Walking with Ghosts

you think they would listen to you? Yes, you thought all that, and more. You thought you had the answers. You thought your generation would change the world, but in the end you fell back on gin, long black cigarettes, all-night parties, and, and... you are not at all like your mother.
    But then, Dora, then? Can you salvage anything from memory? You. were married on the fourth anniversary of the assassination of Jack Kennedy. It was winter, snow on the ground. You were a virgin. A lecturer at the University of Leeds, stubbornly pushing your department into accepting more female students. Even then seventy-five per cent of entrants were men. Arthur was climbing the ladder in the Scientific Civil Service. There had been a hard frost overnight, and the bushes and trees were decked with crystals. It was the happiest day of your life.
    Remember? It is your day. A long white underskirt in silk. The dress fastens high up the neck with those tiny buttons. Lace. Oh, dear God, Dora, remember all that lace? Mother is crying into huge, starched handkerchiefs all morning. Half an hour before the car arrives she blurts out her guilt: ‘I should have broken your hymen. Dora, darling, forgive me.’ She is inconsolable. Her own mother had done it for her when she was three months old. It saved so much pain. She had worried about it, on and off, for years. ‘It didn’t seem so important at the time, but now...’ She searches for another starched handkerchief and blows. She is a whale on the morning of your wedding to Arthur. A spouting whale. The ditches in her face powder run with tears.
    Poor Dora. You do not know what a hymen is. You have pursued history to the exclusion of everything else. You do not think about this hymen. If it was important you would know what it was. Nevertheless, it stands there all day, in one of the tributaries of your mind, this unbroken hymen that makes your mother cry.
    You do not worry about sex. You are a virgin, but you have read Emile Zola. And Arthur is experienced. He has been with prostitutes; twice. What could possibly go wrong? It would be different if Arthur was green. But he is... well, another colour.
    White, actually. His body is powder-white. You realize in the bedroom when his shirt comes off that you have never seen his body before. It is flesh-white; divided vertically in front by a line of black hairs that originate way below the belt and fail hopelessly to blossom on his chest. His back is divided too, but horizontally. The shoulders are matted black, with the same long hairs, but below the shoulder blades the white skin is barren. You avert your eyes when he lowers his trousers, and only look back again when he is completed by pyjamas. Your silk nightgown is pale blue. You feel naked in it.
    Neither of you speak. There is an atmosphere in the room. You have created that atmosphere. It has grown out of your subconscious. Something wonderful is going to happen. You are trembling. Arthur is climbing on top of you in the bed. Why does he not kiss you, Dora? Why? He is tugging at the stuff of your nightgown, pulling it, stretching it, grunting and tugging, kneeling above you, forcing his knees between your thighs.
    When he has spent himself he rolls away and weeps. It was the first time for him. It was a lie about the prostitutes. You comfort him, tucking your body into the curves of his, wrapping your arms around his flesh-whiteness. You wipe his tears away with the palm of your hand, blow into his ear, cover his neck and face with kisses. He groans softly, like a big bear, and falls asleep. The surface of your body is prickling, you can feel the blood gushing through your breasts and thighs, you spread yourself in the bed and bury the memories of the day in your feelings. Arthur begins to snore.
     

3
     
    William had forgotten everything. He was standing in Parliament Street watching the screen of a mute television through a shop window. There was a smear of perspiration along his top lip and his heart was beating rapidly. Off to his right a brass band was playing Sousa’s ‘Hands Across The Sea’. It felt like they had been playing it for ever. To his left a couple of girls were involved in a game of chess on the municipal ‘board’, which was marked out by coloured paving stones. One of the girls was lugging a black plastic bishop along the length of the diagonal. Her friend seemed to be composed entirely of breasts. William felt a surging hatred inside him that threatened