relaxed her with small talk about the Blitz. It seemed the wrong way round to Jean, who suddenly said, “I’ve come to be inspected.”
“Of course you have. We’ll do the inspection today and the fitting next week. I find most girls don’t like to rush things.”
“I see.” What fitting? Oh dear.
Dr. Headley then asked questions about Jean and Michael, some of which seemed very circumstantial.
“And what do you know about the sexual act? Tell me frankly.” Jean mentioned the book in the maroon cloth binding, the one by the woman whose play about ostriches began in excitement and kept it up all through. “Splendid. So you must know most of it by now. Always best to get some reading under your belt. And what do you think of the sexual act—I mean, about it generally?”
By now Jean had more confidence. Nothing would shock Dr. Headley. Her hair was swept off her face and piled into a neat but lopsided bun; Jean was reminded of a cottage loaf.
“I think it’s funny.”
“Funny? You mean strange. Yes, it can be at first. But you get used to it.”
“No, funny. Funny-ha-ha. Funny-ha-ha.” Turgid, she thought; rift in the lute; lavender; the Queen of Aragon . She allowed herself to giggle.
“Funny, my girl, is the one thing it is not.” Oh dear. “It is intensely serious. It is beautiful, and it can be complicated, but it is not funny . Do you see?” Jean nodded, blushing at her gaffe, yet still only half convinced. “Now slip behind that screen and take off your nether garments.”
Chastened, Jean did so. She wondered about her shoes. Were shoes garments? Should she put them back on? Oh dear. She should never have said that sex was funny. Of course, it could well turn out not to be. Perhaps her Periodicity of Recurrence would astonish her; perhaps she wouldn’t need any Alpine air. She tried not to, but she couldn’t help thinking about Michael’s penis. Not the thing itself, which she had yet to imagine, let alone see; but the idea of it. The thing that would join their bodies together—the sex-hyphen.
She came out from behind the screen. She was asked to lie down, and then … oh dear. Wild horses, she thought. The silence was terrible. Jean began to hum quietly to herself. “Heads we marry, honey …” Then she stopped in embarrassment. Dr. Headley probably disapproved of humming, even if the tune was appropriate.
“This may feel a little cold.” Jean braced herself. Was she going to be doused with cold water, as punishment for her levity in humming? But no: it was only … she stopped thinking about her nether regions. Her eyes were tight shut, like blackout curtains closely drawn; but through them came the red glow of life outside. Black and red, the colour of the war: the colour of Tommy Prosser’s war. Tommy Prosser in his black Hurricane out in the black night with the hood back and the red glow from the instrument panel softly lighting up his face and hands. Tommy Prosser in his black Hurricane looking out for the red exhausts of returning bombers. Black and red …
“Well, the nursery’s fine, and there’s nothing wrong with the playroom,” said Dr. Headley all of a sudden.
“Oh good.” What was she talking about?
Dr. Headley pulled open a drawer and extracted three circular tins with numbers written on them. She put away the two larger ones with a jovial “Mustn’t frighten the horses,” and opened the third. A haze of French chalk rose as she unscrewed the lid. “Now I’ll just show you the principle of the thing, and next week you can try it for yourself.”
Dr. Headley extracted the Dutch cap and tapped the chalk off it. “Quite simple, see? Spring round there”—she compressed the cap into a slim figure eight—“flexible, tough, completely safe if you put it in right. You try.”
Jean picked it up. It looked enormous. Where did it go? Perhaps you wrapped it round the sex-hyphen like a piece of ground-sheet and lashed it down with rope. Tentatively,
“Of course you have. We’ll do the inspection today and the fitting next week. I find most girls don’t like to rush things.”
“I see.” What fitting? Oh dear.
Dr. Headley then asked questions about Jean and Michael, some of which seemed very circumstantial.
“And what do you know about the sexual act? Tell me frankly.” Jean mentioned the book in the maroon cloth binding, the one by the woman whose play about ostriches began in excitement and kept it up all through. “Splendid. So you must know most of it by now. Always best to get some reading under your belt. And what do you think of the sexual act—I mean, about it generally?”
By now Jean had more confidence. Nothing would shock Dr. Headley. Her hair was swept off her face and piled into a neat but lopsided bun; Jean was reminded of a cottage loaf.
“I think it’s funny.”
“Funny? You mean strange. Yes, it can be at first. But you get used to it.”
“No, funny. Funny-ha-ha. Funny-ha-ha.” Turgid, she thought; rift in the lute; lavender; the Queen of Aragon . She allowed herself to giggle.
“Funny, my girl, is the one thing it is not.” Oh dear. “It is intensely serious. It is beautiful, and it can be complicated, but it is not funny . Do you see?” Jean nodded, blushing at her gaffe, yet still only half convinced. “Now slip behind that screen and take off your nether garments.”
Chastened, Jean did so. She wondered about her shoes. Were shoes garments? Should she put them back on? Oh dear. She should never have said that sex was funny. Of course, it could well turn out not to be. Perhaps her Periodicity of Recurrence would astonish her; perhaps she wouldn’t need any Alpine air. She tried not to, but she couldn’t help thinking about Michael’s penis. Not the thing itself, which she had yet to imagine, let alone see; but the idea of it. The thing that would join their bodies together—the sex-hyphen.
She came out from behind the screen. She was asked to lie down, and then … oh dear. Wild horses, she thought. The silence was terrible. Jean began to hum quietly to herself. “Heads we marry, honey …” Then she stopped in embarrassment. Dr. Headley probably disapproved of humming, even if the tune was appropriate.
“This may feel a little cold.” Jean braced herself. Was she going to be doused with cold water, as punishment for her levity in humming? But no: it was only … she stopped thinking about her nether regions. Her eyes were tight shut, like blackout curtains closely drawn; but through them came the red glow of life outside. Black and red, the colour of the war: the colour of Tommy Prosser’s war. Tommy Prosser in his black Hurricane out in the black night with the hood back and the red glow from the instrument panel softly lighting up his face and hands. Tommy Prosser in his black Hurricane looking out for the red exhausts of returning bombers. Black and red …
“Well, the nursery’s fine, and there’s nothing wrong with the playroom,” said Dr. Headley all of a sudden.
“Oh good.” What was she talking about?
Dr. Headley pulled open a drawer and extracted three circular tins with numbers written on them. She put away the two larger ones with a jovial “Mustn’t frighten the horses,” and opened the third. A haze of French chalk rose as she unscrewed the lid. “Now I’ll just show you the principle of the thing, and next week you can try it for yourself.”
Dr. Headley extracted the Dutch cap and tapped the chalk off it. “Quite simple, see? Spring round there”—she compressed the cap into a slim figure eight—“flexible, tough, completely safe if you put it in right. You try.”
Jean picked it up. It looked enormous. Where did it go? Perhaps you wrapped it round the sex-hyphen like a piece of ground-sheet and lashed it down with rope. Tentatively,
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