’s go and feed the masses.’
They take the fruit, cream and dishes into the living room.
‘A procession of beautiful women bearing bounteous treasures,' Steve proclaims. 
'Wait till we start our women's lib branch,’ Elaine warns him, spooning fruit into the dishes.
‘And expose our frail relationships to even greater stresses?’
'That's typical male rationalising.’
‘Rationality is our only stability, my dear Elaine. And men are emotionally stable.’
The dishes of fruit are passed from person to person. 
‘I should have grated the apple,’ Elaine decides, turning it over with her spoon. 
‘No one minds,’ Steve assures her.
‘It’s going brown.’
'A perfectly natural chemical reaction. It would have gone brown if you’d grated it.’
‘Tastes all right.'
‘Of course it is,’ Steve declares, putting his arm around her. ‘Anything prepared by you is a thing of love, a thing of beauty.’
‘Flattery.'
‘It’s the truth. Truth can never be flattery.’
'I thought we were deciding what we were going to do this evening.’
Liz flaps her hands to attract the others' attention. 'There’s a one-day showing of 2001 at the Odeon, if anybody fancies it.’
‘Fancies it again,’ Steve corrects. ‘What does Joanne think? Do Kubrick’s mysteries stir you?'
‘It’s somewhere to go.’
‘Somewhere to go! My dear girl, a Kubrick film is never merely somewhere to go. It is a life-enhancing experience.’ 
‘I chose the wrong words.’
'We shall make it a celebration of your arrival – a veritable celebration.’
*
‘How many times have you smashed this thing?’ Mike asks as they get out the car.
‘Criticising my driving?’ Joanne enquires.
‘It can be hair-raising.’
‘I collected one or two dents when I first got it, but I'm used to its little ways now.’
‘I’m not used to your little ways.’ He squeezes her.
‘Takes time.’
Mike releases her to ascend the steps and fumble with the lock. Joanne looks around the darkened street, turning from the green eyes of the cat which watches her. 
‘Are you going to leave your car there?' Mike asks.
‘Haven’t got much choice, have I?’ 
‘You'll have problems if you leave it overnight around here.’
‘So we live dangerously. I thought you liked that.’
They clamber upstairs, to be plunged into darkness before they reach the landing. 
‘You have to go up two at a time if you want to beat the light,’ Mike explains. ‘We keep asking the landlord to do something about the time switch, but he never does.’
They reach the landing by the light spilling from the kitchen. There is a smell of coffee. In the kitchen, Doug sits at the table, reading a horror comic. Steve and Bob sit on the lean against the table watching Elaine bring out more mugs. Liz waits for the kettle to boil. 
‘All together again,’ Steve observes. ‘I think we shall have to get an old taxi instead of a sports car, or we shall be forever destined to make our journeys in two groups.’ 
‘I thought you didn't approve of cars,’ Joanne reminds him. 
‘Decadence is encroaching. None of us is immune.’
‘Who liked the film?’ Elaine interrupts. 
‘That sounds like a way of changing the subject,’ Steve observes, ‘but since you ask, I can’t claim that it’s my favourite film. It tries too hard.’
‘Don’t spoil it with a lot of intellectualising,’ Elaine pleads. ‘It's my favourite film of all time.’
‘You have conventional tastes, my dear Elaine.’
‘Sorry about that. Can you get the milk out?’
They drink coffee in the living room. Joanne sits beside Mike on a rug. Bob puts on a record. There comes the voice of a blues singer, spinning words of sadness around the softly-lit room. Liz gets up to turn on the gas fire. The hissing of the gas is a background to the song.
'With night upon us, let us ponder the mysteries of the universe,' says Steve. ‘Elaine – what are you doing?'
'Getting comfortable.’ She snuggles between his outstretched legs and rests against his chest. As he strokes her hair, she smiles contentedly. Liz kneels in front of Bob, her eyes never leaving him as he blows across the coffee. Joanne glances at Mike, conscious that he is watching her. She smiles contentedly as she rests against him.
‘Why don't you have curtains here?’ she asks.
'If we did, the people opposite wouldn't be able to see anything.'
‘You're so considerate.’
‘We'll disappoint them soon – we'll turn the light off.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
Liz breaks free of her reverie. She looks worried as she turns to Joanne. ‘Will the single mattress be okay for you two? We could get another one from upstairs if you want. We're going to need it eventually.’  
'What do you think?’ Joanne looks at Mike.
‘I think we'll manage. Sounds cosy.’
‘If you’re happy.’ Liz watches Doug getting to his feet. He takes his coffee into the kitchen. 
‘Doug's personalised late night blues,’ Steve murmurs. ‘They’re a regular feature of life here.’
‘What were you saying about a party?’ Joanne asks.
‘Everything happens tomorrow, my dear Joanne. We shall see strangers coming together and reacting to one another. It will be an evening of pleasure, an evening instructive of human nature and of mystery – who makes it with whom.’
‘Sounds fun.’ 
‘Fun? More than fun, I hope.’ His gaze turns to Liz, who is looking towards the door. She is frowning. Her normal smile is absent. ‘If it’s Doug you’re worried about, I should leave him.’ 
Liz does not answer, though her expression betrays her disagreement. The voice of the singer seems to heighten the frailty of their relationships. Bob puts his arm around Liz, but she does not respond. The sadness afflicts even Elaine’s equanimity. She stares into her coffee. She is very still. Steve appears lost in contemplation of the music. At last he turns back to his companions.
‘We must draw together. We have created something which is special – a group with ideals and identity, transcending individuals. We must guard this precious phenomenon.’
Nobody answers. Liz has drawn away Bob. Her expression has not softened. Joanne nestles against Mike, but he does not respond. She sees Steve putting his face close to Elaine's, trying to draw a smile from her.
‘Mind, or you’ll knock your coffee over,’ she warns him.
Hesitantly, as though afraid of loosening the bonds which hold the group together, the couples turn in upon themselves. When the record ends, nobody bothers to turn it over.
*
Joanne is hardly awake when Mike gets up. She settles in the centre of the warm mattress, not bothering about the sounds around her as sleep claims her again.
The room is bright as she opens her eyes for the second time. Sunlight on the white paintwork dazzles her. The flat is quiet. When she grows accustomed to the light, she sits up, leaning on one elbow and trying to make sense of her surroundings. She pushes her hair from across her face. Nobody else is in the room. There is a tangle of bedclothes on the other mattress. Her clothes are heaped on a rug at her side. As she pulls them towards her, she hears somebody on the landing. She glances towards the window, the lack on privacy making her conscious of her nakedness. She slides beneath the bedclothes again to put on her clothes. 
Elaine looks up from wiping the kitchen table. She smiles. 
‘Have a good night?’
‘Fine, thanks. What's the time?’
‘Half past ten.’
‘God.’ Yawning, Joanne falls on to a chair.
‘Fancy some coffee?' 
‘I think I’d better.’ 
‘You didn't have to go to work or anything, did you?’
‘No – fortunately.’
‘That's what I thought, so I didn't wake you up.’
‘It makes me look so lazy.’ Joanne yawns again as she watches Elaine lighting the gas under the kettle. ‘Have the others gone to work?’
‘Apart from Doug. I don’t know where he’s gone.’
Joanne yawns again. ‘I don’t know why I’m so tired.’
‘All the excitements of yesterday.’ Elaine produces mugs and a tin of coffee from the cupboard. ‘It makes a change from being here alone. The theory is that I work part time and keep the place clean, but it doesn’t work out like that.’ 
‘You seem to be the mother figure.’
Elaine looks surprised. ‘I haven't really thought of myself like that.’ She grins at the prospect. ‘It's a new image for me. I'll have to tell Steve he's got himself a mother figure.’ 
‘Perhaps I shouldn't have put it like that. It doesn't sound very flattering.’
‘Fascinating idea, though.’
‘Steve might get an Oedipus complex, or something.’ Joanne gazes past Elaine. Through the window she sees the backs of the houses in the next street, bleached by the sun. The kitchen seems dark and claustrophobic by comparison. For a moment the image of Elaine against the sunlight becomes the silhouette of a wardress. Joanne blinks.
‘If you want a bath, you have to take a 5p piece for the meter,’ Elaine is explaining. ‘It’s best to take two – the water always runs out just when you've taken your clothes off.’
‘A cold bath might wake me up.’ As Joanne speaks, she tries to lose the feeling of being imprisoned, but it will not easily leave her. 
‘It’s going to be a late night with the party.’
Joanne yawns. ‘I’d forgotten that. At the moment I feel like creeping into a corner and missing it. I’ll probably change my mind when the time comes.’ 
‘I’ve got to organise the food for it. I shan’t be making anything like Liz does – just buy a load of nibbles like crisps and nuts.’ She smiles. ‘Should be fun –  lots of people turning up we’d forgotten about. I don’t know how they hear.’
'What about Doug?’
Elaine’s smile dies. ‘What about him?’ 
‘I got the feeling from last night that he doesn’t  like parties.'
‘I shouldn’t take too much notice of that.’ 
‘I think it was partly my fault.’
‘How do you mean?’ 
‘Having me here makes him the odd one out.’
‘We came here because we wanted to live like this. It’s our life as much as his, so it’s up to him if he doesn’t like the situation. I know it sounds hard, but I don’t see what else we can do. We try to bring him into everything.’ 
‘I guessed that.’
‘It’s important that we accept each other.’ Elaine is frowning. ‘We weren’t sure how things would go, but it seems to be working out okay so we’ve got to make sure it stays that way. That’s what I think, anyway. I’m probably talking crap.’
‘I don’t know why I thought you’d been here for a long time.’
‘We came here when Steve was chucked out of art school. I gave it up as well and here we are.’
‘You just gave it up because Steve did?’
‘I only drifted into it in the first place, like most people. Most of the girls in the year above me ended up going into offices because they couldn’t get any work in the art world – or they went on the dole. There didn’t seem much point in carrying on with it.’
‘Seems a pity when you’ve got talent.’ 
‘You think you have to start with. When you get to art school, you find out what real talent is – and that you haven’t got it.’ 
‘I still think it’s a pity.’
‘I still paint sometimes – when everybody else is out.’
‘Is that your work in the junk room?’
‘The oils?’ Elaine grins. ‘They’re mine. Steve drew the lotus in the bedroom. It’s the only thing of his he kept, which is a pity.’
When the kettle boils, Elaine makes coffee. The two girls sit facing each other at the table. With the gas turned off, a stillness comes to the room. 
Elaine grins. ‘We must look like housewives having their elevenses.‘ 
‘We should be listening to Tony Blackburn.’ 
‘I do sometimes.’
‘Adds the authentic touch.’
'One thing we must do is to get the spare mattress from upstairs. We’ll need it for tonight. There’ll be bodies everywhere.’
‘Who lives upstairs?’
‘The guys up there have got a spare mattress for guests, which we scrounge when we need it.’ 
‘How many people are you expecting at the party?’ 
Elaine shrugs. ‘Who knows? Might be half a dozen, or it might be thirty. Depends it there’s another party on or if people invite their friends.’
‘I was wondering whether to ask a friend of mine along. She’s a bit down. She needs a party.’
‘The more the better.’
*
‘Welcome.’ Joanne holds the door open wider. She is smiling broadly. 
Mandy waves a bottle of wine. ‘I’ve been driving around for hours. Honestly, this place is off the map. And there was no one to ask – just black guys who grin and think you want to be picked up. And there’s these gangs of morons roaming everywhere. It’s like coming to the last outpost of the empire.’ 
‘Have you finished?’
‘Are you going to let me in?’ 
Joanne opens the door wider.
‘From the noise I take it the party’s upstairs.’ Mandy peers around the bleak hall without much enthusiasm. ‘Do you think I’m overdressed?’
‘You’re fine.’
‘You don’t think I should go back and change? I wasn’t sure what to put on.’
‘I shouldn’t worry – they’re too pissed to notice.’
‘So I wasted my time anyway.’ 
‘You said it.’ 
‘I’m fascinated to see this man who makes you drop everything and come to a place like this.’
'Then come up and meet him.’
‘I wasn’t sure what wine to get.’
‘Stop fussing.’
They go upstairs. All the landing doors are open. There is a smell of incense. 
‘I didn’t know if it was going to be one of those hearty, beery parties,’ Mandy whispers. ‘I don’t know what happens in deepest Streatham.’
The flat is crowded. Smoke makes the air heavy. Joanne leads Mike away from the loudspeakers and introduces him to Mandy. Her eyes glow. She does not notice as Joanne prises the bottle of wine from her grasp.
‘So you’re the famous Mike who lured Jo from her friend.’ 
‘Am I famous?’ Mike looks surprised.
‘There must be something special about you to make Jo change so much.’
‘It’s great to be special. Let’s drink to it.’
‘If Mike doesn’t mind, can I rise you away long enough to take your shoes?’  Joanne intervenes. ‘We sit on the floor so we like to treat it gently.’
Mandy looks around. ‘You ought to try using chairs – marvellous things for sitting on.’ She perches on one leg. ‘Can somebody hold me up?’
Mike obliges. 
‘I hoped it would be you.’ She puts her arm around his waist and smiles up at him. When she has taken off her shoes, she does not let go. 
‘I’ll leave them in the junk room,’ Joanne tells her, heading for the door. ‘You can’t miss it – full of shoes. Just follow the smell.’ 
But Mandy pays little attention. He eyes are fixed on Mike. She runs her hair through her fingers as she asks, ‘What do you do for a living?’
He replies slowly, as though humouring her, ‘I sell newspapers.’
‘You can’t earn a living from that, can you?’
‘Can’t I?’
‘Do you get money from your family?’
‘If there’s any money in my family, I haven’t found it.’
When Joanne comes back, Mike gently removes Mandy’s arm from around his neck. Joanne steers her away.
‘I’ll introduce you to the others.’
‘I wanted to talk to Mike.’
‘You made that obvious.’
‘Afraid I’m going to run off him?’
‘I think you'd try.’ She guides Mandy to where Steve addresses a captive audience on air pollution. She draws Elaine aside to introduce her.
‘That’s a really gorgeous dress.’ Mandy steps back to admire it. Elaine looks pleased. As the two girls talk, Joanne goes back to Mike. She pulls him towards the door. 
‘Let’s go in the other room.’
He does not object.
*
Darkness has come when Joanne and Mike leave the bedroom. The endless, hypnotic rhythm of the music greets them in the living room. Smoke stings their eyes. A bowl of crisps has been upset over the floor, making it rough, like gravel. The animated conversations have lapsed. No one is standing now. Couples cling together, their movements hypnotic with tiredness. In one corner a man tries to undress a girl with slow caressing movements which carry her to ecstasy. Steve sits in the centre of the room, a bottle of wine clasped to his chest. He does not appear to notice as Mike slumps beside him and prises the bottle from his grasp.
All the bottles have been opened and all the glasses used. Joanne finds a half-full bottle of red wine and sits beside a man she does not know. He is older than the other guests. His coarse, ginger sports jacket is too large for him. The knitted tie, roughly-knotted, seems less a convention than a gesture of defiance. His trousers are baggy with use. As he draws closer, she takes in the lined face, shiny with heat. His eyes are bloodshot. He needs a shave.
‘Don’t know your name,’ he confides. His words are slurred. He clutches the bottle of wine tightly, as though afraid that she will take it from him.
‘I never gave it.’ 
‘What is it?’
‘Joanne.’
‘Joanne,’ he repeats, his eyes passing over her. She sits with her legs pulled up, so that her knees are visible to his gaze.
‘Why not Joanna?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t have much say in the matter.’ As she speaks, she is watching Mike. A girl she does not know has settled beside him and is nuzzling against him.
‘Tell me all about Joanne,’ Joanne’s companion urges.
‘You haven’t told me your name yet.’
‘You can call me Frank.’
‘Is that your name? You don’t sound very sure.’
‘It’s a label. Just call me Frank.’
Joanne watches him raising the bottle to his lips and drinking. Wine dribbles down his chin and spills on his clothes. He wipes the top of the bottle across his sleeve before passing it to her. She hesitates.
‘Not clean enough for you?’
‘Got my own bottle.’ She holds it out inspection. They look at each other. Frank’s chin is marked by rivulets of wine.
‘So you don’t want to drink mine,’ he says, dazed.
‘I’ll have it if you want me to.’ 
‘I do.’ 
‘0kay. ‘ She takes the bottle from him.
‘Have a good swig.’
‘I think that's enough for me,’ she says after one mouthful. Frank accepts the bottle back and looks at it tenderly.
‘You didn’t wipe it. Glad you didn’t. Something of you there. Let me taste you.’ With great reverence he lifts the bottle to his mouth and licks the rim.
‘Did you enjoy that?’ she enquires.
‘I could taste you.‘ He stares at her greedily.
‘I’m glad.’
He drinks again, lifting the bottle high. As he lowers it, the wine slaps against the sides. 
‘The blood of Joanne,’ he mumbles. ‘The body and the blood.’
‘Where’s the body?’
'There ‘ He grasps a handful of peanuts from a dish and drops them in her lap. ‘The body and the blood. Let us partake of the body.’ He rolls closer, putting his arm around her. He is murmuring, ‘Joanna’s beautiful body,’ as he explores her.
‘Joanne,’ she corrects without responding to his embrace.
‘Joanne. The body and the blood of Joanne.’ He tries to kiss her, but she turns away, straightening her legs. He falls against her. ‘I want to devour you,’ he tells her.
‘Perhaps you could devour the peanuts you’ve dropped all over me.’
As he bends over her lap, she looks down at him, noticing the streaks of grey. Voices come from the kitchen, but she does not pay attention. She takes another swig of wine. It brings a surge of energy to her. She strokes Frank’s hair: it is surprisingly soft. He twists his head to gaze up at her. The pose is so comical that she has to laugh. He looks puzzled.
‘Just thinking of something,’ she excuses herself. 
‘You’re beautiful.’
Joanne does not reply.
‘Do you know my poetry?’ he asks, fondling her eagerly.
‘I’ve never seen you before, remember?’
‘Poetry of love and loneliness. Poetry of longing. Like a leaf. A dry loaf of autumn, held in my hand as I pass through life. And I could crush you...’
‘How long have you been a poet?’ she interrupts, taking his hands from her breasts.
‘I’m sure you’ve heard my poetry... sure you’ve heard me reading.’
‘I think I’d have remembered.’
‘I want to kiss you.’
‘Perhaps you can, later.’
As he eats peanuts from her dress, she can feel his lips through the fabric. She drinks again. Everybody else in the room is self-absorbed. The girl who was being undressed is almost naked now and passive beneath the man. A man sings quietly in a voice which is almost a moan. Joanne looks for people she knows, but they have merged with the strangers into an amorphous company which is remote from her.
Frank is saying, ‘...crush the slender frame that is a woman’s frame. In my warm hands, the slender... the fragments...’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘Lovely legs. You’ve got lovely legs.’ His fingers explore their smoothness.
‘Have all the peanuts gone?’
‘All removed, miss. No mess left, miss. I want to kiss you now. Kiss you.’ He brings his lips to hers.
‘You taste of peanuts,’ she says afterwards.
‘I like the taste of you.’
‘I think you’ve tasted enough.’
‘I want you, Joanna, I want you.’ His arms are around her.
‘But you can’t have me, I’m afraid,’ she tells him, extricating herself. As she rises, he remains crouched at her feet. She looks away without glancing at him. Her body feels light, as though she is floating. Everybody seems far away.
*
When Joanne awakens, the light is unnaturally bright. She feels a hardness beneath her. She is lying on a rug and still wearing her dress. Bodies are all around. She gets to her feet unsteadily. The air is stale. Mike lies near her, asleep. She cannot shake off the heaviness which assails her. A naked girl clings in sleep to her man. In sleep, Steve seems huge: a recumbent giant sprawled over the humanity he has enslaved. Elaine lies beside him, her hair concealing her face. In sleep she looks vulnerable, like a child. Joanne feels aware of seeing a side of Elaine which is not meant for her eyes.
In the kitchen, Bob is eating cornflakes. He is dressed for work. He pushes the packet towards her. 
‘No thanks.'
‘That bad?’ 
She leans against the table without answering, trying to shake off sleep.
‘Want some coffee? Look as if you could do with it.’ 
‘In a minute – when I feel strong enough. It’s weird next door – bodies  everywhere.’
‘We were in the bedroom most of the time. It kept us away from the drink.’
‘We started off in there, I think.’
‘You could go back to sleep for a while. No one else is going to be up for hours.’
‘Too late now.’
‘I’ll make some coffee in a minute.’
‘I’ll do it, when I’ve woken up. I just want to check on something.’ Joanne pads back to the living room. She looks for Frank, but he is not there.
*
‘Coffee time.‘ Joanne holds the mug in front of Mandy’s face, so the smell reaches her. Mandy groans and rolls over. She opens her eyes as Joanne shakes her again.
‘Wanna sleep.’
‘It’s morning.’
'What’s the matter?’ Reluctantly Mandy sits up and peers blearily around. Liz still sleeps nearby, her bare legs protruding from the bedclothes curled around her. Among a tangle of bedclothes, another couple sleep on the second mattress. A pair of jeans lies crumpled by the wardrobe.
‘My mouth tastes foul,’ Mandy complains. ‘Have I been sick?'
‘Not that I know of.’
‘That’s something.’ 
‘Drink this.’
‘Thanks.’ Mandy takes the mug and puts out her tongue for Joanne’s inspection. ‘What’s it look like?’ she wants to know, her tongue wriggling as she speaks.
‘Terrible.’
‘That’s what it feels like.’ Mandy sips the coffee and pulls a face at the bitterness. ‘I crept in here with a gorgeous man and a bottle of wine,’ she recalls. ‘All I’ve got left is an empty bottle and a bad taste.’
‘That’s parties for you.’
‘Do you know who he was, or what happened to him?’
‘I was having my own problems.’
‘Where’s my dress gone?’
‘It must be here somewhere.’
‘Hang on to this a minute.’ Mandy hands the mug back to her friend and burrows beneath the bedclothes. As the mattress quivers, Liz stirs but does not waken. Mandy emerges holding her dress.
‘Look at it – reduced to a rag. I shan’t be able to go home in it.’
‘I’m sure there’s an iron around here somewhere.’
‘There’s not much point ironing it now. It’s ruined.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘What’s the time?’
‘About eleven.’
'Where did I leave my car?’ 
'How much did you drink last night?’ 
‘Don’t ask me a question like that after a party.’
‘All right. Who did you end up with?’ 
‘I can’t remember his name. Not that it matters now.’
‘Cynic.’
‘It’s over, isn’t it?’
*
Bob washes at the sink while Joanne waits for the kettle to boil. At the table, Elaine and Liz are drinking coffee. Elaine has recovered her normal equanimity. Mandy is fastening her dress. Her hair is tangled and uncombed.
‘I didn’t know whether to wake anyone or not,’ Joanne says.
Elaine yawns. ‘It’s time we got up.’
‘A lot of people must have drifted away in the small hours. There’s hardly anybody here this morning.’ 
‘Can’t remember,’ Elaine confesses.
‘I know one who did,’ Mandy tells them. 
‘Who was the oldish man?’ Joanne wants to know. ‘I think his name’s Frank.’
Liz laughs. ‘Frank always turns up. He’s got a nose for parties. Nobody ever invites him, but that doesn’t put him off.’ 
‘He writes poetry.’ 
‘And recites it when he’s drunk.’
‘I can see you’ve encountered him.’
The thing to do is give him a bottle of wine and steer clear of him for the rest of the evening.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He works in this place called the Prospero Bookshop. He runs a poetry group there, which nobody goes to because he’s such a bore.’
'Did you know the man I was with?’ Mandy asks.
‘I didn’t take much notice.’
‘I dimly remember you were near us.’
‘I just don’t know. Sorry.’
The kettle boils. Joanne fills two mugs of coffee and gives one to Mandy. The two friends share a chair.
‘We’re going to be raided one day,’ Elaine muses. ‘I’m sure we will. Isn’t it ridiculous?’
‘Why would they bother?’ Bob asks. 
‘It gets known about, that’s the trouble. I keep telling Steve not to keep anything here. The police know all the hiding places.’
Liz smiles wistfully. ‘It was a great party.’
‘You didn’t see much of it,’ Bob points out. ‘You were out of it by eleven.’
'I enjoyed myself, so it must have been great. That’s how you measure a party.’ 
‘Did anybody see Doug?’ Elaine asks.
There is a silence. They do not look at each other. Liz goes out. They hear her opening drawers in the bedroom.
‘He’s taken all his things,‘ she announces when she comes back.
Joanne runs her finger around the rim of her mug, not looking up. ‘I don’t think he was very pleased when I came.’
‘It wasn’t just you,’ Elaine assures her.
‘He’s had a lot of trouble,’ Liz explains. ‘He hasn’t got any parents – he was  fostered and he kept running away. He’s never really settled anywhere.’
‘I didn’t realise.’ 
‘He hasn’t got any real friends and he couldn’t settle to a job.’ 
‘If he can’t find anywhere to doss down, he’ll be back,’ Bob assures her. 
‘He’s got his dole money, so that’ll last him a while.’
‘He didn’t really want to be here,’ Elaine intervenes. 
‘You didn’t know him that well,’ Liz points out. 
‘I know you knew him from way back.’
‘He was getting to like it here.’
‘Anyway, the fact is he’s gone.’ 
‘Looking for a new recruit?’ Mandy breaks in. 
The others stare at her.
‘Not permanently. I thought it might help to pay the bills till you get sorted out.’ 
‘You want to live here?’ Liz asks. 
‘If you’ll have me.’ 
‘It’s a good idea,’ Joanne agrees. 
Mandy looks around the others. ‘What’s the verdict?’ 
‘Okay,’ Elaine agrees. 
‘Supposing Doug comes back?’ Liz persists. 
‘He’s made the choice to go,’ Elaine reasons.
‘And if that happens I can always go,’ Mandy points out.
Joanne grins. ‘If we’ve got two cars, at least I shan’t have to run a shuttle service when we want to go out.’ 
‘Beast.’ Mandy reaches out to punch her. ‘All you want is my car.'
‘I’m being practical. It’s terrible for the people squeezed in the back.’
‘I’ve a good mind not to come now.’
‘You know you’re dying to.’
‘I’ll have to go back and get a few things.’
There is a cry from Bob. All the girls look at him. Liz starts up, to turn away as she sees blood welling from the cut on his chin. ‘I’ll find you a cigarette paper.’
‘I don’t like those. The blood dries and you can't pull them off.’
‘You’ve got to put something on it.’
‘Don’t you want to kiss it better?’
‘No. I’ll look like a vampire.’
‘Okay. Get a cigarette paper, then.’
*
The sun is too high to shine far into the living room. Joanne is between Mike and Mandy. Steve sits on the third mattress which is positioned against the end of the tablecloth. The late risers are eating.
‘Let me look at your cut,’ Liz says.
‘It’s all right now,’ Bob assures her.
‘I just want to look.’
‘Satisfied?’ Bob thrusts his face close to her. Only a thin line of dried blood shows what has happened.
‘I’ll kiss you now.’ 
'This concern is most touching,’ Steve murmurs as the couple cling to each other. ‘I’m envious.’
‘I’d be concerned about you if you cut yourself,’ Elaine says.
‘Perhaps I should go back to shaving in that case.’
‘You get fussed over as much as Bob.’ 
‘Muesli – a feast of goodness,’ Steve declares, stirring the contents of his dish. ‘Cereals, nuts, wheatgerm and raisins, all drenched in health-giving milk.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic,’ Mandy tells him. 
‘Me? I’m never sarcastic.'
‘I like it anyway.’
'We are all bowled over by its niceness, my dear Mandy. Don’t look for hidden messages. Trust us and accept us.’
‘Do you think Doug’s going to come back?’ Elaine asks.
Steve purses his lips. ‘I could never claim to know what was in Doug’s mind. An unhappy young man. I’m surprised he didn’t bring out the maternal instincts of you women.’
'We’re going to need another mattress if he does come back.’
‘Joanne and Mike manage uncomplainingly with a single mattress. Possibly Mandy and Doug might do the same.’ He looks at Mandy. 
‘Sounds suspiciously like a blind date,’ Mandy decides. ‘Not really sure I fancy getting quite so intimate quite so soon.’ 
‘Our little circle is ever widening. Is there anybody you’d like to be bedded down with?'
‘No one at the moment.’
‘Do I detect signs of an unfulfilled life? How we need a good fuck to enhance our zest for living.’
‘I hope you’re feeling fulfilled,’ Elaine observes. 
‘We do wonders for each other, as I hope you agree.’
‘I don’t think we’d better go into that just now.’
‘No doubt it preyed upon Doug's mind, listening to the mattress heaving beneath the ardour of Joanne and Mike.’
‘It was only for one night,' Joanne reminds him.
‘I trust Mandy will not be affected in the same way.’
‘I can stand it,’ Mandy assures him. 
‘I’m sometimes worried that we're becoming too monogamous.‘ He looks from one to the other when there is no answer. ‘Is no one going to venture an opinion?’
‘Do you feel in need of variety?’ Elaine asks. There is a sharpness in her voice which Joanne has not heard before.
‘I merely wondered what other people felt. Perhaps some variety would intensify our relationships.’
There is silence.
‘Not a popular idea,’ Elaine deduces. 
‘Then we shall settle deeper into our self-appointed ruts. I have visions of wedding bells and a semidetached in deepest suburbia. Such is the way our ideals go. Our dreams: what has happened to our dreams?’
‘People change their dreams,’ Elaine reasons. 
‘We’re becoming institutionalised. Inbreeding couples moving away from each other – that can’t be good.’
‘That’s balls.'
‘We no longer want to open ourselves to each other.’
‘Nothing's changed since you came here,’ Liz assures him.
‘I am merely voicing a danger.’
‘So what do we do?’ Mike asks.
'I should not presume to be a spokesman for all you good people who are quite capable of formulating and expressing your own opinions.’
‘But what’s your opinion?’ Mike persists.
‘That we acknowledge the danger and open ourselves.’ 
‘We can’t get much more open in here without knocking the walls down.’ Liz points out.
‘Open in mind and body, my dear girl, as you well understand. We can make an active attempt not to isolate ourselves in pairs. We share our thoughts in a way which Doug was unwilling to do. We can place less emphasis on personal possessions and individual incomes. Possibly – and I’m not sure of this yet – possibly we can attach less importance to clothing as a barrier for hiding behind.’ 
‘You mean we walk about starkers?’ 
‘No I do not mean that, my dear Liz.’
'What are we going to do for the rest of the day?’ Mandy intervenes.
‘Perhaps we should meditate on our state as we seem riven with dissension.’
‘Let’s go out in the country and do it,’ Joanne suggests. ‘Make the most of having two cars.’
‘Sounds great,’ Liz agrees, smiling for the first time since the meal began.
‘We shall commune with nature at the church of mother earth,’ Steve is saying, but nobody listens.
*
The afternoon is warm. Sunlight glitters through a tracery of leaves and branches, to cast patterns over the visitors and over the ground where they walk. All around them the trunks of trees are like twisted bars.
‘In deepest subterranean Kent prowl the sexy seven,’ Steve declaims, pulling Elaine to him. ‘Can’t you feel the wood spirits watching us?'
‘Around here it’s more likely to be peeping Toms,’ Mandy observes. 
Steve has stopped walking. He is wrestling Elaine to the ground. She is laughing and struggling, her cries ringing through the wood. He is declaring, ‘To propitiate the spirits, I must have you in the forest. The triumphant power of fertility must be demonstrated to them.’
Elaine’s cries are loud enough to carry far beyond the wood. Steve kneels on one of her legs, pushing away her punches with one hand and lifting her long cotton dress with the other. Liz flies at him, knocking him off balance. He falls back. She sits astride him, trying to hold him down. Elaine comes to her aid. Together they pin his arms against the ground. They call for help from the other girls. Mandy pushes his mouth closed. The three girls try to pull off his clothes, but Mike and Bob come to his aid, flinging the girls on the cushion bed of leaves. Screams pierce the afternoon stillness. Bob hurls himself at Liz. The pair cling together in a flurry of leaves. Mandy does the same with Mike. He stumbles, laughing and protesting. They roll over and over among the leaves. Elaine is getting to her feet as Steve brushes leaves from her clothes. Joanne stands alone, watching a blackbird. For a few seconds it stands motionless as though listening to Mike's laughter; then it hops into the  safety of a tangle of brambles and begins singing. She cautions Steve and Elaine to be silent when they join her, still brushing leaves from their clothes. 
'That’s so beautiful,’ Elaine murmurs. When Mike and Mandy join them, she points to the blackbird. The group falls silent. The sound of the bird is humbling: an intimation of the vastness of a world in which the lives of seven people are of little account.
‘Let’s get on,’ Joanne urges as the bird flies into the trees, calling shrilly. 
'I’d hate to be here in the dark.’ Mandy shivers.
They move on, their steps making little sound and leaving little impression on the leaves. Joanne walks with Mike. They do not hold hands.
‘What about the others?’ Elaine glances back. Bob and Liz lie together in a stillness so different from what has just passed.
‘They’ll be along when they’re ready,’ Steve assures her. 
‘Do you want to stop?’ Elaine asks, looking at him.
‘Nature takes its course in primaeval surroundings.’ 
‘Do you?’
‘Perhaps we shall experience a great liberation.’
‘Do you, Steve?’ 
‘We'll find somewhere.’ He takes her hand. ‘Let’s savour the expectation.’
‘I bet you get the dirty raincoat brigade here with their binoculars,’ Mandy cautions. ‘It’s pretty near London.’
‘You seem fascinated by them,’ Steve observes.
‘I’m just pointing out that whatever we do, somebody might be watching.’
‘So long as they derive as much pleasure as we do,’ Steve tells her. ‘We live in a society of shame. We have a love-hate relationship with our bodies. We cover them so we can show them only to those we care about. Our private parts have to remain private until we find someone trusting enough to share them with.’
‘Sounds like sex in the circus ring,’ Elaine sums up. 
‘Isn’t that preferable to watching senile lions performing their party tricks?’
As they talk, Joanne hangs back with Mike. 
‘You’ve noticed I’m here,’ she murmurs.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ 
‘If you don’t know, there’s not much point in talking about it.’
‘It wasn’t serious.’
‘You do know then.’
‘I can guess.’ He pulls at a branch. 'It was a party. Don’t read meanings into every little thing.’
’And just now?’
‘That was nothing. Don’t start getting jealous.’
‘Remember what Steve said this morning?’ 
‘He said a lot of things. He always does.’
‘He said we were splitting into couples.’
‘So what?’
‘Is that what you want?’
‘What’s going on here?’ Steve asks. They have not noticed that he has stopped walking.
‘Just a little squabble,’ Joanne explains. Her face is set hard. The others look at her, waiting for her to explain, but she avoids their eyes. She is silent. Nobody moves. 
Mandy scratches her arm. ‘I’m getting bitten to death.’
‘Let’s get on,’ Joanne says in an expressionless voice. She begins walking. When the others follow, she stays apart from them, hearing their voices, but not joining in their conversation. The roof of branches is lower, pressing in upon her. She ducks beneath a hawthorn branch. A thorn pierces her hand. A globule of blood appears.
‘What’s the matter?’ comes Mike’s voice, startling her. She turns. He is standing behind her. She walks on without answering, sucking at her hand. The path leads into a green lane. She blinks at the brightness of the sun. The grasses and ferns are a luminous green. Along the centre of the lane, the earth is compacted. 
‘So do you like it here?’ Mike asks, catching up with her. He tries to put his arm around her, but she twists away, walking faster where the path slopes downward. His steps are behind her.
‘It wasn’t serious,’ he insists. 
‘It gets boring, hearing you repeat that.’
‘Why don’t you take some notice then?’
The lane opens into a clearing. They wait for the others.
‘Still squabbling?’ Steve enquires.
‘Got it in one.’ 
‘We are moving apart, not just into couples, but into solitariness and loneliness. Our way of life is in peril. We must find a suitable place to examine ourselves. In a spiritual way, I hasten to add.’
Nobody responds. They walk on. Conversation has lapsed. On one side is the darkness of the woods; on the other, beyond the hedges and undergrowth, is open country. A plane drones far overhead. Insects hover around the intruders. Mike kicks at an empty tin. Soiled paper tissues and cellophane wrappers mark the site of a picnic. It is at a place where trees press on the lane. One rises above all others. The huge, twisted trunk is roughened. Elaine stands at its base, staring upwards.
‘How old is it?’
‘Far older than we’ll ever be,’ Steve says, putting his arm around her. 
‘I wish I could climb it like a squirrel.’
‘Very childish.’
‘I like squirrels.’
‘Here we can settle ourselves in a circle and examine ourselves.’ He turns to the others. ‘What more beautiful place could we choose? Any peeping toms should be fascinated.’
‘Why is it childish to like squirrels?’ Mandy persists.
‘I have nothing against our friends the squirrels,’ Steve explains. ‘We are but children in spirit who are too old to play at being children. The problem is that we aren’t squirrels. We have anatomical problems in climbing trees as Elaine wishes to do.'
‘Perhaps we should play mothers and fathers instead,’ Elaine suggests.
‘We shall sit down.’
The couples remain together. Mandy sits by Mike and Elaine. 
‘We want a circle – like a witches’ coven,’ Steve instructs. 
Obediently they move closer.
‘I always thought the principle of community living was that everybody is equal,’ Mandy remarks. She is looking at Steve.
‘Well?’
‘You seem to be the self-appointed leader.’
He laughs. ‘I hope any latent qualities of leadership I possess do not subvert our community.’
‘Obviously they do. You decide what we should do and where we should sit.’
‘That’s not leadership: that’s merely my manner, which you clearly find unfortunate. If anybody wishes to tell me to go to hell, I shall crawl into a ball and do my best to oblige.’ He looks at Joanne. ‘We must explore each other till we know each other’s weaknesses.’
‘Explore me, do you mean?’
‘We have a sickness among us.’
‘Do you like living at the flat?’ Mike asks, looking at Joanne.
‘Yes.’
‘Then how come you’re getting so jealous?’
‘It’s not a question of being jealous. You can do what you like and see who you like. So long as I know where I stand.’
‘Worthy sentiments,’ Steve agrees.
Mandy looks remorseful. ‘I’m sorry Jo. I started all this.’ 
‘It’s not you.’ 
‘Everything was obviously going fine till I came along.’ 
‘Rejection not repression,’ Steve declares. 
‘What’s that mean?’ Mandy asks.
‘That you don’t repress things: you supplant them with positive ideas.’
‘Sounds all right.’
‘Sounds all right? My dear girl, the yogis have been practising it for six thousand years.’
‘I don’t know about these things like you.’
‘Have you tried supplanting negative feelings with feelings of love?’ he enquires, turning to Joanne. ‘Look on an object of love. Look on it till it calms you. Find something beautiful you can use, like a flower.’
‘I’m quite calm.’
‘But you weren’t, were you?’
‘If you say.’
‘We want you to lean on us, Joanne. We are your friends, your community.’
‘There’s nothing I want to lean on you for.’
‘No man is an island.’
‘What do you lean on your community for?’ Mandy asks.
‘For someone to listen to me when I’m talking, for the company of people who want the same kind of life as me – and because I can live in a decent flat, which I wouldn’t be able to do otherwise. I can’t think of anything else for the moment. Is that enough?’ He puts his arm around Elaine. She snuggles against him.
‘What about your secrets?’ Mandy persists.
‘I try not to have any.’
‘Isn't there anything you’ve never told anybody here?’ 
Everybody looks at Steve. The birdsong seems louder than before, adding  an ironic accompaniment to the question. He brushes away a fly hovering by his face. ‘I can think of nothing which affects us.’
‘But is there something which you've kept to yourself?’ Mandy persists. 
‘I was once passionately in love with a boy. He was in my class at grammar school. Is that enough for you?’
‘What did you do?’ Elaine asks.
‘It was very romantic. I thought he was incredibly beautiful and I stared across the class at him every day. Then he left and there was no one else for me to look at. My next passion was a girl.’
‘Has it been girls ever since?’
‘Of course.’ Steve turns to Mandy. ‘What about your secrets?’
‘I loved a girl once. I must have been about the same age as you. That’s when most people have that phase.’
‘Our bisexual selves emerging.’ Steve rubs his hands. ‘The paradox of relationships: if the love relationship can only be with a member of the opposite sex, then it can only be a biological phenomenon rather than a spiritual union. If it exists solely in a spiritual state, then any bisexual relationship can be seen as valid and by denying that we deny our natural instincts.’ He looks around the group. ‘Discuss – as academics would say.’ 
‘You’re talking balls,’ Mandy decides. 
‘Thank you, Mandy, for that contribution. I’m sure we all found it helpful.’
‘You’re trying to turn everything into black and white.’ 
‘Is that wrong? Consider the power of black and white photography.’
Mandy is shaking her head. Her eyes are closed.
‘We’re not talking about photography,’ Mike reasons. ‘We’re talking about emotions.’
‘I wasn’t the one who started talking about seeing things in black and white terms.’
‘But you’re the one who’s reducing everything to two options: biological or spiritual, heterosexual or bisexual.’
‘Sex is very much a matter of two options, I should have thought.’
‘Sex is, but relationships are more complicated.’
‘We love weaving complications around our every activity.’
‘Because they are complicated.’
‘Because we make them complicated.’ 
Joanne sits with her legs drawn up during the discussion, her knees level with her chin and her arms clasped around her legs. She watches Steve. When he notices, he studies her.
‘That is an incredibly sensual position, my dear Joanne. It emphasises the curve of your arse beautifully.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And yet I do nothing. Even our capacity for heterosexual relationships is restricted by convention.’
Joanne glances at Elaine, but her face betrays nothing.
‘I thought we sat down to discuss my spiritual state,' Joanne points out. ‘Not that it’s a particularly public affair.’
‘Can you divorce your sex from your spiritual state?’ Steve asks.
‘I thought the consensus was that you’re creating an artificial distinction.’
‘Do you expect some sort of communal orgasm to embrace us all?’
‘This is getting silly.’ The vehemence in Mandy’s tone makes the others look at her in surprise. Her mouth has hardened. She gets to her feet. For a moment she looks as though she might say something more, but she turns away to wander further along the path.
‘Why can’t we be together?’ Steve wants to know, speaking to nobody in particular.
‘Perhaps it isn’t possible,' Joanne says. ‘I think people have tried once or twice before.’
‘If we really want it to happen, it can. We’ve got to believe that.’
‘Or perhaps we still need our secrets.’
Once more the pure, clear sound of a blackbird singing in the branches overhead is more important than any other sound. It is a song whose infinite variation mocks them in its complexity. With rapid urgent notes it ends. Joanne looks up as the bird flies into the depths of the wood.
‘Let’s get on.’ Elaine is getting to her feet. She is more subdued than Joanne has seen her before. As the others haul themselves to their feet, Steve and Elaine walk aimlessly, holding hands. Joanne waits for Mike. He tears at a clump of grass, not looking at her, pulling the blades from their roots. As he stands, he lets them fall. He gives Joanne a brief, tired smile.
‘I’m sorry.’
She shakes her head. ‘You still haven’t understood, have you?’
‘For Chrissake. There’s nothing serious in it.’
‘And I suppose I come in the same category.’
Mike does not reply. They do not look at each other. The path narrows. Brambles border both sides. Elaine lets go of Steve’s hand to walk behind him. Joanne and Mike follow in single file. The distance between the two couples grows.
‘I’m not sure how you see me,’ Joanne says, glancing over her shoulder. ‘One of your pickups, or somebody you want to be with and talk with so that there’s a closeness.’
‘I like you.’
She hears the words over her shoulder. ‘Thanks. Great compliment.’
‘You wanted to come to the flat.’
‘Do you think it’s time to change things?’ 
‘I guess there’s something to be said for it.’
‘You think you might not be a one-girl guy?’
‘Stops relationships getting stale.’
‘You think we’re getting stale?’
‘I didn’t say that – you did.’
‘You obviously feel the need to guard against it.’ 
‘Look – it’s not the sort of set-up where you can have jealousies. Makes too much hassle for everybody else. If you get hang-ups, it’s not for you.’ 
They have stopped walking to face each other. When Joanne looks away, nothing has been said.
‘Not much point in standing here,’ she decides. 
They continue walking in silence, staying apart when Steve and Elaine draw together. The path leads to a road where Mandy is sitting on a gate, waiting for them.
‘And now I suppose we all troop back,’ she says gleefully. ‘That’s what’s so nice about country walks – trekking through brambles and getting stung at the same time.’ When there is no response from her listeners, she continues, ‘It didn’t make it very democratic at the meeting if Bob and Liz weren’t there.'
They walk back slowly. The magic of the countryside has gone, as the magic of some childhood treat might be lost after a scolding. Only the perils are evident: the nettles, the insects,  the potholes hidden by grass and the unrelenting sun. They meet Bob and Liz coming towards them. At first the other couple do not know that anything is wrong. When they become aware of the strained atmosphere, even their high spirits are dampened. They do not ask what has taken place.
*
As they drive back to London, the sun goes down. The red sky transforms the world into a place of fantasy, with black, motionless clouds piled against the horizon. 
‘Sometimes you'd think expressionism was just a way of trying to paint that and failing,' Mike murmurs. He glances at Joanne, but she stares ahead as though she has not noticed. Her knuckles are white where she grips the steering-wheel. Her face is expressionless. The red glow imparts a strange colour to her hair which on another occasion might have brought forth a compliment. Instead, he asks, ‘How long is this going on for?’
‘What?’
‘You being like this.’
‘I’m trying to concentrate.’
‘Sure.’
‘There’s a lot to think about.’
‘Then let's talk it through.’
‘Not now.’ She hesitates before adding, ‘It’s not as though we’ve bothered to do much talking up to now, apart from that first time. We don’t know much about each other.’
‘Is there a need to know each other’s life story?’
‘Obviously you don’t think there is.’
‘We talked a lot before you moved in, remember?’
‘A chat about politics over a cup of coffee. And if I hadn’t bought that for you, I don’t suppose we would have got that far.’
‘Then how come you bothered to move into the flat?’
‘Perhaps I wanted to see whether you lived the sort of life you said. Perhaps that was what I thought I wanted.’
‘So what's your conclusion? What sort of life do I lead?’
‘What you said – in a way.’
‘In a way. And is it what you wanted?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I might not be there much longer.’
‘You didn’t think of telling me before I came?’

‘I didn’t know.’
‘So why now?’ 
‘Time to move on.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ll bum around. Might be Denmark. Who knows?’
'Thanks for letting me know.’
Mike does not reply.
‘Why are you so scared of things getting stale?’
‘Because it happens and you don’t even notice. Back home, the old man sells insurance. He’s been doing it since I was born and he’ll carry on till he gets his pension. No way am I going to be like that.’
‘Don’t you think there's a danger of going the other way – becoming somebody without roots, without any sort of security or skills?’
‘What’s wrong with free booting?’ 
‘It’s great when you’re twenty, not so great when you’re forty.’
He grins. ‘I didn’t think you were so hooked on security.’
‘If you want your independence so much, why do you take so much notice of Steve?’
‘All we both want to try living in a community and being in harmony – just letting it happen.’
‘Communal living with Steve in charge and everybody doing what he tells them.’
‘Nobody’s in charge.’
‘I’m beginning to think you all believe that. The cliches are getting stifling.’
Dusk settles; the burnished hues of sunset slip away. Car lights are switched on. In the heavy traffic, Joanne has trouble following Mandy’s car. The yellow glare of sodium lights marks the route through suburban London with its phalanx of housing estates and factory units. Then Mandy’s car slows. The indicator flashes as she turns into the forecourt of a pub, Joanne has to cut across the traffic in the nearside lane to follow.
With the car engine turned off, Mike stares at the massive mock-Tudor frontage with red neon tubes glowing on its gables. ‘What a place. What have we stopped here for?’
‘I don’t know, do I? Chance to see another slice of English life.’
Any tension between the others is no longer apparent when Mike and Joanne join them by the pub doors.
‘My indulgence,’ Mandy says. ‘I haven’t got a clue what it’s like. I just felt like coming here. Watch the plebs enjoying themselves.’
Steve peers through the window. ‘God – it’s like something from a nightmare. Incredible bad taste – all horse brasses and plastic flowers.’
‘So are we going in then?’ Mandy presses. 
Elaine shivers. ‘Don’t let’s stand here all the evening. I want to use the toilet.’ 
‘Than we shall brave this den of mediocrity, ‘ Steve declares. ‘Mustn't deprive Elaine of her widdle.'
The music draws them to the cellar bar. It is hot and crowded. In the sparse lighting they look for seats in brick alcoves. The thudding rhythm of the juke box makes conversation difficult. The heat, the noise and the alcohol conceal differences between the flatmates. Steve looks benignly upon them. He calls them his children.
*
Joanne feels someone shaking her. She opens her eyes to find Steve and Bob looking down at her.
‘What were you dreaming about?’ Bob asks.
She looks from one face to the other in bewilderment.
‘We want your dreams,’ Steve says.
‘I'm sorry?’
‘What were you dreaming about?’
‘I can’t remember.’ 
‘Oh.’ Steve looks disappointed.
'What do you want to know for?'
‘We are exploring our unconscious.’ 
‘What’s my unconscious got to do with it?’
‘The unconscious in an abstract sense, my dear girl, not specifically your unconscious.’
‘I'm afraid I can’t help you much.’
Bob explains, 'We were thinking of an experiment: waking each other every two hours.’
‘So long as you don’t try it on me. Not that anybody’s likely to get much sleep if you keep waking them up.’
‘You have confounded one of our theories,' Steve admits, so it's back to the speculative stage.’
‘If you want to try it any more, use Mike as a guinea-pig.’ She tugs ineffectually at the bedclothes which are twisted around her companion. ‘Would you mind going in the other room while I get up?’
‘We’re men of the world,’ Steve assures her. ‘We’re trying to share our thoughts and our lives and you’re coy about revealing a glimpse of your body. What an indictment of our society. Still, we shall turn away so you may preserve her modesty.’ 
When the two men go out to the landing, Joanne reaches for her dressing-gown, turning her back to the window as she sits up. The other mattress is empty: Mandy is already up. Joanne stands, fastening the dressing-gown. Mike does not stir.
‘Your body carefully concealed,’ Steve observes as she passes him on the landing. She goes upstairs without replying. The bathroom door is locked.
‘Who is it?’ Mandy calls.
‘Me.’
‘Hang on.’
The bolt is drawn back and Mandy opens the door. Joanne slips inside. The warm, humid smell of a used bathroom is overlain with tobacco smoke.
‘This is a bit like school – smoking in the john.’ 
‘I’m sure somebody would moan if I smoked downstairs,’ Mandy mutters, bolting the door again. ‘Look at this place. Isn’t it a real slum?’
Joanne takes in the glossy green paint, the stained bath, rusting around the taps, the layer of grease on the washbasin, the dust clinging to the ventilator in the window and the bent cigarette ends in the lid of a tobacco tin. Mandy takes her own cigarette from the windowsill. She draws deeply and exhales.
‘It could do with a clean,’ Joanne admits. ‘At least everything works.’
‘I hate shared bathrooms.’ Mandy shivers. ‘I hate the idea or other people’s dirt.’
‘Do I take it you’re not going to stay here?’
'I can’t stand living anywhere near Steve. All we’d do is row.’
‘I ignore him.’
‘I don’t think I could.  God – he’s so conceited. You didn't have to come back in the car with him yesterday. He never stopped moralising, criticising, explaining what the ideal society should be.’
‘You get used to it.’
The only reason I stopped at that ghastly pub was so I could get away from him for a few minutes and give him something else to think about. And there was that business in the wood. He’s so pompous. I’d have walked out if I’d been you.’
‘The temptation was there.’
‘I assume you didn’t for the same reason that I didn’t.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘So’s not to hurt Elaine. She’s so nice. What’s she see in him?’’
‘Whatever it is, it’s strong.’ 
‘They all let him think he’s some sort of god. I wouldn’t mind so much if they saw him for what he is.' 
‘I was a bit surprised when you said you come here. It’s not your sort of place.’
Mandy pulls a face. ‘I got a bit carried away at the party. I always tell myself I’m not going to and it always happens. Honestly, though, this place doesn’t seem like you, either. I mean look at it: no beds, eating off the floor, having a choice of sharing a filthy bathroom or having everybody watching you wash in the kitchen sink. You can’t even get dressed in privacy.’
‘It’s fascinating – like a beehive.’
‘I know it’s different for you because of Mike, but there’s nothing to keep me here. It’s not going to work.’
‘It’s a pity. It could have been fun.’
‘Not with Steve around. I’m sorry, but he really gets to me.’ 
‘I don’t know how long I’ll be staying.’
‘Is that because of me and Mike yesterday? There was nothing in it, Jo, honestly. I was flirting. I’m a natural flirt.’ 
‘It wasn’t just that.’ Joanne hesitates. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be with Mike. We’re not hitting it off at the moment.’
‘You’ll get over it.’ 
‘It’s different when you’re living In a place like this – more difficult somehow.'
‘You’re sure it’s not because of yesterday?’
‘Quite sure.’ Joanne is smiling.
‘You know you're always welcome back our flat if things get rough.’
‘The flat?’
‘Where we live.’
‘You still think of it as our flat?’
Mandy shrugs. ‘You won’t say anything to Elaine about why I’m going, will you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘It’s such a strange relationship, Elaine and Steve. Why doesn’t she see through him?’
‘Perhaps she doesn’t want to, or else she does and she doesn’t mind. Anyway, can you hurry up, because I want to come in here.’
*
‘And then there were six,’ Steve murmurs.
‘Three couples,‘ Elaine corrects.
‘Not an unexpected course of events.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?' Joanne asks.
Steve laughs. ‘It was a disastrous interlude, you must agree.’
‘I’d hardly call it disastrous.’ 
‘I know Mandy’s your friend, but you can hardly claim that she fitted in here.'
‘She was okay, ‘ Mike says, groping for the towel. Elaine hands it to him. He dries his face.
'She’s doubtless a charming person, but we must place people in their social context,’ Steve says. ‘For a deb’s ball, she would doubtless be a social asset, but we are something different. We are seeking something more serious and more important. Mandy remained blissfully unaware of our higher purpose.'
‘You’re being bitchy,’ Liz accuses him. 'You talk about girls running each other down behind their backs. That’s just what you’re doing.’ 
‘I am merely stating facts which you wish to ignore and which Mandy chose to ignore when she came here.' 
The sink empties noisily.
‘What exactly did she ignore?' Joanne presses. 
‘That she is a creature of flesh and blood. That on occasion she doubtless has the same messy problems of blackheads, ingrowing toenails and sweaty armpits as the rest of us. In short she has no special position.’
‘In what way did she make out that she had?’
‘It was implicit.'
‘You’re making a lot of assumptions,’ Elaine warns.
‘You can hardly disagree that she seemed to assume she was different from the rest or us.’
‘Perhaps she thought the same about you,’ Joanne points out.
‘That's absurd,’ he snorts. ‘Totally absurd.’
‘It’s what she told you yesterday in the wood.’
‘When?’
‘She accused you of being a father figure.’
‘I don’t know whether accusation is quite the right word, but as I mentioned at the time, she was quite entitled to tell me fuck get off if she wished.’
Mike begins, ‘If we let Steve indulge himself – ‘
’Thank you,’ Steve breaks in.
‘If we let Steve indulge himself, it’s only because we’re looking for the same things. We’re lazy. We don’t bother to say them.’
‘What things?’ Joanne wants to know. 
‘You live here.’
‘But I’m asking you. What do you get out of it? Is it because you like having people around you all the time, because it seems unconventional, or because you like having girls around to do the chores? Which is it?’
Everybody looks at Mike. He puts down the towel. His skin is red from rubbing.
‘I guess it’s a good way of living,’ he says at last. ‘I like having people around I get on with. That’s it really.’
‘And what about me? Did you expect me to come here?’
‘I asked you to come, didn’t I?’
‘You were pretty surprised when you found I’d taken you up on it.’
‘Sure I was. I’m not disagreeing.’
‘Were you pleased?’
‘You know the answer to that. What is all this?’
‘Will you leave for me?’ She watches his face. He stares at her, puzzled. ‘I’m going to leave and I’m asking you to come with me,’ she explains slowly, as though to a child, but Mike seems unable to take in her words.
‘The soul of woman is ever searching,’ Steve murmurs.
‘Well?’ Joanne presses, ignoring the interruption.
‘You’re really going to leave?’ Mike asks. 
She nods.
‘Talk, Joanne,’ Steve urges. ‘You have a community to turn to now. Make use of us. There’s no need to be alone.’
Joanne does not reply. She continues to watch Mike. 
‘It’s not the sort of life which suits everybody,’ Elaine intervenes. ‘It can take some getting used to.’ 
‘What prompted this sudden decision?’ Steve enquires.
‘I’m going,’ Joanne repeats, looking at Mike. She gives no sign of having heard the others. ‘Do you want to come?’
‘Are you going back to your old flat?’ 
‘No.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know yet. I might go away for a while.’
‘You think I’m unsettled!’
‘Does that mean you’re not coming?’
‘I like it here. I told you.’
‘Then there’s nothing to be said.’
‘Is this because of Mandy?’ Elaine asks.
Joanne shakes her head.
‘If you stayed, you might find your problems sort themselves out. Or you might find we’ve all got them. I agree with Steve on that.’
‘I don’t think I’ll solve anything by being here – just put off making decisions.’
‘You don’t have to decide straight away. Couldn’t you leave it a week or two?’
‘It’s best if I go.’ 
‘It’s up to you.’
‘I’ll start packing.’ Joanne finishes the coffee which has become almost cold. There is a blackness in her, cutting her off from the others. Mike no longer means anything to her; even Elaine exists in her past. The feeling of excitement which brought her to the flat has gone. The world is different now.

chapter 3

Joanne is taken back to her childhood nightmare: the tiers of shelving reaching to the ceiling on either side of the narrow gangways, the naked fluorescent tubes vanquishing all shadow, the heat and dryness making her want to pant. She has ventured to the innermost part of the shop, where discarded wrapping paper and stacks of secondhand books litter the floor. There are no customers. The books dampen all sound from the outside world. Beside the till, a girl with lank brown hair, thick spectacles and a black dress squints at a paperback. She looks up briefly as Joanne clatters down the narrow stairway.
The basement is large. Books and magazines are laid out on tables and shallow display cases. Posters adorn the spaces on the walls not concealed by bookcases. Frank sits at a desk strewn with magazines, newspapers and invoices. He sprawls in his chair as though he has been sleeping. As Joanne takes in her surroundings, he watches. Smoke curls upwards from a cigarette balanced on the ashtray. The only sound is the whirring of the fan. 
‘Are you usually this busy?’ Joanne enquires.
‘It’s getting near closing time.’
‘What happens then?’
‘Then I shut up shop and go home the same as everybody else.’
‘Where’s home?’ 
‘Buying something? Poetry magazine, paperback, poster for the flat?’ 
‘I’ve left the flat.’

‘And you’re going to tell me about it.'
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Why else did you come here – if you didn’t come to buy?’ 
‘Might have been coincidence.’
‘Who are you kidding?’
’Or to buy something. I might be looking for a particular book.’ 
‘Balls.’
‘I’ve been wondering about all day. I went to the Tate Gallery for the afternoon. It’s ages since I’ve been there. Then I remembered that you worked here. I thought I’d visit you.’
‘If I didn’t come second to the Tate Gallery, I’d be flattered.’  
'I thought you could have my company for the evening, if you’ve got nothing else to do.’ 
‘Nothing important.'
‘Are you closing now?’
‘Might as well.’ He pulls himself out of the chair.
‘I don’t want you to forgo any business.’ 
‘Who’s going to come now?’
‘I thought shopkeepers liked to stay open till the very last minute in case somebody came in.’ 
‘That’s people like greengrocers. Anyway, I’m not a very good shopkeeper.’
‘Or do you make so much money you don’t have to bother?’
‘Fact is we’re so broke that selling an extra magazine or two won’t make much difference. We might as well pack up now.’
Joanne holds up a poetry magazine made of duplicate sheets. ‘Who buys these?’ 
‘The people who write them.’
‘Sounds like a good market. ls this where you have the poetry readings? You see – I remembered.’
‘Amazing.’ 
‘Why?’
‘Who remembers talk at parties when everybody’s pissed?’
'I wasn't.’
‘Little miss perfect.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You've got that air about you.’
‘If it puts you off...’ 
‘And before you ask, this is where we have the poetry readings. The budding poets come to buy all the little magazines that might publish their masterpieces. If they can nick ‘em, so much the better.’
‘Not for you.’ 
‘I’m past caring. Running poetry readings gets like working for Securicor.’ He switches off the fan. ‘I’m going to switch off the lights, so you’d better go upstairs.’
‘Sounds fun.’
‘Up the stairs with you.’ He pats her playfully and she moves obediently to the staircase.
‘Don’t you have to count your takings or something?’
‘I’ll do it in the morning.'
The basement is plunged into darkness. Joanne waits at the bottom of the stairs.
‘I did tell you to go upstairs,’ Frank's voice comes from close by. She feels him against her.
‘This could be compromising,’ she says, not moving.
‘There’s nobody looking.’ 
They kiss.
‘The things that happen to a girl when the lights go out.’ 
‘It’s very Lawrentian – two people clinging together in their own dark, fecund world.’
‘Is it fecund?’ 
‘In a warm, dark basement? Very fecund.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like Steve.’
‘God forbid.’
As she feels her way upstairs, his hands are on her hips. She skips up the last few stairs, slipping away from Frank. The girl by the till looks up as they emerge.
‘Isobel, kind, loving Isobel, will you lock up for me?’ Frank pleads, putting his arm around the girl so that she has to hold on to the counter to prevent herself from falling off the stool.
‘I suppose I’ll have to.'
‘My beautiful, reliable Isobel.’
‘I’ve said yes, so you can stop the flattery.’
‘I shall see you in the morning, when I shall give you a token of my gratitude.’ 
‘So long as it's not a poem.’
‘You do it to hurt me.’
‘And don’t be late.’
‘When am I late?’ 
Isobel regards Frank placidly, not  replying.
‘You see what I have to put up with?' he appeals to Joanne. ‘No respect at all.’
‘Get going if you want to,’ Isobel tells him.
As Joanne and Frank leave, Joanne looks back to see the other girl watching. She does not speak until they are outside.
‘Is it your shop?’ 
‘I wish it were. It’s owned by an old lady who is currently sunning herself in the south of France. Her husband was a literary type. Knocked about with Auden and Macneice. Had plenty of money, started the shop and left it to her. Doesn’t pay, of course. Poetry never does.’
‘And who is Isobel?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I wondered if you were lovers.’
‘Nothing like that. I think she’s asexual.’
‘I wouldn't bet on it.’
They turn into a side street of Victorian terraced cottages. Some have bright paintwork and colour-washed walls; others are down-at-heel, the lives of their inhabitants hidden behind yellowing net curtains. 
‘I had a look in Greenwich Park as well, just to complete my day’s outing,’ Joanne volunteers. ‘I think I was taken there once as a child, but I hardly remember it.’
‘Quite a day out.’
‘Haven’t done anything like it for ages.’
They climb into Joanne’s car. As she drives, the only conversation is when Frank gives directions. Their progress through the rush-hour traffic is slow. Joanne tries to conceal the tiredness which steals over her. New Cross merges into Peckham, Dulwich into Streatham and Clapham. Above them, cloud blankets the sky. A breeze dispels the warmth of the afternoon. The car seems trapped between rows of tall, gaunt houses.
‘If you stop around here,’ Frank tells her.
Joanne eases the car into a space by the kerb. The tall houses have overgrown hedges which conceal their tiny front gardens. With the engine switched off, the silence deepens. The couple look at each other. Joanne tries to smile. Frank’s face reveals nothing.
‘Much as I love sitting here with you, how about going inside?’ she prompts.
The first drops of rain fall as they get out the car. They struggle with the hood. Raindrops smack against the canvas with more urgency. As the couple shelter in the porch and Frank searches for his key, rain bounces off the cars and pavements, obliterating the noise of traffic.
Joanne finds the house little different from the one which she left that morning. The hall has the same bleakness and impersonality. The sides of the stair treads are painted, as though there was once a carpet between them. The grey paint on the handrail is worn. Frank leads the way upstairs. On each landing they hear rain beating against the window.
‘Where do you live in this place?’
‘Not much further.’
‘You need a lift.’
‘Tell the landlord.’
There are two doors on the attic landing. Frank unlocks one and pushes it open.
‘Ladies first.’ 
‘Do you want to carry me over the threshold?’ 
‘If you were smaller.’
‘So gallant.’
The ceiling slopes steeply beside the window. Planks resting on bricks and flowerpots serve as shelving which is stacked with books and magazines. The wardrobe door hangs from its upper hinge and is propped in position by a box. An electric fire stands in the fireplace. On a table in the adjoining alcove is the gas ring; on the other side it is the washbasin with a single tap. Another table is at the foot of the bed, the typewriter almost submerged beneath paper. Washing hangs from a line strung across the window. Rain drums against the roof.
‘Welcome.’
‘We just got back in time. I’d hate to be drowned in the car.’
‘You haven’t said what a dump it is.’ 
Joanne does not answer. When Frank has closed the door, they look at each other, not knowing what to say.
‘Who’s seducing whom?’ Frank asks at last.
She grins. ‘That’s an old-fashioned word.’ 
‘I’m an old-fashioned sort of chap at heart.’
‘I don’t know that I’ve ever been seduced.’
‘I’m sure you have.’
‘What’s it mean?’ 
‘Don’t you know?’ 
‘It’s one of those words that gets bandied around.’
‘Joanne – it’s a beautiful name.’
‘I seem to remember you saying that once before.’
‘You linger in the mind.’
‘I’m flattered.’
'Do you want something to eat first?’
‘What comes after?’
‘Ah.’
‘I’m not particularly hungry. Don’t let me stop you, though.’
‘I haven’t got much here, so you couldn’t have much, unless you want to go out again. Want some coffee?’
‘Okay.’ 
‘You can sit down.’
Joanne watches as he fills the kettle at the washbasin. She remains standing. The rain sounds as through it is coming through the roof. It streaks the window, making the outside world invisible.
There comes the pop of igniting gas. Frank turns to face her. Tiredness dampens the excitement which should be between them.
‘What did they say at the flat when you left?’ 
‘There wasn’t much they could say. It wasn’t what I wanted.’
‘What do you want to do?'
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Was I very drunk at the party?’
‘No more than anybody else.’
‘When I woke up. I had a dream of talking to somebody named Joanne. I knew what she looked like and what her voice sounded like, but I wasn’t sure whether she was real. How could somebody so beautiful be real?’ 
‘I think that was the drink talking.’
‘Obviously it wasn’t.’
She avoids his eyes. There is another silence between them. When he turns away to make the coffee, she sits on the edge of the bed, watching. At last the hiss of the gas ceases. The rain does not lessen in its intensity.
‘Milk and sugar?’ 
‘Milk, no sugar.’ 
He pours evaporated milk from a tin. As he comes to her, she follows him with her eyes until he is standing over her. She smiles as she takes the mug. The mattress quivers as he sits beside her. She remains absorbed in her thoughts.
‘So why did you come?’ 
'I’m not sure.’ She has her hands around the mug, as though she needs its warmth. ‘I got tired of the flat.’ The words come after a long pause, as though she is trying to make sense of what she has done. ‘I suppose going there seemed romantic. I’m a great old-fashioned romantic. Then I found it was a terrible mistake. I’m too self-centred for that sort of life.’ 
‘You could go back to where you were living before.’
‘Then I’d be back where I started. Same old problems – and no job.’
‘You surprised me, turning up at the shop. It was like rerunning a dream.’
‘Somebody called me a career girl once. I’d never thought of myself as that, so I was amazed when other people did.’
‘Only it wasn’t a dream. You weren’t something out of a drunken stupor.’
‘I suppose I wanted to prove something to them, to show I was nothing like a career girl. I got rid of my job and went for the communal living bit.’
‘That was when you moved to the flat.’
‘It wasn’t all that dramatic. I was getting sick of my job, so I’d have quit sooner or later. Don't know why I	went to the flat. I suppose because I met Mike. Don’t know what I’d have done otherwise.’ She smiles. ‘It would have looked good as a story: how I lived for six months in a commune. Just right for the colour supplements.’
‘Are you going to write about it?’
‘I toyed with the idea, but I wasn’t there long enough.’
Conversation ebbs. They sip coffee without looking at each other. Rain trickles down the window. 
‘I feel like sleeping,’ Joanne says.
‘Then sleep.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘No.’
‘I’m so tired.’
‘All the excitements of the day. Do you want the fire on?’ He gets up before she can answer. She does not protest. Shadows of past events press upon her, elusive and without order. She sees Mike in her dreams; sees Frank in the shop. She can hear the music of the party. Elaine talks softly to her, urging her to stay. Mike’s hands reach out to her, but she turns away...  
‘Are you all right?’ 
Joanne looks up, startled by Frank’s voice intruding into her thoughts.
‘Just tired,’ she assures him, smiling.
‘Do you want to be quiet, or shall I put on a record?’ 
‘Can we be quiet?’ She looks into eyes so different from Mike’s. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
She wrinkles her nose. 
‘We’ll listen to the rain,’ he says gently.
*
They lie together. There is peace in the room. The rain has ceased. Birds are singing. The window has misted and is illuminated with a strange, almost luminous brightness.
‘I was afraid sometimes. Everybody at the flat seemed so close, so much one group that I couldn’t be one of them. I felt so out of it. I didn’t want them to know. It’s silly.’
‘And did they find out?’
‘They probably guessed.’
‘It’s a strange little company in that place.’
‘They want to live as one big happy family, all sweetness and light, but it’s just couples living together. I couldn’t even manage that.’
‘You don’t seem the type to have trouble coping.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Where’s this PR girl?’
‘That’s all show.’
The gas fire makes the room warm. The ceiling above the bed is discoloured by damp.
‘When I walked into the shop, I wondered if you’d remember me.’ 
‘You’re never to be forgotten.’
*
The bed is tidy. Books and magazines are stacked on the shelves. The linoleum shines. Only the table at the foot of the bed remains strewn with notepads and sheets of typing. As Frank takes in the transformation, Joanne stirs the contents of the frying pan on the gas ring.
‘It was getting a bit of a mess. You didn’t mind?’
‘Why should I?’
‘I couldn’t think of much to cook on a single ring, so I’ve done paella.’ 
‘This gets better and better.’
‘It’s out of a packet.’
‘Sounds great to me.’
‘I left the table alone because I didn’t want to disturb your papers.’
‘You could have thrown them away. Just a few not very good poems.’
‘I looked at some of them.’
‘You must have been desperate for things to do.’ 
‘They’re sad.’
‘Pathetic is the word I’d use.’ 
‘Do you publish them?’

‘That’s one ego trip I’ve avoided.’
‘You should.’
‘If daddy was a publisher, you could put in a good word for me.’ 
‘Don’t be sarcastic.’
‘Me? Sarcastic?’ 
She holds his gaze, her eyes wide. Then she is smiling. They embrace. 
‘Are you sure you don’t mind me moving your things?’ 
‘I should have done it myself if I wasn’t so lazy and slovenly.’
‘Must keep an eye on the paella.’ She breaks free. ‘I don’t want it burning after all my efforts.’ 
‘You’re more lively than you were last night.’
‘I felt so tired.’ She turns off the gas and spoons paella on the plates. Can you clear the table?’
While Frank puts the papers and the typewriter on the bed, Joanne rinses the frying pan in the washbasin. She sets the plates on the table.
‘Dinner is served, sir.‘ 
‘I haven’t cooked a meal here for months. It’s usually bread and cheese in bed.’ 
‘Really decadent.’ 
‘I told you – I’m lazy and slovenly.’
‘You’ll have mice in here. I kept finding bits of food lying around when I was clearing up.’
‘I think I've already got them. I keep hearing scuttling noises in the middle of the night. It’s either mice or a ghost.’
‘Let’s eat before it gets cold.’ She watches Frank taking his first taste. ‘How is it?’
‘Excellent,’ he pronounces.
‘You’re sure?’
‘You’d never guess it came out of a packet.’

‘I shall ignore that.’ She takes a mouthful. ‘Not bad at all. Surprising really. I was terrible at cooking when I was at school.’ 
‘You’ve obviously improved.’ 
‘That’s me – old and experienced.’
‘I could have bought some wine if I’d known you were cooking.’
‘This is enough of a celebration after all those lettuce leaves. I like salads, but not every day.’
They concentrate on the food. While Frank eats hungrily, Joanne toys with the rice.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.
She puts down her fork. ‘I was working it out. You could really do something with this room. It’s got a dramatic shape.’
‘You mean the ceiling slopes down.’
‘It’s dramatic.’
‘When you’ve straightened up a few times in front of the washbasin and banged your head, you call it something else.’
‘If you chose the right colour scheme, used soft lighting and put matting on the floor, it would look really good.’ 
‘And the landlord would put the rent up.’ 
‘Wouldn’t it be worth it?’
‘It doesn’t bother me.’
‘It might inspire you.’
‘Your food’s getting cold.'
For a while they eat in silence. 
‘This really is good,' Frank says. ‘What I’ve been missing.'
‘Perhaps you'll let me stay if my cooking’s all right.’
‘Do the folks at the flat know you’re here?’ 
‘Nobody does. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I left. I want a private life.’
‘Keep your secrets.’
‘That’s it – keeping my secrets.’ She pushes the plate away.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘Cooked too much. I’m not used to big meals now.’ 
‘The footloose girl.’ 
She frowns. ‘How do you mean?’
'Giving up everything, then coming to cook dinner for me. A sea change into something rich and strange.’  
‘Isn’t that The Tempest? Can't remember.’
‘It’s no use asking me.’
‘And all you kept of your old life was your car.’
‘Couldn't give that up, could I?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Doesn’t offend your principles, does it?’ 
‘Should it?’
‘Steve had that problem. You could almost hear him thinking of me as a  poor little rich girl.’
‘Are you rich?’ 
‘I suppose my parents are fairly well off,’ she answers after a pause.
‘You do spread an upper-middle-class aura.‘
‘You make it sound like a bad smell.’ 
‘It obviously irritates a few people – like Steve.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘No. I might have done once, but I’ve given up on politics these days.’ 
She hesitates. ‘Do you think I’m a career girl?’
‘I don’t know you enough to say.’
Joanne watches as though trying to reassure herself of the truth of his answer. Frank continues eating, seemingly unaware of her interest.
‘I don’t feel hungry. Do you want any more?' she asks.
‘I’ve got plenty here.’
‘I always cook too much.’ She gets up to scrape the remains of the food into the cardboard box under the washbasin. ‘Do you want coffee?’
‘Come here.’
She becomes still, watching him. He has stopped eating.
‘Here,’ he repeats gently.
Trance-like she goes to him, till she is standing over him, looking down at him wonderingly. He pulls her close, his hands around her hips. His face is pressed against her as he caresses her. She is unresisting, stroking his hair as he loosens her clothes. Her body will not be still. Her eyes are closed as she clings to him. Her strength belongs to him.
*
‘What sort of girl are you?' he asks. He lies on the bed, watching her.
‘Don’t you know?’ She stands before the open wardrobe, looking at her clothes. 
‘Perhaps I don’t.’
‘You must have some idea by this time.’
‘You’re passionate.’
‘Anything else?’ 
‘Beautiful.’ 
She glances over her shoulder at him, smiling. ‘Better and better.’
‘You’re beautiful,‘ he repeats and she turns away.
‘You said that yesterday, but carry on.’
‘You’ve got unusually long legs. Very shapely. You’ve a neat little bum and a spine that doesn’t show your vertebrae. I hate that – all those nobbles. I can’t see much else at the moment.’
‘Compliments all the way.’
‘Which you’ve heard before.’
‘I expect you’ve said the same to other girls.’
‘And yet we come back to what I said before. I don’t really know what sort of girl you are.’
‘And I suggested you should have some idea by now.’
‘I’ve got an idea. You seem very self-assured, but I’m not sure whether you are.’
‘You’ll have to get to know me better, won’t you?’ She is searching among the clothes. Metal hangers ring as they touch. 
‘And you move well.’
‘Don’t stop.’ 
‘You won’t get anything over you head if it’s too swollen.’
‘I know my faults.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’m too trusting.’
‘Thinking of somebody in particular?’
‘Several men who turned out to be bastards.’
‘Sounds like the voice of experience.’
‘I said – I’m too trusting.’ She stares into the wardrobe again with no pretence of looking for something to wear. ‘People make mistakes about me.’ 
‘Go on.’
‘I go to parties a lot. I’m Joanne the extrovert. I almost believed it myself once.’ 
‘You don’t have to justify anything.’
She gives no sign that she has heard.
‘I sound like a freak,’ she says suddenly, turning to him. ‘Shut me up when I get like this.’ 
‘I love watching you standing there in your undies.’ 
She takes black cords from a hanger. He watches her pulling them on.  
 ‘A witch clad in black.’
She glances at him. He is grinning.
‘All in black, just like a witch,’ she says, launching herself at him. The bed creaks as she tries to pin down his arms. Her limbs are everywhere around him. ‘What did you say I was like?’ 
‘A witch,’ he tells her, pulling one arm free. As he pulls her against him, she is laughing and crying. Only when she finds that she cannot escape does she become still. His grip relaxes. His breath is warm on her face. She nuzzles against him. 
‘That’s better,’ he says approvingly, unfastening her cords.
‘You’re undressing me again.’
‘More fun then letting you do it.’ 
‘Can’t I wear anything to preserve my modesty?’
‘Certainly not.’ 
‘I can feel your chest vibrating when you speak.’
‘I can feel interesting bits of you.’
‘You’re sex mad.’
‘So are you.’
‘If you’re going to take my cords off, you’d better take off my knickers as well,’ she goads, lying passively on him, her face touching his. 
‘You’re making it difficult.’
‘I love making it difficult,’ she agrees as her hands explore her. A great satisfaction comes to her as the clothing slides down her legs. The everyday world is left behind.
*
The headlights sweep over them, momentarily blinding them before swinging  into the darkness. The couple walk without hurrying. Joanne’s arm is around Frank’s waist. His hand is in the back pocket of her jeans.
‘Your poems,’ she begins.
‘You do keep on about them, don’t you?’ 
‘Don’t run yourself down.’ 
‘It’s called being realistic.’
The sound of the car merges into the background hum of traffic, so that only the steps of the couple disturb the peace. Lights show in the windows of flats and bedsits. The air is chill.
‘Did you ever think about having your poems published in Steve’s magazine?’ 
‘Have you seen it?’
‘That’s how I got involved with Mike. It’s a long story.’
‘It’s pretentious shit basically. There’s been one issue. Nobody buys that, so there won’t be any more. I’ve got a dozen copies for the shop. We’ll end up using them as bog paper.’
‘I didn’t think it was that bad.’
‘Most people do, unfortunately.’
‘Steve still goes off to his office, or whatever it is he’s got.’
‘He might be putting in a day’s work, but he doesn’t make any money out of it. He’s on the dole.’
Joanne shivers.
‘Getting cold?’ Frank asks.
‘A bit.’
They stop walking. Frank hugs her until she feels his heat.
‘I like that,’ she murmurs.
They kiss.
‘We should have brought the car,’ she says as they walk on.
‘An evening stroll helps you to sleep. I always have my evening perambulation unless I’m drunk and incapable.’
‘Such as at the party.’
‘Such as at the party,’ he agrees.
‘I prefer an evening drive. Less tiring.’
‘You’re too car-oriented.’
‘Just for that I shan’t cook you a dinner tomorrow.’ 
‘We haven’t got far to go, if it’s any comfort to you.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Ah.’
Nothing distinguishes the street they are in from countless others in south London. The orange light renders the houses colourless. 
‘We’re not going to Argosy Street, by any chance?’
‘Not by any chance.’
‘Said with great indignation.’
‘Why should we go there?’
‘I just wondered.’ She settles her arm more comfortably around Frank’s waist. ‘Don’t you like the place?’
‘Not much.’
‘So why did you go to the party?’
‘I always go to parties.’
‘It was weird there. I couldn’t understand why Elaine was so crazy about Steve.’
‘Did you know she left art school because of him?’
‘She told me. It seems such a waste of talent when you look at her paintings. They’re so vivid.’
‘Did she show them to you?’
‘I saw them rather than being shown.’
‘She doesn’t usually show people. I’m surprised she’s hung on to them.’ 
Street lights gleam on the roofs of parked cars. Wells of darkness fill the basement areas between the railings and the houses.
‘Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?’ Joanne asks.
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘Yes...’ 
‘But...’
‘I just want to know.’
'Wait and see. You might find it interesting.’ He edges towards the kerb and they cross the road without speaking. Ahead is the bustle of the main road. 
‘Did you know Doug’s left the flat?’ she asks.
‘Have you been there today?’
‘No. Would you mind if I had?’ 
‘You haven’t got any reason to.’
‘I’ve got friends there. Is something wrong with that?’ 
‘No.’
‘You don’t sound sure.’
He does not reply. The mystery of the unknown destination is bound in her mind with Frank’s warmth and movement. Now his suspicion isolates her. His body’s warmth is that of a stranger. She releases her hold. The darkness comes between them.
‘He went before the party,’ she explains. ‘We didn't find out till the morning after: there was so much going on that evening. For all I know he might have come back now I've left.’
‘He never did fit in there. He wasn’t philosophical enough for Steve.’
‘Liz seemed upset when she found he’d gone.’
‘Liz is very maternal.’ 
‘I thought Elaine was the maternal one.’ 
‘Liz is. You ought to see her when she’s with kids. She’s in her element.’
Their pace has slowed.
‘I thought you said this place we were going to wasn’t far.’
'It isn’t. You don’t like walking, do you?’
‘I said we might just as well have brought the car.’
They turn into the main road, their steps becoming lost in the noise of traffic. Light from shop windows spills on the pavements. An old man stares through the glass at the pictures on a television screen. A couple embrace in the doorway of a dress shop whose window is lit with glaring fluorescent tubes and crowded with mannequins clad in cheap, cotton dresses. Beside it is a supermarket window pasted with brightly-coloured posters. 
‘Are we going to a poetry reading?’ Joanne asks.
'No.’ Frank is smiling as though he enjoys the mystery. ‘What made you think that?’ 
‘You’re involved with them, aren’t you?’
'Reluctantly.’ 
‘But it’s not that?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘We’re going visiting.’
‘Why do you have to make a mystery of it?’
‘Because if I tell you, you’ll keep asking who we'll see.’
‘Sounds even more mysterious.’
‘There you are.’
‘So who are we going to see?’ 
‘The night people.’
‘Who are they?’
‘All waiting for you.’
‘You’ve told them about me?’
‘They’re always waiting.’
The couple halt on a corner, beside the light from a cafe window. Lorries fill the air with the stench of diesel. Across the road is the darkness of the park.
‘What happens now?’ Joanne enquires.
‘We’re here.’
‘What – this corner?’
‘This cafe.’
She stares through the window in disbelief. There are few customers, each shabbily dressed and sitting alone, lost to another world.
‘What have we come here for?’ 
‘To meet the night people,’ Frank tells her, pushing the door open. She enters hesitantly. The air inside is stale with the smells of unwashed clothes, tobacco smoke and cooking. The tables have red plastic tops, chipped at the edges; on each are salt and pepper pots and a sauce bottle. The juke box is silent. A boy shrouded in a duffle coat is hunched over a table. His unrelenting stare disturbs her. There is no expression in his eyes, as though he cannot acknowledge her presence. An old man gazes through the window at the traffic, unaware of her. His thin, hawk-like face is made dirty by several days' growth. Grease shines on the collar of his raincoat. He wears a cap, frayed at the edges. Veins stand proud on his mottled hands. Nearby a woman sleeps, her head slumped against her chest which rises and falls rhythmically. She snores. Strands of hair escape the bright cotton headscarf. Safety pins hold the coat around her. Her legs sag apart, revealing holes in the woollen stockings. Bulging carrier bags bound with string are spread around her.
‘Go to the counter then,’ comes Frank's voice. 
Joanne moves forward, her senses numbed. She is aware of Frank at her side and of the dirtiness of the floor tiles. Suddenly she is in a dream which she cannot control, peopled with characters remote from all she knows, existing in a world of helplessness and darkness.
‘Jo!’ 
Frank’s voice. Along with the man behind the counter, he is watching her. She stares from one to the other.
‘How much sugar?’ Frank repeats.
She shakes her head. Images crowded upon her: the thick white cup with its stained saucer, the battered metal spoon fastened to the counter by string, the hands of the man behind the counter, his nails rimmed in black. She looks away, the muscles of her face taut. Flies crawl over the discoloured ceiling. Dust clings to the chains fastening the fluorescent lights. The till rings.
‘If you bring your cup over here,' Frank is saying.
‘Have we got to stay here?' She has turned to him. He looks older under the merciless lights: somebody she does not know.
‘We might as well have the tea now we’ve got it.’
She follows him without bothering to answer. They go to the table where the boy is sitting.
‘How’s Don then?’ Frank asks.
The boy stares at Joanne without answering. He seems mesmerised by her.
‘How’s Don then?’ Frank repeats.
‘Boat on a stormy sea.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘That’s how I’m getting on – like a boat on a stormy sea. Captain and crew of your own ship. Democracy gone mad, isn’t it?’ He is still looking at Joanne. She nods and tries to smile. The snores at the old woman become louder and more prolonged. 
‘Still living in the same place?’ Frank asks. He stirs his tea with slow, deliberate movements which irritate Joanne.
‘That's life!’ Don throws up his arms. ‘Going up, isn’t it? Up like a bomb.’
‘Mind your cup.’
Joanne remains silent, her eyes fixed on the table. The red plastic is stained with tea.
‘Where are you living now?’ Frank perseveres.
‘An atom bomb, of course.’
‘What are you doing these days?’
‘The bomb comes down and the whole place goes up. Not worth the trouble, is it?’
‘What are you doing for bread?’
‘I don't.’
‘What are you living on?’
‘Waiting around until they come. That’s all we can do, isn’t it?’
’Right enough.’
‘And fuck tomorrow.’
Joanne sees the man behind the counter watching her again. His skin has the appearance of shiny wax. His fat face makes his eyes remind her of those of a pig. Her gaze shifts to the glowing juke box. Behind the glass panel the rack of records is illuminated. She sips the tea. It tastes bitter and stewed.
‘We’re all imprisoned,’ Don is saying. ‘The system’s got us, hasn’t it? Tells us what to do. We haven’t got any choice now.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Frank asks.
‘Dunno.’
‘That’s not much help, is it?’
‘What can we do?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you seen Doug around?’
At the sound of Doug’s name, Joanne becomes interested in the conversation. Don notices.
‘I know Doug,’ he tells them. And then he hangs his head like a small boy who has done wrong. 
‘Do you know where he is?’ Joanne asks.
‘We’re all victims of the system – that’s what makes you laugh.’ Don is looking from one to the other, his eyes never still. 'Victims of the system we’ve created –  that’s the funny thing. Now we’ve got to get out of it. Problem is how. I don’t know. Do you?’ He frowns. ‘We need a mass movement, that’s for sure.’
Joanne no longer looks at him. A fly alights on her hand, to leave as she moves. The old woman dribbles in her sleep.
‘You haven’t got a smoke, have you?’ Don asks.
Frank reaches into his pocket.
‘Weakness, isn’t it?’ Don says without appearing to expect an answer. ‘You just have to accept it.’ His hands shake as he takes the cigarette and lights it with a match.  
Joanne looks towards the juke box again. The fly buzzes around her head. She touches it as she tries to brush it away.
‘You’ve got to accept weaknesses, whatever they might be,’ Don is saying.
‘You haven’t seen Doug?’ Frank asks again.
'We’ve all got to do that.’
Joanne pushes the cup away. It is still half full. She looks at Frank. ‘Can we go?’
'In a minute.’ 
She looks away.
‘Going already?’ Don says as though he cannot believe it.
‘Looks as if we are,’ Frank agrees.
‘God – what’s happening to this place?’
‘Have you got my address?’ Frank persists. 
‘A plague has come. Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!’ Don’s voice has risen.
‘Have you got my address?’ Frank repeats slowly.
‘Bury them away from the village! Bury them on common land!’
Frank is writing on a scrap of paper. He pushes it towards Don. ‘That’s if you want to get hold of me. You know the address of the bookshop, don’t you?’
Don draws on the cigarette. He takes no notice of the paper.
Joanne looks at Frank. ‘Are you coming?’
‘In a minute.’ He pushes the paper towards Don. ‘Put it in your pocket.’
‘My pockets are full of holes,’ Don says plaintively.
‘Haven’t you got a wallet?’
‘There’s nothing to go in it!’
Joanne leaves. In spite of the traffic, the air outside seems fresh. The noise reassures her of the world which she knows. Through the glass she sees the tableau being enacted in the cafe. She wants to laugh.
Frank comes after her as she walks away, but she gives no sign of having noticed. When he catches her up, her pace does not slacken.
‘Do you want to go back home?’ he asks.
She shrugs.
‘There’s plenty of time to go somewhere else if you want,’ he offers. 
‘You mean you know more cafes?’ 
‘We can go to a pub if you like.’
‘If it's full of people like that, I’d rather not bother.’ 
‘I thought you might be interested.’
‘You obviously don’t know me very well.’
Frank does not respond. They are walking more slowly.
‘Where are we going?’ she asks.
‘Home. Unless you’ve got any better ideas.’ 
They walk in silence. Across the road is the darkness of the park. There are no shops beyond the cafe. Bushes from overgrown gardens overhang the pavement. The low garden walls are crumbling; only rusting stumps remain of the railings which used to grace them. Once the houses must have been imposing; some are already derelict. Through uncurtained windows the bedsitter world is visible: the unshaded lights, curtained alcoves and posters concealing faded wallpaper.
‘He got into drugs a bit too deeply and ended up having a breakdown.’
‘I suppose you mean Don?’
‘He went in for treatment. They certainly did something to him.’
‘You can’t blame it all on the hospital if he was on drugs before.’
‘They really screwed him up. You don’t know what he was like.’
‘I noticed the way his hands were shaking.’
‘You ought to see him getting his tablets out. They usually end up on the floor. That's what the hospital did for him – cured him of the drugs they didn’t like and hooked him on tranquillisers.’
‘That’s a stupid thing to say.’
‘I keep an eye on him, as nobody else does. He’s in a bedsit, but he can’t look after himself properly.’ 
‘It’s a wonder they let him out.’
‘He’s harmless enough when he’s dosed up, so why should they worry?’ 
‘What about social services? Don’t they keep an eye on him?’ 
‘They don’t want to know.’
Music comes from an open window. 
'He wrote poetry once,’ Frank continues. ‘He was good. I keep urging him to start again.’ 
‘Without much success, I guess.’
‘He’s too wrapped up in himself now.’
‘What does he do all day?’ 
‘Sleeps all the morning, stays in that place till it closes and then wanders around for the rest of the night, if the police don't pick him up.’ Frank takes her hand. It is unresponsive and limp. She does not look at him.
‘The old woman was Kay,’ he continues. 
‘I noticed her – or rather I smelt her.’
‘She mothers stray dogs. Goes around with bones in her pockets. She gets them from dustbins.’
‘Why do they let her in there?’ 
‘Why not? She doesn’t annoy other people.’
‘Except for the smell.’
‘You get used to it.’
‘I’m not sure why you should.’
‘Don’t you ever think “There but for the grace of God...?”’
‘No.’
‘I thought you might, as you’re a woman.’
She stops walking, drawing her hand away as she stares at him. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ 
‘Don’t you wonder whether you might go through the same experiences?’ 
‘I don’t think there’s the slightest chance of it. And being a woman hasn’t got anything to do with it.’
‘All right. As a person – don’t you feel any common bond as a person?’
‘If people get themselves in a mess like that, I don’t feel any great sympathy for them. I’m sorry.’
‘You make it sound as though it’s their fault.’
‘They could do something for themselves.’
‘So it was Doug’s fault he had a breakdown?’ 
‘You sound like a Tory. It’s easy to start blaming other people or blaming society.’
‘I’m not blaming anybody. I’m talking about empathy.’ 
Joanne walks on. As Frank catches up and tries to take her hand, she pulls free. 
‘You don’t understand, do you?’ Frank murmurs. 
‘Apparently not.’ 
For a while they walk without speaking. Their pace has slowed.
‘Why do you call them the night people?’ Joanne asks before the silence becomes unbridgeable.
‘That’s me being poetic. I wrote a poem about them once. I thought it was a rather good poem, even if no one else did. Didn’t you come across it?’
Joanne shakes her head.
‘They’re the people with nowhere to go at night, the people who get written off.’
‘It couldn’t be their fault?’ 
‘Did you notice the old man?’
‘The one by the window?’
‘He’s been going there ever since his wife died years ago. Always wears that cap and raincoat, whatever the weather. Even if there’s a heatwave, he doesn’t leave off the raincoat. And he always sits in the same seat. He used to talk to people, but now he doesn’t bother. He doesn’t even have to ask for a cup of tea. There was one time when some yobs were there. They pulled his cap down. Great laugh it was, seeing him sitting there with his cap over his eyes. He didn’t bother to pull it back.'
‘He doesn’t have to sit there.’
‘I thought you’d find the place interesting.’
‘To me they’re a group of rather pathetic people and there’s nothing interesting about them. Sorry if I’ve disappointed you.’ She glances at Frank’s face, but it is impassive. ‘I’m not really hard, but I’ve got an idea of what I want and I’d never abandon it so completely as to be like that.’
‘What do you want?’
From one of the houses comes the sound of a party. As Joanne looks at the window, the figure of a man passes across it. 
‘I suppose I want old-fashioned things,’ she says at last. ‘Perhaps I’ll settle for something very traditional when I get married.’
‘Then why did you go to live with Mike and the others?’
‘That was a mistake.’
‘You sound as if you want to go back to the sort of life you had before.’
‘You sound as if you’re questioning me.’
Frank has slowed beside a pub. ‘What do you think of this place?’
‘I thought we were going home?’
‘It’s on our way.’ 
Curtains cover the lower part of the windows. Joanne peers through the doorway. The pub is shabby. Joanne looks in at the open doorway. All the customers are men. They are too absorbed in their darts to notice her. The sounds of a fruit machine provide a constant accompaniment. She turns away.
‘Is this where you usually come?’
‘Not regularly.’
‘Another place you thought I might like.’
‘It’s close and I thought it might interest you.’
‘Why don’t we go back and get the car?'
‘It’s a bit late now.’ 
‘Let’s go back,’ Joanne insists.
They turn into the side street. Darkness presses upon them.
‘Not having a very good evening, are you?’ Frank observes.
Joanne walks apart from him. There is a quietness in the street, disturbed only by their steps. When Frank puts his arm around her, she does not resist.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he tells her softly, but she gives no sign of having heard. ‘Gorgeous hair,’ he murmurs, running his fingers through it. ‘Rare, red and gorgeous.’
She steps around the fragments of a milk bottle glinting in the light of the street lamp. ‘What would you be doing if I weren’t with you?' she asks.
‘I’d be very lonely.’
‘But what would you be doing?’
‘I’d probably be writing. Then I’d have gone down the cafe. They do a cheap meal.’
‘Don’t you get tired of your way of life?’
‘Don’t we all?'
‘Do you want to spend the rest of your life serving in a bookshop and spending your evenings writing poetry that nobody reads?’
‘I won’t get a job as a bank manager or a brain surgeon.’
‘Don’t you ever get the urge to take a risk – give up your job, write poetry full-time and see what happens?’
‘I know what would happen – I’d go broke.’
‘Why go on with it if you haven’t got any confidence in what you’re doing?’
As the only sign that he has heard, his arm tightens around her until she stops walking. He kisses her, not releasing her until she softens and holds him. The warmth between them does not last. 
‘Look,’ she says, pointing. Frank turns. The curtain of a ground floor window is lifted at the corner and a tiny black boy watches them. Joanne slides free and walks on. Frank catches her up without attempting to touch her. 
‘Do you think the people at the flat – Mike and the others – are going to become like you?’ she asks.
‘In what way?’ 
‘Ending up with jobs they don’t want and being artistic in their spare time.’
‘Obviously I’m a bad role model in your eyes.’ 
‘You said it.’ 
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you think they will?’
‘How should I know?’
‘You know them.’
‘Barely. I haven’t lived with them. You have.’
‘For a few days.’ 
‘Hopefully they won’t turn out in the least like me. As you said, I’m not a good example.’ 
He touches her gently, motioning her to cross the road. His hand does not stay on her. She asks, ‘What did you want to do when you were a kid?’
‘Be an actor.’
‘Why didn’t you pursue it?
‘Actually, I was in rep. for a while.’
‘What happened?’
‘I wasn’t good enough. Nothing much happened.’
They mount the far kerb. Frank leads them along a long, curving avenue where the houses still retain vestiges of grandeur. The traffic of the main road sounds in the distance. Two cats are fighting nearby.
‘What did you do after your acting career?’ Joanne probes. 
‘Then I wrote poetry and worked in a bookshop.’
‘I can see you’ve had a varied life.’
‘What puzzles me is why you gave up everything to live at the flat with the others.’
‘I thought I told you.’
‘You’d better tell me again.’
‘I had these romantic visions of a Bohemian life – only it turned out to be all shared bathrooms and Steve’s ego trip.’
‘Didn't you say you gave up work first?'
‘Did I?’
‘So moving to the flat was only part of it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘There was a period of change in your life.’
‘You're beginning to sound like a psychiatrist.’
‘Something must have happened to make you do it. Was it an affair that went wrong?’ 
‘I didn’t think people still had affairs.’
‘You’d be surprised.’ 
‘You’ll be disappointed to know it was nothing like that. I wanted a complete change so I could think things out. Some people take the trail to India. I ended up in south London.’
‘The great adventure.’
‘I suppose that’s meant to be sarcasm.’
‘I meant you must have had a lot to think about.’
‘Quite a lot.’ 
They have slowed. Frank glances at her as they pass beneath a light. Her expression is wistful. The intimacy between them is no longer the intimacy of lovers, but that of priest and confessor.
‘Or at least I thought there was a lot,’ she adds.
‘Aren’t you sure any longer?’
‘Are we going the right way?’
‘That’s changing the subject.’
‘We seem to be going round in a circle.’ 
'Are you talking about your problems?’ 
‘They’re not important.’
‘They must seem important to you.’
Night takes all imperfections from the houses. They rise tall and white, beautiful in their symmetry.
‘Everything began to pile up,’ Joanne explains. ‘I was getting tired of my job, my friends, everything. I suppose I was changing more quickly than everything around me.’
They enter the darkness of a paved alley through the terrace of houses. When Frank takes her hand, she does not try to pull away.
‘Nearly back,’ he murmurs, squeezing her hand gently.
‘I should have thought it through, but I didn’t. I don’t think about the future. Don’t like uncertainty.’ Her voice echoes through the enclosed place. Their steps ring like those of an army.  
‘So what do you think about if you didn’t like the future?’ Frank probes as they emerge from the darkness into another street.
‘I cling grimly to the present. I don't plan anything now.’ 
‘You criticise me for not looking ahead and then you make a point of not planning your own life.’ 
‘I’m contradictory,’ Joanne agrees.
‘Recognise where we are?’ 
‘Is this our road?’
‘Give her the money, Mabel.’ 
‘Race you.’ She breaks free and runs across the road. ‘Come on,’ she calls from the far pavement. Without waiting to see whether he is following, she runs on. Her hair bounces against her shoulders. The sudden freedom exhilarates her. She does not stop until she reaches Frank’s house. When she looks back, Frank is running. He gives up before he reaches her. She sits on the bonnet of her car, panting and laughing.
‘It wasn’t all that far,’ she says as Frank nears her. He does not answer. His breathing is laboured. There is an unseeing look in his eyes. His mouth hangs open as he gulps for air. She watches helplessly. There is no one in the street to turn to for help.
‘I’m too old for running,’ he says when he gets his breath.
‘You’re worrying me.’
‘I’ll survive.’ He climbs the steps to the front door with the movements of an old man. As he fumbles in his pocket for the key, Joanne tugs at the hem of his jacket, feeling the tension across the fabric from his shoulders. She smiles reassuringly when he turns.
They climb the stairs so slowly that the light goes out before they reach the first landing. When Joanne stumbles against Frank, he takes her hand. They can hear each other’s breathing.
‘Do you think somebody’s added a few more stairs since we went out?’ Joanne asks.
‘It’s reassuring to hear you complaining. I was beginning to think you were super fit.’
The odour of cooking lingers in the room. Joanne falls on the bed. Strands of hair touch the floor. As Frank stands over her, she grins.
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have gone out,’ she murmurs.
‘Why?’ 
‘We seem to get on better when we’re in here.’
‘I wonder what that proves.’
Instead of answering, she watches him go to the wardrobe. 
‘What are you doing?’ she asks. Her grey eyes are translucent as the light shines on them. One arm is stretched across the sheets. She lets the other drop over the edge of the bed, so that she is touching the floor with her fingers. Frank takes something from his coat pocket and goes to sit at the table.
‘What are you doing?’ she repeats.
‘You'll see.’
‘Tell me.’ 
When he does not reply, she pulls herself to a sitting position. She watches him spreading out cigarette papers on the table.
‘Ah.’ She drops back.
‘You said you wanted to take a new look at yourself. You still haven’t told me why you uprooted yourself. What was going wrong?’ 
‘I did tell you. Nothing was interesting any more.’
‘I’m sure it was to do with a man.’
‘Nobody special.'
‘Was there ever?’
‘I was engaged once, but that was a long while ago. All forgotten now – almost forgotten.’
‘Was it a man where you worked?’
‘You must be joking.’
‘If you say so.’
‘They were all rather colourless: bright, young executives out to impress people. It was time for a change.’
‘And then Mike came along.’
‘And then Mike came along,’ she agrees.
‘But that wasn’t enough?’
‘Things have changed, but I haven’t sorted anything out yet. Going to the flat obviously didn’t work out.’ The strange, fascinating smell comes to her, reminding her of the party. She closes her eyes. ‘Perhaps I should have gone to the country instead of staying in London. Or gone abroad. Perhaps I should have gone to France. I always wanted to live in Paris.’ She opens her eyes as the mattress quivers. Frank is holding out the joint to her. As she draws deeply, a calmness spreads through her. In that stillness her body has no weight, yet it is fully under her control. It is a perfect machine: she wants to tell everybody. A smile comes to her lips. She imagines herself in the countryside, walking in a field soaked in the warmth of the sun, not feeling the roughness of the ground. The colours about her are bright. She is no longer an outsider, but part of the living landscape. The movement of every blade of grass and every leaf becomes part of her. When she runs, her steps make no sound. Her movements are effortless. She has the freedom of knowing her body without being impeded by its limitations. It is a freedom so effortlessly achieved. 
Her eyes open. She is at the apex of a translucent pyramid, looking down at the base which has the brightness of the sun on crystals. As she moves her head, the pyramid revolves, making the crystals shiver and the rays of light glance in a thousand directions. She lies on a bed which is moving gently, as though on a sea. It lulls her. She clings to the man beside her so that she cannot slide into the water and he holds her in return, caressing her beautiful body. How contented she feels. She wants to describe the feelings welling inside her, but she cannot talk. There can be no secrets from the man beside her. Warmth and happiness fill her, taking away all words, so that the secrets have to be vouchsafed without them. As she takes him to her, she wants nothing more.
*
Joanne parks in a side road near the shops. She walks at a leisurely pace among the women with their broods of children and their prams. The air is warm, but dusty and soured by traffic fumes, unlike the country she visited in her dreams, She is cool in the cheesecloth smock which hangs outside her jeans. Where the road is being repaired, she puts her hands to her ears and hurries by. She smiles as the workmen gesture and whistle to her. Her pace slows again when the noise is left behind. The traffic seems almost peaceful by comparison. In the cafe where she went with Frank, two women gossip in the window, while a pram blocks the gangway between the tables. The night people have gone. 
 Nothing remains of the menace which darkness brought to the park. The trees beside the railings tower over buses and shops. Joanne’s pace slows as she ventures further into its vastness. The noise of traffic recedes, to be replaced by the shouts of children as they play and the barking of dogs. She stops, noticing the fringe of trees which marks the extremity of the park. As she sits on the grass, a tiny child runs a few steps from its mother and falls. An airliner roars overhead as Joanne beats her clenched hands against the ground. The dogs are fighting. The idyll has been shattered. She closes her eyes, lifting her face so that the sun is on her eyelids. The redness in her vision becomes more intense. Involuntarily she screws up her eyes against the glare, so that she has to will her muscles to relax. The warmth on her face helps. Her lips part. She leans back, her body propped against her arms, her head raised until the airliner has passed. The dogs have stopped barking. All the sounds come from far away. Nothing intrudes upon her world. She wants to decide what she should do, but the warmth makes her drowsy.  She does not resist.
*
‘I don't know what’s happened to the place today.’ Frank sinks on the bed. ‘Mad people have been coming to plague me. Never seen so many. There must have been an outing from the nuthouse.’
‘Never mind.’
‘What have you been doing?’
‘Nothing much. I went to the park, sat in the sun and that’s about it really.’ She prods the eggs and bacon sizzling in the frying pan. ‘I fancy seeing a film.’
‘So let’s do it.’
'Not your local Odeon. I feel like going to the Academy and seeing something arty.’ 
‘Sounds good.’ 
‘Tell me about these looney people.’ 
‘When I got there this morning, there was some woman waiting outside. She wanted one particular poem by Yeats. So there we were wading through the complete works of Yeats and she’d keep saying, “Haven’t you got any more?” and pulling out books which had nothing whatever to do with Yeats. I’d be saying, “It’s not going to be in there,” and she’d say, “Well it must be  somewhere. I know it’s by Yeats.” It took an hour to get rid of her and another hour to put the books back. Then I had a man who was convinced I kept dirty books under the counter.’ Frank shakes his head wearily. ‘What a day.’ 
‘You can sit back this evening and exercise your intellect.’
‘What fun.’ 
‘We’ll have to go to the last performance, which is about eight forty-five, otherwise it’s going to be a rush.’
‘Joanne the organiser, Joanne the cook... Such a life as anybody would want to lead.’
‘Unless there’s anywhere else you want to go?’
‘No.’
She senses the lack of conviction in his voice. She watches, but he does not look at her.
*
A vast, empty hall with columns rising on either side: cold, empty and echoing, the floor a mosaic of black and white tiles stretching into the shadows beyond the columns. Her steps echoing, so that the silence closes around her whenever she stops. She hates that. Walking without knowing where she is going. Seeing herself walking, like a secret observer spying on the person who is herself.
An endless hall. Light coming through the mist, which rolls back as she walks. Not knowing its source; not knowing how far she must walk through that damp, cloying mist. How quickly it has arisen. The columns are invisible. All she sees are the black and white tiles appearing before her. Her mind is closed to where she goes, or from where she has come. It is an endless journey that she must take. No tiredness.
Sensing she is not alone. Stopping. Listening. The silence is so profound. Somebody or something is lurking in the mist. Then she is walking quickly, her steps echoing like pistol shots. Fear rising in her, threatening to take hold of her. Mist like a living thing, opening around her and engulfing her.
Echoes which need not be those of her own steps. When she glances back, there is nothing to see. The sounds might come from any direction. Running. It is the only way to escape. Filling the hall with mocking echoes. The mist opening for her more eagerly. The pattern of mosaic tiles stretches unendingly. Her breathing growing harsher. A thudding in her head. Such hastening steps, the echoes tell her. Fearful steps.
Then she is falling. No pain. A sensation of helplessness taking her. Noises of breathing all around. Mist closing upon her eagerly now that she is still. Trying to crawl away, but the mist swirls around her ever more thickly.  Tiredness in her limbs. The ground sloping, so that she is sliding. Putting out her hands to stop herself from falling, but there is nothing to hold. Trying to scream, but no sound comes. Nothing beneath her. Looking down upon herself: a baby in that emptiness...
The room has a reassuring stillness. There is enough light from the dormer window for Joanne to see the Chinese lamp shade. She breathes deeply, trying to calm the thumping of her heart. Beside her, Frank is asleep. For a while she listens to his slow, rhythmic breathing. As she snuggles against him, she can feel the warmth of his body. Only sleep separates them. She turns over, so that her back is to him, and closes her eyes. 
Next morning she does not mention her dream.

chapter 3

Liz stares at her from the doorway.
‘I feel like the prodigal daughter,’ Joanne confesses. ‘Or is it the bad penny?’
‘Come on in.’ 
As they go upstairs, Joanne asks, ‘Is Elaine here?’
‘She’s at work. You only caught me in because I’ve got the day off.’
They go in the kitchen. The Guardian is open on the table. A jangle of music comes from the radio, until Liz switches it off. Neither girl finds it easy to break the silence. Joanne recognises the familiar scents of herbs.
‘You can sit down,’ Liz says. ‘Do you want some apple juice?’ 
'I’d love some, Thanks.’ 
‘Mike's suddenly got keen on it,’ Liz explains, bringing the bottle and glasses from the cupboard.  We're all drinking it now. We’ve found one that  doesn’t have anything added to it.’
They sip the juice.
‘Taste’s good,’ Joanne says. 
‘It’s better than the stuff you get from the milkman, but it costs a bit more and you have to go out looking for it. Not many places keep it around here.’
They sit facing each other.
‘Did you particularly want to see Elaine?’ Liz asks.
‘All I wanted were some friendly faces – if you still are friendly.’
‘Me in particular, or all of us?’
‘All of you.’
‘Why shouldn't we be?’ 
'The way I barged into the flat before and then walked out after a few days.’
‘You tried it and it wasn’t for you.’
‘That’s a kind way of putting it.’
‘I wish you’d stayed.’ 
Joanne sips the drink. ‘I thought I’d creep back when all the men were out.’
'Mike in particular?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘How is he?’ 
‘Quiet.’
Joanne stares towards the window. ‘I shouldn't have got involved with him.’ 
Liz does not answer.
‘How did it seem to the others?’ Joanne probes. 
‘It was between you two.’ 
‘Did you think it was going to break down so quickly?’ 
‘I didn’t know.’
‘I wasn’t sure myself. I suppose I met Mike at a time when I needed to change my life. I might not have got talked into coming here otherwise.'
'There’s not much point in going over it now.’ 
‘Has Doug come back?’
Liz shakes her head. ‘We haven’t heard anything from him.’
‘Frank knows him a bit.’
Liz frowns. ‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve been staying at Frank’s place.’
‘We wondered where you’d gone.’ 
‘I didn’t plan it. I was wandering about after I left here and I stumbled on his shop. That’s about it really.’ Joanne shrugs.
‘We thought you’d gone back to the flat where you were before.’
‘Not yet.’ She hesitates. ‘Frank says you were fond of Doug.’
‘He needs looking after. I’m fond of him in that way.’ A note of caution has entered Liz’s voice.
‘Haven’t you got any idea where he could have gone?’
‘Why are you so concerned?’
‘I wondered if you wanted to look for him.’
‘I don’t understand.’
'If you want to try persuading him to come back and you know the sort of places where he might have gone, we could look for him. It’s easier with the car.'
Liz fingers her glass, not answering.
‘So do you want to?' Joanne presses.
‘I must be dense or something, but I still don’t see why you want to.’
‘He left because of me, didn't he?’
Liz is silent. She turns the glass slowly, watching the movement of the liquid.
‘If you liked him, I could understand it more,’ she says. Her eyes are fixed on the glass.  'I suppose we could try.’ 
*
The sky is overcast. Both girls are shiny with perspiration. Apart from the directions which Liz gives, they talk little in the car. They pass through districts which Joanne does not know. At times even Liz has to consult the A to Z. 
‘If you stop around here,’ she says.
They are in a wide street where the pavement is several steps above the road and guarded by thick iron railings worn dark and smooth. Tawdry shopfronts fail to distract attention from the crumbling facades of the upper floors. The width of the street makes the three-storeyed buildings seem low. The pavements are crowded. 
Joanne edges into a narrow lane winding uphill. Cars are parked along one side. She eases the sports car into a space and switches off the engine. 
‘What now?’ 
‘There’s one particular place we’ve got to visit.’
Joanne puts up the hood before they walk back to the main road. The lane is lined with the back walls of gardens. Roses cling to trellises over the tall gates. Moss clings to the mortar. Trees and shrubs overhang the walls, dropping early leaves on the pavement. Grass and weeds grow in front of gateways which are never used.
‘I like it around here,’ Joanne says.
'Make the most of it – they’re pulling it down. The whole area’s begin redeveloped.’
The steps of the two girls quicken on the slope. Liz drops back as they pass a woman struggling to push a pram up the incline. 
‘Reminds me of Kensington,’ Joanne says. ‘The steps down to the road, the railings, the lanes leading off. The only difference is the shops.’
‘I used to come here a lot on a Saturday. They have a market where you can browse through the books and the junk. It’s good.’
‘And Doug comes here.’ 
They have turned into the main road. Joanne looks with distaste on the tables of second-hand books and the displays of chipboard furniture and cheap clothing. 
‘He used to live around here,’ Liz explains. 
‘Would he want to come back?’
‘Wouldn’t you make for a place you knew?’
‘I think I'd drive to a place I didn't know. That’s what I did by coming to the flat in the first place. I don't know what Doug would do. I don’t know him well enough.’
‘He’s a loner. He’ll go back to the people he knows.’
‘You don’t think he might want to be on his own?’
‘Not when something like this happens. Not even Doug. You came back, didn’t you?’ 
’True.’ 
Liz does not respond. As though by tacit agreement they let a silence grow between them, so that there can be no quarrel. Sometimes they are separated by the prams and the gossiping women. Liz stoops to stop a child from running against her. As he makes its way back to his mother with clumsy steps, Joanne sees the tenderness in her companion’s expression. She remembers Frank’s words. 
They pass a public house. It is a place of marble tables, varnished wood and decorated glass. Through the upper part of the windows, Joanne glimpses an ornate ceiling the colour of chocolate. There is a smell of beer.
‘It’s mostly old men’s pubs around here,’ Liz explains. ‘He won’t be in places like this.’
‘So where are we looking exactly?’
‘The coffee bars and amusement arcades. With a bit of luck we’ll find some of his pals who might have seen him.’ 
‘Is it likely we’ll find them?’
‘It might happen. Are you in a hurry?’
Joanne shakes her head. ‘We can stay here all day if you want.’
Liz’s expression clouds. ‘I should have left a note at the flat to say where we were.’
‘We could dash back if you want. It’s not far in the car.’
Liz shakes her head. ‘Not worth it now.’
The tension has gone from between them. They are aware of the stares of the men. Joanne walks with long, leisurely steps which twist her body.
‘Doug was at the flat before Elaine and Steve came, wasn't he?' she probes. 
‘Did Frank tell you?’
‘I mentioned that Doug had left.’
‘There used to be another couple with us.’
‘What did Doug feel about them?'
Liz shakes her head. ‘We got on fine. It was different with you and Mike because Mike was already living with us.’
They have come to an amusement arcade. The doors to the pavement are drawn back, but it is still hot inside. A fusillade of noises comes from the machines. There is a smell of hot plastic and tobacco smoke. Children cluster around a gun whose target is hidden in a black hood. Lights flash on fruit machines. 
‘This is the sort of place,’ Liz murmurs. 
They wander down the aisles, past the children, youths and old men hunched over fruit machines. 
‘I hoped some of his pals might be here.’ 
‘But no luck.’
They go back to the street. The air seems cooler. Joanne shivers. The iron railings end where the pavement becomes like any other busy inner city street. The contents of another second hand shop spill over the pavement. Boxes of records, books and framed sepia photographs are piled on chairs. In the window of the adjoining shop, television sets are stacked against the glass. 
‘There’s a coffee bar along here that used to be popular. Then it closed after a drugs raid. It opened again, but it was never the same. Doug kept going there, though.’
‘Did you know him in those days?’
‘Not well, but I knew him. He was living in a real dump. That’s why we invited him to the flat.’
‘Was that your idea?’ 
‘He shouldn’t be alone.’
‘Do you think he’ll do something silly?’
‘I want to know he’s all right.’ Liz hesitates. ‘Why did you give up on the flat? We’re not that hard to live with, are we?’
‘You know it wasn’t like that.’
'Then why?’
Joanne shrugs. ‘It obviously suits you, but I didn’t it wasn’t going to suit me.’ 
‘You didn’t give it much time.’ She waits for an answer, but Joanne is silent. ‘I couldn’t go back to living in a bedsitter, which was what I was doing before. I’d feel too closed in.’
‘We should have brought the car.’
‘We’re here.’
Some of the shops are used as offices and have the lower parts of the windows painted over or obscured with net curtains. One is a doctor’s surgery. The woodwork of a second hand furniture shop is crudely painted orange. Part of the window frame has fallen away, leaving the edge of the glass exposed. The coffee bar is part of a shop which has been divided in two; the other half is boarded up and covered with posters. The door to the coffee bar is open. Distorted music spills onto the pavement. The interior is bleak and dark: a central table ringed by stools and a floor colourless with wear. Joanne looks at the murals on the walls, recognising ‘The Scream’. No one is behind the counter. The only customer is a girl slumped against the shelf running around the walls.
‘So what now?’ Joanne asks.
Liz shrugs. 'Who knows? He might have met up with some pals, in which case he could be anywhere.' 
‘So what do we do?’ 
‘There’s not much we can do, is there?’ She watches Joanne with curiosity. ‘Why do you want to see him so much?’
‘I thought you did.’
‘I still don’t understand why you came back.’ 
Joanne stares into the coffee bar.
‘Was it to see Elaine?’ Liz presses.
‘Not just that.’
‘I shan’t be offended.’
‘Is there anywhere else you want to try?’
Liz turns away. ‘Let’s go back to the car.’ When her companion hesitates, she looks back and smiles. ‘Unless you want to have a coffee or something.’
Joanne cannot decide whether Liz is on her side any more. Incidents from life at the flat come back: how Bob and Liz lay together, feeding each other, and how she envied them; Elaine washing salad at the sink and the discovery of the paintings. Perhaps leaving that world was a mistake. 
‘You’ll have to wait till this evening if you want to see Elaine. And the boys are going to be there.’
They walk back the way they have come.
‘It isn’t just seeing Elaine.’
‘Then why did you come back?’ 
‘I don’t know. To expiate my guilt or something.’
‘Sounds serious.’
‘Sounds like pretentious crap. Say it.’ 
‘Perhaps you want a priest.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Joanne glances at her companion’s face, but there is no hint whether the remark is meant to be taken seriously. 
‘That’s the old idea, isn’t it? If you’ve sinned, you go to a priest and confess.’
‘I take it you’re a Catholic?’
‘I was. That’s what being in a convent does for you. Or it did for me: turned me off religion.’
‘Do you think confession would do me good?’
‘It does for some people. I think it’s rather disgusting when I look back: feeling guilty when you ever think about sex and then telling your thoughts to an old man as a way of cleansing yourself.’
‘Perhaps it’s what I need.’
Walking by the railings again. Joanne is on the outside. She has the impulse to run across the road: to be free of her companion and to lose herself amongst the back streets. She does not want Liz to seek out her secrets. Suddenly her old world seems enticing with its privacy which no one questions, but even as she thinks such things, she is aware of the excitement of Liz knowing her feelings.
‘Is this because of Doug?' Liz guesses. 
‘In a way.’ Joanne hesitates. ‘I feel useless somehow. Perhaps I ought to be a nurse – give me a different set of values.’
‘I still can’t understand why you went to live with Frank.’
'Makes two of us. He seemed interesting... That’s all there was to it.’
‘And is he interesting?’
‘I thought you knew him.’
‘I haven’t lived with him. He’s just someone I see around.’
‘He’s okay.’ 
‘But you’re not so keen on him as you were.’ 
They are passing the amusement arcade. Joanne looks at the children crowding around a machine. She smiles at their concentration.
‘How’s it funny?’ Liz asks, noticing.
‘It’s not that.’ 
‘You still think he's interesting?’
‘I'm not sure. He’s got an offbeat sense of humour. It’s difficult to know when he’s being serious. I’m not sure what’s in his mind, if you can ever tell about somebody else.’
Walking where the street is crowded. The two girls move closer to each other.
‘Would it help if you stayed with us again for a while?’
‘Would you have me?’
‘If it’s what you wanted.’ 
‘What about the others?’ Joanne is grinning.
‘Steve would sermonise, but he does that anyway. Perhaps he should have been a priest.’ 
‘I don’t think Mike wouldn’t be too keen.’ 
‘He hasn’t said anything about you going.’ 
In silence they climb the slope to the car. The fabric smell of the hood pervades the interior. As Joanne winds down the window, she asks, ‘What happened to Steve’s pictures?’
‘How did you know about them?’
‘Elaine told me she’d met Steve at art school.’
‘He got rid of them. Slashed them. Typical grand gesture.'
‘I wondered what they were like.’
‘I thought they were average, but I’m not an expert.’
‘I saw Elaine’s. They’re good.’
‘Did she tell you why she gave up?’
‘Because of Steve.’
'Obviously she did tell you. The only thing Steve kept was the drawing of a lotus in the bedroom. I suppose he thought it was mystic.’
‘And what do you think of it?’
‘It was about the best thing he did.’
They stare ahead, the silence growing again. Joanne turns on the ignition.
‘What do we do now?’ she asks. 
‘Do you want to look any more?’
‘If you know anywhere else he might be.’ 
‘If you come back to the flat, would you feel better about things if Doug was there?’
Joanne turns on the engine. The car vibrates gently. The sound is familiar and reassuring. 
'I wondered if you wanted to be with Doug rather than Mike.’ Liz says carefully. She watches for the reaction to her words.
‘No.’ Joanne slips the car into gear. ‘Which way?’
'If you turn right.’
The car moves out of the lane to edge into the main road.
‘Take the fifth turning on the right.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘We used to know some people who lived along here, so it’s worth a try.’
Conversation lapses as the car accelerates. Joanne settles back in the seat as the roar of the engine increases.
‘Not too fast – it’s just along here.’ 
The fifth turning is a narrow street overshadowed by factories and warehouses. Cars line both sides of the road. The sports car accelerates again. 
‘Slow down – we turn off here.’ 
Obediently Joanne lets the engine grow quiet.
‘There’s a little turning along here on the left. You have to go slowly.’
The car noses into a street of squat, terraced houses. A few have curtains at the windows; most are boarded up. Children huddling on the pavement gaze at the car suspiciously.
‘If you turn right at the end.’
Joanne obeys without speaking.
‘And stop around here somewhere.’
Obediently Joanne stops the car by the kerb. The houses have been cleared. It is a deserted street: a place of windowless houses, exposed walls chequered with the wallpapers of rooms which no longer exist and weeds growing over the rubble where people once lived.
‘Do you want to stay in the car?’ Liz asks.
‘Do you want me to?’ 
‘Tramps doss down there. It gets a bit grim.’
‘If you can put up with it...’
‘You'd better lock the car.’
‘All this was a squat once,’ Liz explains as they cross the pavement. ‘I lived here for a while. It was really great. There was a good atmosphere.’
‘And what happened?’ 
‘The council got heavy. They decided they wanted to redevelop the area, so they got the bailiffs in. Then they smashed up everything and left it.’
‘That’s terrible.’ 
‘A few people came back and tried to recreate what it used to be like, but they didn’t stay.’
‘Did Doug live here?’
‘For a while. We had community projects going. There was a craft shop and a food co-op. It was great. Everybody knew each other. We had petitions and demos when the council was talking about redevelopment, but it didn’t do any good.’ She stares around. ‘So much for redeveloping things.’ 
Corrugated iron sheets cover some windows. Others have the sheeting torn away, so that derelict rooms are visible through the broken glass. The girls’ steps are loud in the empty street. The sounds of traffic and of children playing come from a city which cannot be seen.
‘Here we are.’ Liz halts by a door which hangs open, revealing torn wallpaper and plaster lying on the floor. ‘You have to watch the floor’s all right. And don’t clump about as though you’re a policeman in case there’s anyone in there.’ She pushes the door open wider. Floorboards are missing. Joanne follows her inside. The stench of urine mingles with the musty smell of damp. The front room is in darkness, the window still boarded up. The girls pick their way to the rear of the hall. 
‘I’m going to open the door,’ Liz says loudly. She waits. When no sound comes, she turns the handle of the door and pushes it open. The smells of burnt wood and stale bodies greet the girls. Smoke has blackened the fireplace and the surrounding wall. Ash spills from the grate over the surrounding floorboards. Empty tins are scattered over the floor. Joanne hesitates in the doorway as Liz goes across the room and opens the kitchen door. Disturbed bluebottles buzz angrily. Joanne glimpses crumpled newspapers and empty wine bottles in the sink. A scuffling comes from upstairs and she looks up, startled. The beating of her heart seems louder than any other sound.
‘What's the matter?’ Liz asks, coming back.
‘I heard something upstairs.' Joanne is surprised by the steadiness of her voice. She keeps her eyes on her companion, finding comfort in Liz’s calmness. 
‘What sort of noise?’ 
‘A scraping sound.’
They listen. No further noise comes from upstairs. Joanne moves back to the front door with relief, hardly noticing where she is treading. Not until she reaches the doorway does she realise that Liz has remained behind.
‘Is that you, Doug?’ Liz calls. Her voice is steady. Joanne is still, all sense of movement lost. She shivers, staring at Liz, hardly understanding what the other girl is doing in the face of her own instinct to leave that place. The silence stretches timelessly. 
‘It’s Liz.’
The words echo faintly until they are overwhelmed by silence. Joanne feels the coldness taking hold of her. 
‘I’m going to come up,’ Liz calls, but there is no response. Joanne wants to run to the car and drive to the world she knows. She wants to talk and laugh, to dance, eat and flirt, surrounded by the warmth of her kind of people. She wants music, laughter and voices to keep away the silence.
Liz clings to the bannister rail as she climbs the stairs. Her steps are slow and deliberate, so that anyone overhead will hear her progress. The stairs creak under her weight. 
‘I’m coming, Doug,’ she calls.
Joanne watches, her heart pounding so much that she is afraid of having a heart attack.
‘I’m on the landing.’ There is no fear in Liz’s voice. She stops moving as she speaks. She has disappeared from Joanne's view. As she goes forward, creaking boards mark her progress. The creaking stops.
'Are you in there, Doug?’
A dog is barking outside. 
‘You can come up, Joanne – there’s nobody here.’ 
Joanne climbs noisily. Her legs are unsteady. She holds the handrail tightly, lest she should collapse. On the landing, all three doors are open. Joanne peers into the nearest room. It is tiny. The gaudy pink, floral paper on the walls is scuffed and torn. The ceiling is blotched with damp. 
‘I’m sure I heard something,’ she insists, turning away.
'There's nobody here.’
Joanne looks in the middle bedroom. It has the smell of sweat which she noticed in the room below. Floorboards have been torn away, exposing the joists and the broken laths of the ceiling below. The charred ends of boards lie in the fireplace. Shards of a cider bottle are scattered over the floor. Beside the fireplace, the door of the alcove cupboard has been pulled away. The hinges are still attached to the frame. A wire coat-hanger remains on the rail. Vomit has dried on the floor and stains the bottom of the wall.
'It was probably a rat or something,’ Liz says.
‘Probably.’ 
‘Tramps have been here, but not Doug as far as I can see.’ 
‘So now what?’
‘Let’s go.’ 
Thankfully Joanne goes downstairs and out to the street. Liz follows. They survey the desolation around them.
‘I think we're wasting our time,' Liz confesses. 
‘Do you want to look any more?’
‘If he is here, he could be in any of the houses in this street or the next one. They’ve all got the iron ripped off somewhere. I suppose we might as well look while we’re here.’
Joanne follows. She is in a dream: a searching dream in which the searcher is growing in stature before her eyes. They move in places which are not real. The people who fashioned the landscape have gone. The place could be made of their memories, hardened into a stillness and silence which time has made oppressive. She watches Liz, envious of her imperturbability.
‘Do you want to wait there while I go in?’ Liz asks, stopping by a doorway.
‘I’ll come with you.’
They enter cautiously. Only the different wallpapers distinguish the house from the first. They explore, gaining confidence with each room they enter. Each one is empty. This time Joanne hears no sounds.
‘If he came here, why should he bother to stay?’ she asks when they are in the street again.
‘If he’d met up with some of his mates, he might have hung around. 0r if he’d come here and got stoned. You can’t tell.’ 
They go into another house. While Liz looks in the kitchen, Joanne stays in the hall, the smell from the front room making her reluctant to push the door open any further. She is glad when they go outside again. 
‘You’re right – we’re wasting our time,’ Liz decides. She looks around helplessly and cups her hands around her month to call Doug’s name. There is no answer, no sign that anybody is close. The shrill voices of children from a nearby street reach them.
‘There’s one house I want to show you while we’re here,’ Liz says. 'That’s if I can find it.’ She scans the houses across the street. To Joanne the row of tiny, red brick houses looks no different from any other, but she follows Liz across the road. The other girl pushes at a door. When it does not open, she turns in disappointment. ‘I was going to show you this room one of the squatters did out. She was at art school – she knew Steve and Elaine. And she decorated this whole room in black lines on white, which sounds a bit dull, but it was really great. You know – the ceiling, the door and the floor. It was like being in a spider's web.’
‘Was this where you lived?'
‘Not in this particular house. I did some baby-sitting here when Sue lived here – she’s the one who did the room. But we were always popping into each other’s houses. It was a great atmosphere. We were going to get a free school going, but then it all collapsed.’
‘What happened to the others?’ 
‘Some went to other squats, some rented flats from the council – you had to take anything you could get. But it was the atmosphere and everything, you know? That was lost.’
‘This place is beginning to give me the shivers.’
‘I know what you mean. Let’s go.’ Liz takes a last glance around. As they walk back, she adds, ‘It’s best not to hang about too long in case the police come prowling around.’
‘We haven’t done anything.’
‘Try telling them that. If you’re found around here, you’re suspect according to them.’ 
From the safety of the car, they survey the street. The sun is beginning to shine, dispelling the air of menace. Pigeons strut across the road. 
‘I hate going in those places now,’ Liz confesses. ‘You never know what you’re going to find – or who.’
‘Was Elaine ever here?’
‘She didn’t live here. She came over. Everybody did at some time or other. I didn’t know her well then.’
‘I can’t imagine anyone wanting to come to this place.’
‘It was different then. We’ve done the whole thing the wrong way round, really. If Doug’s using the coffee bar, he wouldn’t go there till the evening.’
‘What sort of friends has Doug got?’
‘More acquaintances than friends.’ 
‘What sort?’
‘Drifters I suppose you’d call them.’ 
‘Does he know Don?’
‘Who’s Don?’
‘Somebody Frank knows.’
‘I've never heard of him.’
‘We met him in a cafe one night, me and Frank.’ 
‘Don’t you find Frank a sad figure?’
‘I wouldn’t say he was sad,’ Joanne answers cautiously.
‘I always think he is – failed poet, mixing with people half his age to make himself feel younger, going to every party he can find just so he can get pissed.’
The sun is bright now. The blue of the sky seems to soften the dereliction.
‘We needn’t have put the hood up,’ Joanne says.
‘I know I keep on about this, but I still don’t understand why you’re doing all this if you don’t want to get back with Mike.’
‘You suggested it.’
‘You didn’t say no.’
‘I suppose I feel responsible.’
‘Are you seriously thinking about coming back?’
‘I’ve got to go somewhere and I don’t fancy moving into one of these places.’
‘You're not exactly up against it. I mean you’ve got your own friends like Mandy. You’ve got money.’
‘I wish I had. I’m living on an overdraft and waiting for the bank manager to catch up with me. Don’t forget I'm not working.’
‘Surely you can get another job without much hassle.’ 
‘It’s not all that easily. You get plenty of experienced people in my field and you lose your contacts. It’s that sort of field – you have to know the right people.’ 
'Mike was fond of you.’ Liz glances sideways to watch her companion’s reaction. Joanne continues gazing ahead, unseeing.
‘I must have disappointed him,’ she says eventually. ‘I don’t think I’m a good revolutionary.’
‘If you came back, it would look as if you were coming back for Mike.’
'Which wouldn’t be true.’
‘That’s what the others would think.’ 
‘It’s over with Mike. That would be pretty obvious.’
‘Yet you still want to come back?’
‘I said – I haven’t decided yet. I haven’t got anywhere else to go.’
‘If I split up with someone, I’d rather sleep in the gutter than share a flat with him.’ 
‘I can’t see it happening to you.’
‘You’d be surprised.’ 
‘Did I seem very out of place in the flat?’
'Nobody minded.’ 
‘Not even Steve?’
‘Don’t take too much notice of him.’
‘I don’t think I did.’
‘It always takes time to settle into something like the way we live. Everybody at the flat knows that because they’ve been through it, including me. And you’ve got to accept that everybody’s got different backgrounds and that you’re going to have weird ideas going round. If you don’t accept it, then there’s not much point in being there.’ 
‘I admired you when I was at the flat. You’ve got a good relationship.’ 
‘There’s nothing special about it.’
‘But it works. I was envious of you.’
Liz looks surprised.
‘How did you two meet?’ Joanne asks. 
‘Bob used to be a rock band. I was going around with another guy in it when I met him. That was a couple of years ago.'
‘What happened to the band?’
‘It packed up. It wasn’t much good, anyway.’
‘You’d better give me directions,’ Joanne says, starting the engine. ‘I’m lost in this part of the world.’
‘What are we doing – going back to the flat?’ 
‘I’ll drop you back. I’m going to a film or something.’ She slips the car into gear and pulls hard on the wheel. The car describes a circle, lurching over the opposite kerb and bumping onto the road again before surging forward. She drives more carefully in the adjoining street. The children scatter as the car approaches. She smiles, feeling more relaxed.
‘Are you coming back this evening?’ Liz asks.
‘I don’t know. Sorry I can’t be more precise.’
Conversation lapses. As they stop in a line of traffic, Liz admits, ‘It was hard for Elaine and Steve when they first came. Things got really sticky sometimes. They’d have rows and Steve would sulk for days. It would have been easier if we could have done something.’
‘I can’t imagine Elaine having rows.’
‘It was Steve’s fault. He’s pretty insecure really.’
‘I’d never call him that.’ 
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Everybody seems to get called insecure – usually when they’re not around. I’m not sure it means anything.’ 
‘It’s been said of me.’ 
‘The last thing I’d call you is insecure.’
‘Didn’t you hear my heart thumping when we were in those houses?’ 
‘All I heard was mine. Anyway, that was nothing to do with insecurity – that was sheer terror.’
‘Bob says I’m a worrier.’
‘You hide it well.’ 
‘What about you?’
‘Am I insecure? You should have guessed the answer to that by now.’
‘You seemed very sure of yourself when you came to the flat that first time.’
‘That’s what I mean people to think. You have to be like that if you’re in PR.’
The journey back seems shorter than the outward journey. Outside the flat Joanne does not switch off the engine. The girls look at each other.
‘Do you want to come in for a coffee or something?’ Liz offers.
Joanne shakes her head.
'You know you can always come back if you want. I said once before – it’s open house.’
‘I’ll remember that. If I do come, it’ll be early evening.’
‘We’ll keep some dinner for you.’ Liz opens the car door.
‘I’m sorry we didn’t find Doug.’ 
‘He’ll be in touch.’
‘I hope so.’ 
‘What about you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Will you be in touch?’
‘I’ll call in even if I don’t come back to live.’
‘Thanks for today.’ 
‘I haven’t done much.’
‘We’ve covered a lot of ground.’
‘I’m sorry it wasn’t very useful.’ 
‘Thanks anyway.’ Liz gets out of the car. She grins. ‘Be seeing you.’
'Like the bad penny.’ 
‘Whenever you want.’
Joanne watches her companion ascending the steps to the front door and searching her bag for the key. When the door is opened, Liz turns to wave farewell. Joanne raises her hand in response. For a moment she does not want the leave. The front door closes, blotting out the life of the flat. She glances up at the windows, remembering Elaine laying out the food, remembering her first glimpse of the white room and of awakening to the brightness the next morning. It is part of her life which is too close for her to assess dispassionately. She switches on the ignition. The vibration of the engine brings back the excitement of her freedom. Nothing ties her. There need be no explanations, no justifications for whatever she does. She slips the car into gear and it moves away from the kerb.

chapter 4

Few people are in the cinema on a weekday afternoon. It is a low, intimate auditorium, illuminated by reflected light on the curtains shielding the walls. Joanne chooses a seat in the centre, where the light hardly reaches. She sinks deep in the seat. The only person near her is a girl sitting two rows in front. Satie is playing in the background. Joanne likes its cool, luminous quality, far removed from her own confusion, and its insinuating, hypnotic rhythm. Its emotional world seems as remote as the world of classical Greece. It imposes its own logic upon her thoughts and takes away all sense of urgency. For the first time in many days she can feel relaxed. All sense of time is removed. She could be in some eighteenth-century formal landscape with its unending vistas. 
Her favourite cinema. It is a civilised place, charged with memories of her previous visits. It holds no threat for her. The lights will go down and she will enter Bunuel's world.
*
‘Jo!’
‘You sound as if you haven’t seen me for months.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you. Don’t stand there.’
‘They go into the living room of the flat. Joanne is smiling. She flings herself on the settee.
‘Tell me then,’ Mandy urges.
‘Tell me what?’

‘What’s happening?’
‘I gave it up.’
‘You what?’
‘Left the flat.’
As Mandy stares, she adds, ‘I split up with Mike, found myself a lover and met the night people.'
‘Who are the night people? And who’s this lover?’ 
Smiling, Joanne shakes her head. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘I want to know all the sordid details.’
‘He was at the party.’
You were mad, going to live in that place.’
‘Perhaps I was.’ Joanne grins happily.
‘I wondered if I ought to ring your parents – tell them their daughter was going peculiar.’
‘It’s all true. I’m mad and loony and I pick up strange newspaper sellers.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Mike, of course. Didn’t last long, did it?’ 
‘You don’t take any notice of your friends when they warn you about living in grotty flats in Streatham.’
'I should take more notice of my friends. It's true.’ Joanne stretches across the settee. ‘I feel like celebrating. Let's go somewhere really outrageous.’
‘And find some fellas.’
‘Cast them aside if we don’t like them and make love to them all night if we do.’
‘Sounds like heaven.’
‘Screwing each one in turn.’
‘Is that what went on in the flat?’
‘It was very proper. Well, fairly proper.’
‘I thought you’d got some exotic sexual tastes.’
‘Same old tastes as ever.’
'It hasn’t been the same since you went.’
‘It’s good to feel wanted.’
‘You’re the only one who remembers to get loo paper.’
‘What a way to be remembered. Where are the others?’
‘Anne’s supposed to be doing some shopping – I don’t know where she’s got to. And Pat’s being taken to the theatre by her new beau. He came to collect her. He was rather fanciable.’ Mandy hesitates, ‘Actually we advertised your room yesterday, There’s a girl called Andrea coming next week, but we can always put her off. I was going to phone you about what to do with the rest of your things.’
‘I’ve saved you the trouble.’ 
‘I can’t keep up with your life.’
‘One merry social whirl.’
‘I thought you’d met your superman when you went to the flat.’
‘False alarm.’
‘Honestly, Jo, I don’t know why you went there. It’s a sort of hippy love on the dole.’
‘I had a moment of madness.’
‘And now the moment’s passed?’
‘And now I’m broke and jobless.’
'Who’s this lover you were talking about?’
‘Frank the phantom poet. That was really squalid. Worse than being at the flat.’
Mandy sits on the floor with her back against the settee. ‘It’s really good having you back.’
'There’s a special smell about this place.’ Joanne closes her eyes. 'I think it’s the carpet, your perfume and Anne's pomander all rolled into one.’
‘I don’t notice it.’
'You’ve got used to it.’
‘I didn’t believe you’d stay in the flat long.’
'I had to give it a try.’
‘Life with the plebs. Did you have a go at Steve in the end?’ 
Joanne shakes her head. ‘I didn’t want to upset Elaine.’ 
‘I couldn’t have resisted if I’d stayed. He’s so conceited.’
'I’m surprised you stayed as long as you did.’
‘My moment of madness.'
'What have you been doing?’
‘We had all these people ringing up about the room yesterday, so I had to stay in. Some were real weirdos. There was an old man who rang because his daughter wanted a place, but he wanted to look at it first.’ 
‘What did you do?'
‘Ring off.’
‘So I wasted your day.’
‘I’d much rather have you back than get to know a stranger. It’s been so quiet here.’
‘What was this girl Andrea like?’
'Pleasant enough – a bit dull, but pleasant. She’s a secretary.’
‘I’m going to have a long, long bath, which I haven’t been able to do for days. The bathroom at the flat was grotty but tolerable. Frank’s was just grotty.’ 
‘I can see you've been enjoying yourself.’
Joanne does not answer. She closes her eyes. The ebullience which first marked her return has evaporated. She opens her eyes suddenly. ‘What did you think of Liz?’
‘I didn’t have time to get much of an opinion. She was nice enough. Why?’
‘I just wondered.’
‘What do you want to do tonight? Shall we go to a disco to celebrate?'
‘I don’t know if I can stay awake. I feel shattered.’ 
‘What have you been doing?’
‘I met up with Liz and then saw a film. That's about it.’
‘When are we going to get picked up?’
'There’s no hurry, is there?’
‘The way I’m feeling there is.’
*
Mandy drives. The cool night air ruffles the girls’ hair. The beams of the headlights swing across the hedge at the bend in the road.
‘It wasn't a bad little pub,’ Mandy says. ‘Lots of atmosphere. Pity about the fellas.’ 
‘I didn't mean to drag you out early.’ 
‘There was nothing to stay for. Anyway, I like a drive, especially in your car. Think I'll have to get myself a mini if you go disappearing after your lovers again.’
‘You make it sound as though I've got a string of them.’ Joanne yawns. ‘I need the air to wake me up. I get tired suddenly these days. It’s terrible.’ 
‘Comes of living on salads all the time when you were at the flat.'
‘Do you feel settled?’ Joanne asks drowsily.
‘How do you mean?’
'I can’t any more. I always seem to be wanting something.'
‘Don't we all.’
‘This is different.’
'Once you’re working and settled back in the flat, you’ll be all right.’
‘I only left because I wanted something more.’ 
'You need a fella.’
'What happened to Paul? I thought you two had clicked.’ 
‘We're off each other at the moment.’ Mandy bites her lip. ‘I suppose I might as well tell you. We had a row. That was why I came to the flat.’
The darkness beyond the beams of the headlights is impenetrable. A smell of damp vegetation rises from the fields and permeates the interior of the car.
‘I haven't a clue where we’re going,’ Mandy confesses
‘Didn’t you follow the way we came?’ 
‘I thought I was, but I’m not too sure now.’ 
‘Haven’t you got a map or something?’
‘Only in the AA book and it doesn't show all the lanes. I don’t mind, but I’ve got to get up in the morning. I’d rather not end up in Brighton or somewhere.’
‘Do you ever feel that you’re playing at life and nothing you do is real?’
‘You sound like Steve.’
‘That’s what I mean. He’s playing a game, isn’t he?'
Mandy does not reply. She is leaning forward, straining to follow the twists in the road.
‘Can you imagine walking round and round the edge of some huge crater, trying not to fall in? That’s what I’m doing.’ 
Mandy is silent.
'Have you ever had a falling dream? You’re falling into a pit and there’s no bottom. That’s what I imagine happening if I fall. It's like being ill and knowing there's no cure.’
‘If you want to be morbid, leave it till we get back to the flat, not when we’re lost somewhere in the North Downs in the middle of the night.’
‘You cling to the world you know, so you won’t fall – the people, the places. You just have to cling to them.’
The car slows. Mandy steers onto the verge and stops. She turns to her friend. 'I’m getting worried about you, Jo. You’re weird since you came back.’ 
With the car stationary, the sound of the engine is low, emphasising the stillness of the world outside. With the headlights switched off, darkness encloses the girls.
‘I keep having that dream,’ Joanne admits drowsily.
‘Do you think you’re ill – really ill?’
‘I’m just tired.’
‘Don’t keep talking about falling. It frightens me.’
‘Don’t take any notice. It’s me feeling sorry for myself.’ 
‘Don’t you think you ought to see a doctor?’ 
‘I’ve already been told I ought to see a priest.’
'Who by?’
‘Liz.’
‘She didn't strike me as religious.'
‘Can you switch the engine off?’
Mandy complies. The silence is broken only by the rustling of leaves. Joanne winds down the window. She breathes deeply. The two girls can barely see each other. Now they are more aware of the smell of vegetation and the sound of their breathing.
‘Is this because of Mike?’ Mandy probes.
‘Not really.’
‘Then what?’
‘I’m a cow. I shouldn’t live with anyone.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I am. I like things to go my way and if they don’t, or if I get bored, I don’t want to bother. I can’t stand people then.’
‘You’ve always fitted in at the flat – our flat, I mean.’
‘Perhaps you don’t make demands on me.’ Joanne hesitates. ‘I thought about living in the country – have a smallholding with a goat and some chickens.’
'You’d get bored out of your mind.’
‘Probably.’
‘You need the town. You’re a party animal. You like clothes and talking to people. And I mean interesting people, not the last of the hippies.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You shouldn’t have gone to that place. You’ll be all right when you settle down.’
‘I wish I believed you.’
‘It’s true. It’s like when you go on holiday – you can never get back into everyday life afterwards. Wait till you get a fella.’
‘The answer to everything.’ 
'It’s true, isn’t it? When you were going around with Derek, you were all right.’
‘That was ages ago.’ 
‘There was nothing wrong then – that’s what I’m saying.’ 
‘Have you had a falling dream?’
‘0nce, a long while ago.’
‘Mine go on during the day. I keep imagining what’s going to happen if I fall. Sometimes I think it's already happened.’
‘It’s only something in your mind, isn't it?’ You’re not really falling.’
‘Just something in my mind,’ Joanne repeats. She stares into the darkness. ‘I like it here.’
‘I think it’s creepy.’ 
‘Perhaps I’m really one of the night people.’
‘You picked up some weird ideas in that place.’ 
‘If I went away again, could you find somebody to take my room on a short let?’
‘I suppose I could...’
‘I might go.’ 
‘Why?’ 
‘To bum around.’
‘Is it a good idea?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where would you go?’ 
‘A long way away, so I won’t fall any more.’
‘I’d think about it very carefully.’
‘I don’t do much else.’ 
‘You’re really thinking of going abroad?’
‘Yes.’ 
‘Supposing the same thing happened as at the flat and you were in Nepal or something? It wouldn’t be so easy to get out. You wouldn’t have any friends to fall back on.’
‘I know.’
‘All I can say is think about it carefully.’
‘Okay,’ Joanne answers lightly.
'Do you mind if we get back? I'm a bit tired.’
Mandy turns on the ignition. For a while they do not speak as she concentrates on following the twisting lane. Joanne stares ahead as though she is in a trance. She has the certainty that she can stop herself from falling. The knowledge comforts her. She knows that one day she will be well. Her only fear is of being alone, yet she knows that she needs loneliness to look into herself. 
They drive through suburbs, empty and silent in the night, and through south London, where the night people live. The city is not yet still. Shop windows are bright. Men cluster around the entrances to clubs. A few cafes are open. Idly Joanne wonders whether Liz and the others are sleeping, whether Frank is alone. Such things are remote from her now. She smiles. She is the centre of her own world. She has to fight the emptiness.
To Holland Park and the flat which is her home. She knows the cushions, the carpets, the softness of the bed and the smells in the bathroom.
‘Will you go to the doctor tomorrow?’ Mandy asks.
‘If it makes you happy.’
‘Do you want a glass of milk or anything?’ 
They are standing by the door to Joanne’s room. Mandy is frowning. 
‘No thanks.’ Joanne smiles. 
'Are you okay now?’
‘Yes – fine.’
'See you tomorrow then.’
‘Tomorrow.’
'Good night.'
‘Night.’ 
With the door closed, Joanne undresses with slow, tired movements, and slumps on the bed. In the light from the window she pushes the bedclothes back and sinks beneath them. It is not long before she falls asleep.
*
The bed is soft, familiar, comforting. Without moving, Joanne looks around the room she knows so well. The posters she bought are on the wall facing the bed. Her cosmetics are on the dressing table. The smell of her perfume is reassuring in its familiarity. There is no sound from within the flat.
Her home. Nobody else is there. She makes coffee before running herself a bath. No doors to lock. Nobody to hurry her. She lies in the water until it cools. No need to make hurried decisions. After she has dried herself, she sits at the dressing table, trying to see her reflection as that of a stranger. She makes up carefully, as if for a special occasion. Choosing her clothes is something to be savoured.
When she is ready, she puts on a record and flops on the settee. Her eyes close as she listens to Joni Mitchell and the preoccupations shared by her generation. Her thoughts drift back to childhood. It was a happy time. She remembers the closeness of family life: running to her mother for comfort on the day when she fell from the tree she was climbing, burying her face against her mother, so that the tears mingled with the coarse hairs of the cardigan; holding her father’s hand as she looked at skeletons of animals in the Natural History Museum. That seems long ago. Now her parents no longer live together. Their separation is still vivid in her memory. When she sees them, there is little to say. The old closeness has gone for ever.
Thoughts drift through her mind, intertwining with the words of the song. Anything to avoid decisions about the present. Already there is a half-made decision hanging over her. When the music finishes, she remains motionless, her eyes closed. There is a click as the pick-up returns to rest; then the flat is quiet again. She can hear her own breathing. How frail it makes life seem: something easily snuffed out. She can imagine Frank writing a poem about that. The thought of Frank evokes no feelings. When she asks herself why she went to him, she can find no answer.
So many thoughts of her childhood to seduce her from the present, overwhelming her with their richness. She can see every detail of her bedroom: the plants growing across the fireplace, the cupboard which housed her toys, the teddy bear lying on the bed and the pink nursery furniture which was replaced as she grew older. It was taken to the attic when she found it childish. She must have been seven or eight then. She wanted grown-up things like plants. She looked after them carefully, plucking away the dead leaves and trying to make the flowers last all year. It was her first sadness that they could not last.
When her parents separated, she was at boarding school. When she stayed with her mother during the holidays, nothing was said about why things had gone wrong. At night she tried to work out what had happened. As she came to understand the lack of love, she found herself distanced from both her parents. Their presence made her uneasy, though she knew that this response was wrong. 
A faint buzzing comes from the speakers. She holds her breath till she has to release it. Oxygen floods her brain. Suddenly she can no longer control her breathing. She gasps for breath as she rises from the settee, but her frenzy  subsides before she has crossed the room. She stands, looking around. Her surroundings seem unreal, as though she is on a stage set. She is sure that the floor slopes. If she turns, she will see the audience, but instead she keeps her back to them as she leaves the flat, her heart thumping as she walks. Her breathing is rapid. In the car she takes deep breaths and tries to relax. The familiar surroundings help. She has to wait till her hands are steady before she can put the key in the ignition. 
Her driving is slow and deliberate. The greyness surrounds her, obliterating all feeling except for memories of illness. She hates the prospect of illness: the vulnerability, the giving of her body to people whom she does not know and the admission of imperfection. The illnesses of childhood are dimly remembered. Her only recent encounter with disease was visiting a friend in hospital. It was her first visit to a hospital. The institutionalised world alarmed her. She wanted to run away when she saw the girl who was normally so active immobilised in the metal-framed bed, but she forced herself to stay for half an hour, talking as though she were happy and hoping that her true feelings did not show. Afterwards, sitting in her car in the car park, she experienced the same feelings of panic and a lack of control as now. She had to breathe deeply, calming herself, trying to rid herself of the smells of that place. When she drove away, she wanted to get as far from the hospital as possible, yet the fear of having an accident and of being taken to hospital as a patient numbed her. She drove out of town, taking lanes which normally she only travelled in summer. The pub which she went to was one which she had visited a couple of times before. Couples went there. She was the only girl on her own. She sat near the fire, lingering over her drink and overhearing the conversations around her. There was reassurance in being surrounded by happy, healthy people and in having the men stealing glances at her. Nobody spoke to her.
That was in the days before coming to London. The move seems long ago, though it is only eight months. She began by staying with friends in Finsbury Park; a month later she was sharing a flat. There was nothing wrong with her life then. 
It is so like driving from the hospital. The years since then might never have been, so little has she learned. Like a child she flees from everything which she cannot understand. That weakness makes her despise herself. She grips the wheel tightly. The further she drives, the more the events of the morning grow remote from her. She is a free person now. People, work, places – none of them restrains her. She has no destination in mind: she follows the freely- moving stream of traffic. The notion of visiting Liz again passes through her mind, but she has already gone back once; it would seem strange to do so again. It is still too early to make sense of her time at the Streatham flat.
Crossing the Thames; carried northwards by the traffic to Dalston. The people and the houses remind her of that first visit to the flat. The images threaten to return in all their vividness. Men watch her openly, as though she has no privacy left and no secrets. At other times she would be flattered, but now it annoys and disturbs her. She is entering a strange, menacing world which she cannot control. The reversion to those bad times from her past alarms her. The disorder in her life crowds upon her, so that she can see no stability. A mounting sense of panic affects her breathing again. The slowness of the traffic frustrates her, making her drum her hand against the steering wheel.
Where is Liz? Joanne thinks back to the previous day and wishes that her life at the flat could have continued. Not sure what she feels for Liz; not sure what to call it.
Moving eastwards, carried by the heavy traffic along Lea Bridge Road. The trees on either side make the countryside seem closer. Beside the canal bridge, the pub overhung by trees could be far from any town. Joanne slows. The taxi behind her hoots. She makes up her mind and continues across the bridge. The road ahead is straight and free of buildings. Traffic stretches endlessly.
She has to ask her way as she did on her way to the flat the first time. Beyond the marshes, the buildings which press upon the road are of two storeys – lower than those which she has passed.  Now that she is in unknown territory, a sense of excitement comes to her. There will be changes in her life.
A dual carriageway marks the border of the forest. She likes the open aspect of heathland. It reminds her of the New Forest. She drives slowly, savouring the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. The road curves through woodland where the trees crowd the road on both sides. Lorries grind by as she slows even more. The car bumps on to the verge. With the engine turned off she savours the contrast between ancient woodland and traffic. She can imagine Steve wanting to analyse the juxtaposition. His pomposity seems endearing now. She smiles, imagining how the others at the flat would love the woodland.
If she is ill, how will she be cured? She wants to ask others that question. The notion of following Liz’s advice and seeing a priest crosses her mind, but she is not ready for such a step. 
Why did she make such an effort to find Doug? She never liked him. Perhaps her insistence was more to do with ingratiating herself with Liz. The very irrationality of such behaviour makes Joanne suspect that she is ill. She wishes that she had stayed at the flat, becoming closer to Liz and imbued with her values. She wanted to discover what made those disparate people stay together. It would have been so easy to ask Liz.
Walking slowly away from the car and into the woods. A blackbird rises from a holly bush, calling shrilly. Joanne stops. The traffic sounds reach her as a dull roar. The blackbird flutters into the branches. She walks on, dappled by the dancing beams of sunlight.
Were they really happy, those people whom she knew so briefly? Perhaps their relationships were more complex than she thought. What excitement that first meeting with Mike gave her. So sure of himself; so different. That attracted her. The briefness of their relationship makes her regretful. It is a measure of how well she has known people that there is nobody she can turn to.
The sound of traffic grows softer. She walks around a fallen tree, marvelling that its removal leaves no gap in the tracery of branches. She wonders what is happening at the Streatham flat: whether the others talk about her and whether someone else will take her place. She can imagine Mike attracting others as he attracted her. The thought gives her bitterness. She walks faster. There is nobody to stop her thoughts from turning inwards. However much she tries to blame other people, she knows that her problems arise from her own shortcomings. She is vain and impatient, she bores easily and she can seem superficial.  Yet in other circumstances, would everything about her become different?
There is no reason to hurry. She lets her body relax. The traffic is no more than a background murmur. Only the creatures of the forest can see her. Everything must be different, she tells herself. She will never see the people from the flat again; they were never really part of her world. A new episode of her life must begin. She will take a holiday in the sun and then look for a job. It will be a proper job, chosen so that she will meet the right people and give a purpose to her life.
A collie crashes through the undergrowth towards her. Joanne encourages it to come to her. It approaches cautiously, sniffing her. It begins to wag its tail. She looks up to see its owner approaching. She smiles. 
‘He thinks they’re his woods,’ the woman explains.
‘Don’t worry.’ 
‘Come on Sam.’
The dog pricks up its ears, concentrating on its owner. When she throws a stick, Sam scampers after it. The woman follows slowly. Joanne watches till the dog is out of sight among the bushes. She knows that the greatest changes are ahead of her. 
END