‘I bet you love it, Aunt Louise.’
‘Oh, well. I'll enjoy the catchy tunes.’
They turned from the photographs, and Billy Fawcett had disappeared from view. ‘Where on earth has he gone now?’ Aunt Louise asked, rather as though he were a dog on a picnic, but he appeared almost right away, having been to the newsagent next door to buy a small box of Cadbury's Milk Tray chocolates. ‘Have to do the thing in style, eh? Sorry to keep you waiting. Now, in we go.’
The inside of the cinema — which had once been a fish market — was cramped and stuffy as ever, smelling strongly of the disinfectant which was regularly squirted around in case of possible fleas. A girl with a torch showed the way to their seats, but she didn't shine the torch, because the lights had not yet gone down. Judith was about to edge her way into the row, but Billy Fawcett intervened. ‘Ladies first, I think, Judith. Let's see your aunt comfortably settled.’ Which meant that Judith sat between them, with Aunt Louise on her left and Billy Fawcett on her right. Once they were settled, with coats disposed of, he opened the box of chocolates and handed them along. They only tasted a bit stale, but then they had probably been sitting on the newsagent's shelf for years.
The lights dimmed. They watched trailers for the next show… A thrilling western set, apparently, in South America. The Stranger from Rio. A blonde actress dressed in picturesque tatters, but with her maquillage intact, struggled, panting, through pampas-grass. The hero, in a tremendous sombrero, driving his white horse through a river, meanwhile whirling a lariat over his head. ‘Showing at This Theatre. Next Week. The Chance of a Lifetime. Not to Be Missed.’
‘I shall miss it,’ said Aunt Louise. ‘It looks rubbish.’
Then there was the News. Herr Hitler strutting around in his breeches, reviewing some parade. The King talking to shipbuilders after a launch in the north of England. Then some funny shots of puppies at a dog show. After the news there was a Silly Symphony about a chipmunk, and then, at last, Top Hat.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Aunt Louise. ‘I thought it was never going to start.’
But Judith hardly heard her. Settled deep in her seat, her eyes glued to the screen, she was caught up in the old familiar magic, the total submergence in the sight and sound of the story that was being told. And before long, there was Fred Astaire on a stage, twirling and tapping his way through the ‘Top Hat’ number, walking, strolling, juggling his cane, but somehow always dancing. And then the plot thickened, and he met Ginger Rogers and pursued her, and they sang, ‘Isn't This a Lovely Day to Be Caught in the Rain?’ and danced again, only together this time. And then he and Edward Everett Horton somehow got mixed up, both dressed the same and swapping over a briefcase, and Ginger Rogers thought that Fred Astaire was Edward Everett Horton and became enraged, because Edward Everett Horton was married to Ginger's best friend Madge…
It was at this juncture that Judith became aware that something funny was going on. Billy Fawcett was restless, shifting around and generally distracting her attention. She changed her position slightly, in order to give his legs more space, and as she did so, felt something on her knee. And the something was Billy Fawcett's hand, which had alighted, as though by mistake, but stayed there, heavy and uncomfortably warm.
The shock of this destroyed all concentration and pleasure. Top Hat, with its glitter and charm, simply ceased to exist. The dialogue, the jokes, the laughter were unheard. She continued to stare at the screen, but saw nothing, and all thought of following the plot flew from her mind, as she grappled with an alarming and totally unexpected crisis. What was she meant to do? Did he know that his hand was on her knee? Did he perhaps think it rested on the narrow arm which divided the cramped velvet seats? Should she tell him? And if she did, would he take his hand away?
But then his fingers tightened and gripped and began to knead, and she knew that his intrusion was no accident, but planned. Fondling, his hand moved higher, under her skirt, up her thigh. In a moment he would reach her knickers. In the darkness, in the warmth, she sat in terrified horror, wondering where he would stop, and what was she to do, and why was he doing it, and how could she possibly alert Aunt Louise…
Up on the screen, something amusing had taken place. The audience, Aunt Louise included, burst into peals of laughter. Under cover of this sound, Judith pretended she had dropped something, slid out of her seat, and landed on her knees, jammed in the fusty darkness between the two rows of seats.
‘What on earth,’ Aunt Louise demanded, ‘are you doing?’
‘I've lost my hairslide.’
‘I didn't think you were wearing one.’
‘Well, I was, and I've lost it.’
‘Leave it then, and we'll find it at the end of the film.’
‘Shh!’ came a furious whisper from the row behind. ‘Stay quiet, can't you?’
‘Sorry.’ With some difficulty, she wriggled back into her seat again, this time squeezed so close to Aunt Louise that the arm-rest dug into her rib-cage. Surely now he would take the hint and leave her alone.
But no. Another five minutes, and the hand was there again, like a creepy crawly creature that no amount of bashing with a rolled-up newspaper would kill. Fondling, moving, creeping upward…
She sprang to her feet.
Aunt Louise, not unnaturally, became exasperated. ‘Judith, for heaven's sake.’
‘I have to go to the lavatory,’ Judith hissed.
‘I told you to go before we left home.’
‘Shsh! Other people are watching, do you mind being quiet?’
‘Sorry. Aunt Louise, let me by.’
‘Go the other way. It's much quicker.’
‘I want to go this way.’
‘Well, go or sit down; you're spoiling everyone's pleasure.’
‘Sorry.’
She went, clambering over Aunt Louise's knees, and the knees of all the other irritated and inconvenienced members of the audience who happened to be sitting in their row. She sped up the dark aisle and through the curtain at the back and found the dirty little ladies' cloakroom, and went in and locked the door, and sat in the smelly place and nearly cried with disgust and despair. What did he want, the horrible man? Why did he have to touch her? Why couldn't he leave her alone? She didn't mind about missing the picture. The very idea of going back into the cinema gave her the shivers. She just wanted to get out into the fresh air and go home, and never ever have to see him or speak to him again.
‘Let's go to the cinema,’ he had suggested, without blinking an eye, letting Aunt Louise believe that he was offering the treat out of the goodness of his heart. He had fooled Aunt Louise, which alone rendered him both astute and dangerous. Why he had fondled her knee, and slid his hateful fingers right up her thigh, was incomprehensible, but that alone made her feel desecrated, because it was horrible. From the start, she had not much liked Billy Fawcett, but simply thought him rather pathetic and ridiculous. Now she felt ridiculous too, and demeaned as well. So demeaned that she knew she could never bring herself to tell Aunt Louise what had happened. The mere idea of looking her in the eye and saying Billy Fawcett tried to put his hand up my knickers was enough to make her burn with shame.
One thing was for sure. She would go back into the cinema, the way she had come, and would not budge until Aunt Louise stood up, took Judith's seat beside Billy Fawcett and let Judith take her own place. This could be achieved by standing and arguing, and with the help of the infuriated couple who sat behind them. Thus Aunt Louise would be forced, out of sheer embarrassment, to do as Judith insisted, and if she was angry afterwards and demanded to know what on earth Judith had been thinking about, what a way to behave, et cetera, et cetera, then Judith would take no notice of her because, indirectly, the whole situation was Aunt Louise's own fault. Billy Fawcett was her friend, and she could jolly well sit next to him, and Judith was pretty sure that, come hell or high water, he wouldn't dare to put his hand up Aunt Louise's knickers.
The sky, which had been clear
with a brilliant full moon, suddenly darkened, and a wind sprang up from nowhere, pouncing on and howling about the house on the hill with the voice of lost ghosts. She lay in bed and was terrified, and stared at the square space of the window, waiting for what was inevitably going to happen, and not knowing what it was. She knew that if she got out of bed and fled to the door, with escape her only hope, then she would find the door locked. Over the sound of the wind, she heard footsteps on the gravel, and then a thump, as the top of a wooden ladder was set against the windowsill. It was coming. He was coming, climbing silently as a cat. She stared and her heart thudded, and she lay still because there was nothing else to do. He was coming, with his evil intentions, and his manically twinkling eyes, and his hot and fumbling fingers, and she was lost because even if she screamed she knew that no sound would come out of her mouth, and nobody would hear. Nobody would come. And then as, petrified, she watched, his head came over the edge of the windowsill, and although it was dark, she could see every feature on his face, and he was smiling…
Billy Fawcett.
She sat up in bed and screamed, and screamed again, and he was still there, but it was daylight now, it was morning and she was awake, and the terrible image stayed only for a second, and then mercifully faded, and there was no ladder, only her own open window and the morning light beyond.
A dream. Her heart thudded like a drum with the terror and reality of her own overwrought imagination. Gradually it stilled. Her mouth was dry. She drank from the glass of water by her bed. Lay back, trembling and exhausted, on the pillows.
She thought about facing Aunt Louise over bacon and eggs, and hoped that she was not still cross about yesterday evening and the disastrous visit to the cinema. Judith's frightening dream had faded, but the practical problem of Billy Fawcett was as real and immediate as ever; it lay on her heart like a weight, and she knew that no amount of chewing over the debacle of their night out was going to solve this problem, or, on consideration, do any good whatsoever.
‘Let's go the cinema.’ So kindly and well meaning. And all the time, he had been planning that. He had deceived them both, which rendered him cunning, and so an enemy to be reckoned with. His violation was incomprehensible. She only knew that, somehow, it was all mixed up with sex, and so, was horrible.
From the start Judith had not found him likeable…not like dear Mr Willis, or even Colonel Carey-Lewis, with whom she had formed an instant rapport…but simply something of a caricature — ridiculous. And now the awful thing was that she felt ridiculous too, because she had behaved like an idiot. As well, there was Aunt Louise to be considered. Billy Fawcett was an old acquaintance, a link with Jack Forrester and their halcyon days in India. To tell would be to destroy her faith and end their friendship. And Judith, distraught as she was, did not have it in her to be so cruel.
Because Aunt Louise had been very good about the disastrous visit to the cinema, saying no word until she and Judith were back at Windyridge and alone. After the film was finished, and the audience stood for the scratchy rendering of ‘God Save the King’, they had filed out, into the cold and blowy darkness, and piled into the Rover, and returned to Penmarron. Billy Fawcett had kept up perky conversation all the way, repeating and recalling amusing scraps of dialogue from the film, and whistling the tunes.
I'm putting on my top hat
Tying up my white tie…
Judith stared at the back of his head and wished him dead. As they approached the gates of Windyridge, he said, ‘Drop me here, Louise my dear, and I'll make my own way home. Splendid of you to drive us. Enjoyed myself.’
‘We enjoyed ourselves too, Billy. Didn't we, Judith?’ The car halted, and he opened the door and clambered out. ‘And thank you for our treat.’
‘A pleasure, my dear. 'Bye, Judith.’ And he had the effrontery to stick his head through the door and send her a wink. Then the door slammed shut and he was on his way. Aunt Louise turned in through the gate. They were home.
She had not been really angry, simply puzzled, and at a loss to know what on earth had got into Judith. ‘You behaved like a maniac. I thought you'd caught a flea or something, hopping about like a person with St Vitus's dance. Losing things, and dropping things, and then disturbing a whole row of innocent people who were only trying to enjoy themselves. And all that fuss about sitting in my seat. I've never seen such behaviour in my life.’
Which was all quite reasonable. Judith apologised, told her that the mythical hairslide had been a favourite, the visit to the lavatory highly essential, and that she had only asked Aunt Louise to shift seats because she thought it easier for Aunt Louise to move, rather than to endure Judith's clambering across her knees and possibly kicking her. She had, actually, only been thinking of Aunt Louise's well-being, when she made the suggestion.
‘My well-being! I like that, with the couple behind me calling me every sort of name and threatening to call the police…’
‘But they wouldn't have.’
‘That's not the point. It was very embarrassing.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘I was quite enjoying the film too. I didn't think I would, but it was amusing.’
‘I thought it was funny too,’ Judith fibbed, because, in fact, after the moment when the fumbling started, she couldn't remember anything about it at all. She added, hoping to put Aunt Louise off any possible scent, ‘It was kind of Colonel Fawcett to take us.’
‘Yes, it was. Poor old boy, he's pretty hard-up. Not much of a pension…’ The row, it seemed, was over. Aunt Louise, having divested herself of coat and hat, went to pour herself a sustaining whisky and soda, and carrying this, led the way into the dining-room, where Edna had left them cold mutton and sliced beetroot, her idea of a suitable post-cinema snack.
But Judith was not hungry. Simply dead-tired. She toyed with the mutton and drank some water.
‘You all right?’ Aunt Louise asked. ‘You look dreadfully pale. The excitement must have been too much for you. Why don't you pop off to bed?’
‘Would you mind?’
‘Not a scrap.’
‘I'm sorry about everything.’
‘We'll talk no more about it.’
Now, the morning after, Judith knew that she wouldn't. For this she was grateful, but still felt miserable. Not only miserable but grubby, and itchy and uncomfortable. Contaminated by the unspeakable Billy Fawcett, and as well physically unclean, as though her body had absorbed the frowstiness of the stuffy little cinema, and the fetid lavatory where she had fled for refuge from his prowling hand. And her hair smelt of cigarette smoke, which was disgusting. Last night she had been too tired to have a bath, so she would have one now. The decision made, she flung back the rumpled sheets and went across the landing to turn on the taps full-blast.
It was wonderful, scalding hot, and deep as she dared. She soaped every bit of herself, and washed her hair as well. Dried, and scented with talcum powder, and with her teeth scrubbed, she felt marginally better. Back in her room, she kicked all yesterday's clothes aside to be dealt with, at some point, by Hilda and found clean ones. Fresh underclothes and stockings and a crisply ironed shirt. A different skirt and a dusty-pink pullover. She rubbed her hair on her towel and then combed it back from her face, put on her shoes, tied the laces, and went downstairs.
Aunt Louise was already at breakfast, buttering toast and sipping coffee. She was dressed for golf, in tweeds and a cardigan, buttoned over a manly shirt. Her hair, confined in its net, was immaculate. As Judith came in, she looked up.
‘Thought you'd slept in.’
‘I'm sorry. I decided to have a bath.’
‘I had mine last night. Something about going to the cinema always leaves one feeling perfectly filthy.’ Judith's misdemeanours apparently were forgiven and forgotten. She was in cheerful mood, looking forward to her game. ‘How did you sleep? Did you dream of Fred Astaire?’
‘No. No, I didn't.’
‘My favourite was the actor who pretended to be a clergyman.
’ Judith helped herself to bacon and eggs and took her seat. ‘Being English made him somehow so droll.’
‘What time are you playing golf?’
‘I said I'd meet them at ten. We'll probably tee off about half past, and then have a late lunch in the club. How about you?’ Aunt Louise glanced at the window. ‘It looks quite a promising day. Do you want to go off on your bicycle, or is there something else you'd like to do?’
‘No. I think I will go up Veglos, and look for primroses for you.’
‘I'll get Edna to make a sandwich, and pack it in a haversack. And maybe an apple and a bottle of ginger beer. She and Hilda are off at half past ten for Auntie's birthday. Some cousin is going to come and pick them up in his motor car. Funny. I never even knew they had a cousin who owned a motor car. And I'd like you to wait until they've set off, and then you can take the back-door key. I'll take the front-door key, and that way we're independent of each other. And I'll make sure all the windows are locked as well. You never know. Such funny people around. In the old days I never thought of locking doors, but then Mrs Battersby was burgled, and one can't be too sure. And you'd better take a raincoat, in case it rains. And be home before dark.’
‘I have to be. I haven't any lights.’
‘How silly. We should have thought of lights when we bought the bicycle.’ She poured her second cup of coffee. ‘Well, that's all settled.’ She stood and, carrying the coffee cup, went from the room, headed for the kitchen and Edna, and gave orders for Judith's picnic.
Later, brogued and wearing a beret, and with her clubs stowed on the back seat of the Rover, she departed for the golf club, locking the front door firmly behind her. Judith saw her off, and then went back indoors by way of the kitchen. Edna and Hilda were dressed in their finery for the momentous birthday party.