Sunday Best by Bernice Rubens Page B

than the matter of their words. For women, as we know, are not given to intelligence and what they say is of secondary importance to their manner of speech. Or perhaps I should modify that a little. My wife, after all, is highly intelligent, but not intelligent enough to hide it. And there’s the rub and why I find it hard to call her by her name. But that’s not true. It is not her fault that I cannot name her. I dare not, for it would be an admission of the wrong I have done her.
    It was a good dressing day. My make-up was flawless. The Parsons affair and the Reverend’s veiled warning seemed trivial, and I blessed my escape route for giving me an inner peace. Other people find that peace in work; I like to think it is none the less valid if found in pleasure. I adjusted my wig, which today sat easily on my head, its fall of ringlets masking the tell-tale shoulder bone. I found myself moving towards the window, and was excited by my boldness. I had been tempted before, but fear had always overcome me. Because what I wanted more than anything else was to display myself and be taken for a woman. I even went so far as to raise the net curtain, and felt such a boundless physical joy inside me that it was almost unbearable. I saw people coming out of the Johnson house, mostly neighbours, and my wife amongst them. I dropped the curtain, and returned to my desk, savouring the after-taste of the joy that had come from self-display. And I knew that there was only one logical conclusion, that I must venture abroad and pass myself off amongst strangers as a woman. It had always been a secret wish of mine ever since I had started Sunday dressing, but until that moment, having availed myself of the window, I had been totally unaware of the delights that would ensue. Now the ambition to go abroad as a woman took a strong hold on me, and I knew that until I had done it, and done it again and again, and succeeded in my disguise, my life would be less than fulfilled. When I think of it now, it was amadness I suppose. I had enough trouble with Tommy Johnson and the Parsons affair, without laying myself open to greater risk, but the need to carry on an open disguise persisted and even the nagging thoughts of my father scarcely blunted the pleasure of my design.
    I heard my wife come in through the front door, and a little later up the stairs to my study. ‘George,’ she called, ‘are you ready for some tea?’
    I sensed a friendliness in her voice, and dressed as I was, found no difficulty in responding in the same tone. But as my voice left my mouth, I heard its womanly tones and inflexions. ‘Yes dear,’ it said, ‘I shall be down shortly. I must change my clothes.’ My voice, which is normally tenor, had reached contralto without strain, identifiable, as I liked to think, with an unmistakably seductive woman. I trembled for her reaction. It was not immediate, and I sensed that she was debating her acceptance or otherwise of my new role. Then after a while, ‘Don’t bother to change, Georgina,’ she said with a giggle. ‘We’ll have a hens’ tea-party. I’ll ring Mrs Bakewell to come over.’ And I heard her run down the stairs and the ping as she lifted the receiver.
    There’s no question about it. My wife is sick. My appetite for disguise slackened, and I felt a surging resentment towards my wife. By so readily accepting my little habits, and moreover, inviting the neighbours to share the fun, she had reduced my needs to a game. And what is more, a game I must play with her. I had no desire to appear before Mrs Bakewell and my wife as George Verrey Smith in disguise, as if it were a game of charades. I wanted to hoodwink everybody, strangers, as well as what was left of my own family, that I was indeed a woman, and an attractive woman at that. I took off my clothes, angry that I had to depend on my wife for a wardrobe, and resolved to syphon off from my next