Love, Let Me Not Hunger (37 page)

What had happened to her after he had driven her out? What had she been through? And there grew in him a conviction which pushed him to the edge of nausea from shame. Not whoring! That was why she had been starving and at the end of her tether. She had never whored for herself and never would.

Her expression was uncertain, her eyes wary and frightened. She said, “Toby! I’m sorry! It’s all right, I’ll go.”

“No,” he said. And then, “I feel sick.” He pushed past her into the inner room where he threw himself upon the big bed, his face buried in his arms, his shoulders shaking.

Rose followed and stood in the doorway for a moment looking down upon him, the fear, the doubts, and the uncertainty in her face struggling with warmth and tenderness.

She went and sat upon the side of the bed and placed her hand gently upon the quivering muscles of his back and said his name.

There was no diminution of the spasms and the internal weeping that was shaking him, and so she lay down on the bed beside him, took his head to the breast of her blouse and held him.

“Toby, Toby!” she whispered.

The boy at last became quiet in her arms, and they lay there thus for a long time, and there was no movement but the gentling of her fingers in his hair and no sound but the whisper of his name.

Then for the second time that night, now greying into morning, Toby was filled with love and as before, it caught him unawares.

It was at first no more than a stirring, youth recovering from crisis and fatigue. He recognised where he was, close-held in the arms of Rose. He placed his lips to the soft underside of her throat and felt the throbbing of the pulse within.

It seemed as though he had never encountered her heartbeat before. Beneath her skin, something was alive and fluttering, something small and terrified, yet warm and tender too, and he began to feel love and compassion for it, and through it for her. This love filled him with the need for closeness to her, a clinging to, a searching for, a holding, a never-to-be-relinquished contact. But even then he knew that touch was not enough. Somehow he must come even nearer to her, else how could he communicate what he was feeling, tell her what he had never told her—that he loved her.

He loved so many things of which he had not even been conscious of before: the texture of her hair, the lashes of her eyes, the surface of her skin, the very clothes she wore, as though the essence of the girl he was on the verge of discovering had communicated itself even to her garments.

He pressed his lips to the fabric that had become a part of her; he touched her face, following its contours with his fingers to the line of her jaw and neck which created in him a strange sadness that he had never experienced before. Who was she? What was she, that suddenly he should love her so?

Toby held her hard to him, breathing in the fragrance that emanated from her, drawing into his lungs not only the smell of her hair, her clothes, the tender spot at her temple where his lips were pressed, but as well something of her femininity, her youth, her innocence, and the love throbbing within her. He now found that he could speak her name as a caress—“Rose—Rose”—and then say that which he never felt he would or could before—“Rose—I love you.”

“Toby! Toby, I love you so.”

They took refuge with one another from fear and loneliness, their bodies pressing together desperately driven by the urge to find some further points of union, to cover and shield each other from all harm.

But it was not enough, this telling of it, the saying of the words, the fierce searching contact. He felt within himself things he could not say or communicate to her. She understood his need, and swiftly and easily so as hardly to disturb him she arranged her garments so as to be able to receive him.

Through her now, Toby learned the final meaning of love. For this was unlike any other of the unions he had had with Rose. Underlying the crescendo of swelling passion he was filled with thoughts of her. He was seeing her cradled in his arms, but he was holding her in his mind as well, caring about her, watching, worrying, fretting over her, longing to bring the mistiness to her gaze and the ecstasy to her mouth. He was conscious of the great gathering within him of an outpouring of love for this girl, this woman, this person, this other lonely human being.

Now the last questions were being answered, the last disappointments erased. Now the sweetness that was threatening to be drawn out of him transcended all prior sensation, and yet he was able to pause, to hold himself back, to look at her, every lineament of her features, to think of her and whisper, “Are you all right? Do you feel it too?”

Her eyes had begun to swim and her lips to part. “Oh yes! Oh Toby—Toby—now!”

And then the eyes far away but filled with tears, the gentle straining movement, and the sigh—“Oh Toby, I love you so.”

His own pulsations swept him between earth and sky and yet he was with her, always with her and conscious of her body and her being, no longer alone.

When the paroxysms were finished he had no wish to leave her as he had done before; no, never to leave her but to remain pressing his lips to her eyelids and temples, desperately clinging, cleaving to her so that they should never become two again.

These were the secrets and the revelations of love that had eluded him which at last had been unfolded through her and which might have remained denied to him forever but for the warmth and outpouring of her own generosity. Here was more beauty and sweetness even than in climax—the nearness, the grave and loving little aftersmile, the nestling and the holding to one another, the explorations and discoveries to be made; the path of a bright tear across her cheek, or the play of light upon her worn face. At last! At last! He had captured the meaning of being a man and living and loving, and he felt himself filled with a boundless gratitude to her.

And so, looking upon her face, he found soon that he wanted her again, not for passion’s sake, but for love. And thus he took her, and thus with joy she gave herself once more.

C H A P T E R
2 6

O
ne week later the new and profound world that Toby and Rose shared was invaded by the past. A bus drew up beside the entrance to the enclosure and out of it piled some two dozen people, amongst whom were Harry Walters and his eldest son, Jacko, the three members of the Birdsalo troupe, the clowns Gogo and Panache, the former tent boss, Joe Cotter, and Jackdaw Williams. The rest were all strangers who appeared to be under the leadership of a tall, stringy, elderly man with an atoll of curly, greying hair rimming the bald, pink skull. He had bright, interested eyes, and was accompanied by a matronly woman with apple cheeks and a motherly bosom.

It was a curious arrival, as though they were all under some sort of spell and restraint. For having disembarked from the bus they stayed there in a group staring in through the open gates of the encampment at the horses in their shed, groomed, healthy, shining, the menagerie at the far end with the contented beasts, and the great, grey elephant as the centrepiece “rocking the cradle” and whisking hay over her back.

And so they remained fixed for a moment, looking with amazement, not seeing at all what they had expected to see or find, but not knowing exactly either what it was they
had
expected.

The Adam’s apple of the stringy man showed under his mottled skin like a walnut moving up and down, and he suddenly slapped his side hard with a horny hand and crowed, “Well, I’ll be blowed! I thought Sam might have sold me a pup and he ain’t. Well, fancy that! Mother, we got something here.”

He moved forward in through the gates, his head shaking in delighted disbelief, and the others came after. Rose emerged from the living wagon and stood there blinking for a moment at the strangers before she recognised one of them. So long ago had it been, so changed and exquisite her world, that it was some moments before she saw that it was Jackdaw Williams. He looked just the same, the heavy face with the hound’s eyes drawn down at the corners, the blob of the nose, the pendulous lips and the cold disinterested expression.

Toby saw him too as he followed Rose out from the wagon, and the others as well, his father and brother and some members of the circus. Clad in trousers but bare to the waist, wet, and tousled; he had been washing himself after the morning job of cleaning the cages. It took him, too, several instants to adjust and to recognise that peace and paradise were forever destroyed. His eyes encountered Jackdaw Williams again, but so tight and secure was he in his union with Rose that the thought never crossed his mind that here was the man with whom she had lived and from whom he had taken her, or that he might be coming to claim her. His curiosity was more stirred by the fact that nowhere in the group did he see Sam Marvel.

Toby said, “Hello, Dad. Hello, Jacko.”

Harry Walters stepped forward, ruffled and swelling like a little banty rooster, his mouth set in an ugly line, for he had spotted Rose and whence she had come. He pushed past Toby as though he did not see him, and hopping up the steps to his living wagon, disappeared inside.

Toby cried, “Dad!” and turned and followed him.

Jackdaw Williams now came forward, saying, “Hello, Rose,” and stood studying her, looking her up and down and through and through with his experienced eyes.

“Hello, Jackdaw.” She was remembering only his grumbling, dispassionate kindnesses.

Williams finished his summing-up and knew that there was nothing more there for him. He felt neither anger nor resentment nor even any sense of loss, but not any sense of interest or pleasure either, although he had gathered something of what had happened to Rose and caught a beam from her inner radiance. He said, “Is the wagon all right?”

“Yes. I’ve been looking after it.”

He nodded, satisfied, and turned to his caravan. He walked around looking it over on the outside, glanced at the tires and then went in.

The shrill, angry voice of Harry issued from within the Walters wagon. “You’ve had that stinking little whore in my bed!” And then, “Your mother’s bed! A whore!”

There was no answer from Toby, but they heard the noise of a scuffle and then the meaty sound of a blow.

Harry Walters appeared at the door. He was looking dazed and holding one hand to his cheek, which was reddened. He said, “He hit me.” He did not appear even to see Rose any longer, and motioned to his other son. “Come on, Jacko, we’ll look at the horses.”

Toby came out, too, with a sickish expression around the corners of his mouth. He was looking at the palm of his hand. He went to Rose and put his arm about her shoulders and said, “If he says that again, I’ll kill him.” He glared at the group and asked, “Where’s Sam Marvel?”

The tall man said, “I’m Joe Peabody—Peabody’s Family Circus. Sam Marvel sold out to me. You’re Toby Walters, ain’t you? Damn best Auguste rider I ever saw.” And since Toby had his arm around Rose, he felt he should say something to her but did not know quite what, so he made half a motion to remove a hat he was not wearing and said, “How do you do, miss.”

Ma Peabody dimpled sunnily at Rose: “Hello, dear.”

Toby exclaimed, “Sold out! The bastard!”

Peabody looked embarrassed, and it sent his Adam’s apple on its downward journey: “Took hisself a bowling alley in Newcastle. I bought him out, lock, stock, and barrel. And the name too. Joe Peabody’s Marvel Circus Combined it’s to be called.” He glanced about him again and his narrow face and eyes lit up with satisfaction. “Well, bless my soul. And all along I thought I was going to collect a lot of mangy, half-dead animals and broken-down wagons. Not that I paid him anything much for ’em. He told me I mightn’t find a great deal here, but I took the gamble. Why, we got a cat and a pig act all ready to go on! And look at them lorries! We got a fortune, Ma. Wasn’t I right to bring a crew along to drive ’em back? Well, bless my soul, good old Sam!”

Toby said bitterly, “It’s no thanks to Sam Marvel.”

Joe Peabody looked at Toby sharply and said, “No? Why not, young man?”

“Because,” Toby replied, “this is the end of September and he went off the middle of July and left us with forty pounds, promising to come back—just enough to feed the animals for about a week. That’s the last we ever saw or heard of him. So the sod took the money and bought himself a bowling alley, did he?”

Peabody said, “He only got the insurance cheque a week or so ago.” And then suddenly the time gap that Toby had revealed penetrated and he goggled. “Last July! Forty pounds! However did you manage to make out? That was a pretty rotten thing of Sam to do.”

Toby made no reply, but unconsciously his arm tightened ever so slightly its grip around Rose’s shoulder.

“Middle of July—August—September.” Peabody was counting off on his fingers. “Why that’s ten weeks! I ain’t had a good look yet but them animals look to me like they’re in a grand condition. How did you do it, boy?”

Toby said, “I didn’t. It was an old man who worked for Marvel. He got a rich woman to help.” And there he stopped for he was so shrivelled and ashamed within himself for his own blindness and callousness towards the two people who in a strange land among strangers had sold the only things they had—themselves—so that these animals, who were dumb and helpless, might survive. How was one to explain this to someone like Peabody or his own father, or anyone else for that matter? How make them see into the glowing heart of this girl, or understand the lonely old man who had suddenly found some meaning in his useless life through the captive beasts he loved.

Toby tried again. He said, “The old man—Mr. Albert—” Even the name sounded ridiculous. “Anyway,” he explained, “that’s what we call him. He was Marvel’s beast man—and about everything else. He went to this rich old bag—”

Peabody said, “Marvel mentioned him. Where is he now?”

Toby replied, “With her. He—” and he could not bring himself to tell it, the bargain that Mr. Albert had made.

“Well,” Peabody said, “he can have his old job back any time. Where’s Fred Deeter?”

“He took the Liberty horses to Madrid to sell them when we were starving, and that’s the last we ever saw of
him.”