Cruel Pink by Tanith Lee (uplifting book club books TXT) 📕

I go, I must say this. I loved you, faithless dog, as some love God. I loved you as the winter loves the spangled spring—that kills it. And you, my lord, thought me less than a breath of spice, or perfume. One breath. No more. Poor me,” she said, and she did not shed tears, nor whine or cling. Cool she lay by me, my firelit statue of silk, with her velvet purse, and her prow of satin, and her eyes of smoke and fire. So I listened. The playwright, he would have been to his papers, and written down her words. I write them down, however, for—despite my doglike and Satanic thievery—I heard them all, and the song of her sad heart couched in that lovely cushioned breast.

“Dear girl…” I said, when she paused.

But she spoke again. “Hear me out. In less than a quarter by the clock I’ll be gone. And, I think, never again shall I see you. No, not in this mortal life. Will you let me work one last act on you?”

Stupidly I said, “An act, my love, is the ballast of any play.”

At which a falling star shot through her eyes. I swear they blazed from gold to white to grey. And then I felt a sore hot pain in my left arm, not far from where he, her husband, had struck me in the duel, pinked me, as he said. A scratch, a little bite. Nothing. Only recompense.

One may imagine I had started up, and then I saw she had only stuck in me a pin, the kind a woman may use about her dress, less than two inches. It was, even so, bloodied, but that only half an inch along its tooth.

She stared at me, tearless and intent. “I never wished to hurt you, my lord, my love. But this—I will have.” And then she licked the pin, licked off my blood from it.

I confess with another jade I might have been moved to some violence. But with her, no, only I felt a profound sorrow.

“Sweetheart,” I said, and took her in my arms, and held her close as the light stained in upon the wall. “Shall I never see you again? Surely, next summer, when…”

“No, never,” she said, her voice very soft. “Not in this life. But you must always remember, while you live, I loved you. I have proved how much. May God forgive me.”

Then she got up, and dressed herself, at which my lust returned. But it was as if my loins and my mind were at a complete variance. Neither would accede to the other. One was a lion, but his adversary a mourning dove.

I would have gone with her to find transport. I would have taken her to an inn for food or wine or coffee. But I did not speak. I lay and watched her leave me, and only after she was gone did I lie back. And then it was I who wept, yes, even I who never ever wept for twenty years without he was on a stage. After which I fell asleep and did not wake again till noon. Or, perhaps, not at all.

Rod:

70

Vanessa’s grim determination had soon dragooned all of us out on to the street, down the intervening streets to the canal, and along to the Co-op. All-Of-Us comprised by then not only George and myself, but Forrel.

He was still so drunk he had been fairly easily coerced. If Vanessa realised his condition, (probably she did), she made no comment on it. She was almost offensively eager to demonstrate her acceptance—no, her entire approval—of what she took to be my and Forrel’s homosexual liaison. She had even made sure I had lent him my other overcoat, which was rather too long for him in sleeves and hem. To the half bottle of vodka he carried in tow, refilled I assumed at my larger one and now thrust into a pocket, she paid no overt attention. For myself I had been relieved to see the ‘whole bottle’ he had consumed on the train had been of this slightly smaller variety. I’d visualised his guts full of two litres, at least. However, as he now went on, they soon would be.

The Co-op is a sprightly place, sparkle-clean and well lit, and full of seemingly welcoming staff, who may be failed RADA students, even successful but passed-over ones, for all I knew, using their rejected skills to imply friendship and kindness.

Vanessa began to organize the shopping, naturally, George’s, mine, and—presumably—Forrel’s.

A great deal of salad and root vegetables ended up in our baskets, (Forrel had been given a basket too), brown bread and honey. I managed some lamb chops and butter and the cheaper eggs. Forrel distractedly picked up two packets of chocolate biscuits.

“Yes, why not,” congratulated Vanessa, intent on her partisanship. “A little treat. I suppose,” she added, “you can only get together at weekends?”

“Oh—er—yeah, sure,” beamed drunk and hazy Forrel, and next nearly collided with a stand of carbonated drinks.

George, the couth and practiced drunk, wandered more sedately, and far more independently than Forrel or I did, we so assiduously herded by my aunt. George’s was the trolley, stacked with many alcoholic beverages and a few mixers, one box of savoury biscuits and a plastic-wrapped selection of cheese.

When we attained the check-out, the girl smiled encouragingly on us, this strange little family of two aging, or aged, (or, in George’s case, teenagéd) relatives, and two youngish, oldish nephews or sons.

“Having a party?”

“No,” said George, amiably, producing a credit card. “It’s the dog. The dog drinks a lot.”

The girl giggled. “You oughta have a word with his vet.”

George now paid, waving away all protests, including Vanessa’s, which seemed to annoy her. But she reined it in not to upset Forrel.

Outside, a cab was already waiting. “Good-day, Max, old boy. Help us load up, would you?” Seeming quite willing, Max did so. He and George exchanged a little banter about