How Do I Love Thee? Read online

  Violet gave up squashing her short rust-red corkscrew curls down to the top of her head and measuring herself against the doorframe of her bedroom, and never admitted to any more than five feet eleven. As soon as metrics came in she converted her height to centimetres; no-one of her generation could work out what that was in feet and inches anyway.

  As her body grew into the long face and haughty nose, she began reading women’s magazines to study how to Make the Best of her Assets and Conceal her Figure Faults. They told her that good posture was necessary at any height, and that hunching her scrawny shoulders would do nothing to conceal her excess inches. She persuaded her mother to buy her a dress with horizontal stripes to disguise her thinness and to let her grow her hair, but even when patiently ironed by her best friend, the curls refused to be disciplined, stubbornly springing back into a rusty frizz.

  After leaving school with a second prize for geography and a final class photo that showed her, as always, in the very middle of the back row, she secured a job as the local library’s most junior assistant, and began experimenting with make-up, faithfully using a different shade of foundation on her nose to mask its size and cover the freckles, and coating her ginger-tipped lashes with mascara. There was nothing she could do about her weird pale-brownish eyes, but when one of the many hairdressers she consulted in her search for someone who might miraculously tame her hair commented admiringly on their ‘sort of golden-amber’ colour, she blinked twice, studied herself in the salon’s mirror and decided to keep the description in mind.

  In her last year at school she learned to dance the waltz and foxtrot in preparation for the annual ball; later she even learned rock’n’roll, though wisely ignored the short crinoline skirts that went with it, sticking to flares and tubes, and was never tempted by the advent of the miniskirt. When flat ballet shoes went so out of date they were unobtainable, she reluctantly invested in a pair of medium-high heels, even though it meant she physically looked down on nearly every man she met.

  Meeting men was a priority with most of her friends throughout her teens and early twenties. Saturday nights were spent with a gaggle of girls lining the walls of large, cold halls, waiting for one of the young men congregated near the door to approach her. Some failed to hide their dismay when she stood up to accept an invitation. Their eyes would glaze as they pushed her round the floor while she stared over their heads.

  The one characteristic Violet had that matched her name was shyness. Carrying on a conversation with a stranger was agonising to her. A voracious reader, when she talked about books young men tended to lose any faint interest they might have shown.

  ‘You frighten them off,’ her best friend scolded. ‘Boys don’t like intellectual women.’

  ‘I’m not intellectual,’ Violet protested. The geography prize had been her only notable achievement at school. She hadn’t even been good at sport, including what is now called netball but was basketball in her youth. Despite having the right build to throw goals she lacked coordination. ‘I just like to read,’ she said.

  ‘Well, don’t tell everyone!’ her friend advised. ‘And don’t say you’re a librarian.’ Leaving Violet very little with which to carry on a conversation. An only child whose conception had surprised her parents in their forties, she didn’t have siblings to complain about or make the subject of amusing stories; and rugby was a mystery to her.

  One night she watched a dumpy, balding man, out of place among the youthful crowd that frequented the dance halls, being turned down by three girls in a row, and prayed he wouldn’t ask her.

  When he stopped in front of her and said, ‘May I have this dance?’ she desperately wanted to say no, but her parents had impressed good manners in her. Torn between embarrassment and sympathy, she reluctantly rose and placed her left hand correctly on the man’s shoulder, let her right be taken in a firm grip and tried not to notice the stifled laughter that followed their progress about the floor.

  The man was an energetic dancer, taking swooping steps and pulling her unexpectedly into complicated turns. His eyes were level with her breasts, which she’d augmented with a modestly padded bra, and which he stared at stoically while circling other couples until Violet began to feel dizzy. She considered claiming sickness and bolting for the ladies’ room. But abandoning her unsuitable partner in the middle of the floor would unforgivably embarrass him. She looked down at his thinning hair, greased with Brylcreem and hopefully combed across his pink scalp, and said the only thing she could think of. ‘Do you come here often?’

  His head jerked up. Blue and bloodshot under thick brows, his eyes met hers. ‘Now and then, you know. I like dancing. Do you?’

  Come here often or like dancing? Violet wondered, in a panic in case she gave the wrong answer. ‘Um,’ she said, ‘I’ve been here a few times. I quite like it.’ Which was a lie, she realised, as the words left her mouth. She didn’t like having to sit and pretend she was enjoying herself while her friends danced with boys half a head or more taller than they were. She hated it when one who might have equalled her height strode confidently in her direction but then veered to ask another girl to be his partner. And she hated almost equally being handled by sweaty strangers whom she loomed over like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and who could barely conceal their relief on returning her to her seat.

  Apparently encouraged by her answer, her partner whirled her into another turn, and she stumbled trying to follow him, almost bumping into a boy standing in a bunch with others puffing cigarette smoke into the air. His thick black hair was combed into an Elvis style, and he wore stovepipe jeans and a fake-leather jacket. Violet muttered, ‘Sorry,’ and as she was whisked away distinctly heard the words ‘baboon’ and ‘giraffe’, and a collective guffaw from the group.

  When the music mercifully ended, the little man steered her back to her place, gave a jerky, old-fashioned bow and said, ‘Thank you very much, you’re a nice girl.’

  Violet knew he was aware she hadn’t wanted to dance with him. ‘I’m not very good,’ she said impulsively, ‘at dancing, I mean. I’m sorry.’

  His smile was sad and strangely sweet. ‘Don’t be sorry. Never be sorry for a gift.’

  ‘It was kind of you to ask me,’ she told him. ‘Not many men do.’ Then she blushed, afraid he would take that as an invitation to ask for another dance.

  He smiled again, and she watched him disappear into the crowd, blocking the doorway of the hall until he was hidden behind men almost twice his height.

  She never went dancing again and in time her friends stopped asking her to join them.

  Over the following years Violet attended a dozen or so weddings. She was even a bridesmaid once, wearing green satin and with her hair styled into a topknot wreathed in artificial flowers. People she knew told her in surprised tones that she looked beautiful. She supposed they meant she didn’t look as plain and gawky as usual. The best man was good-looking and tall, and a faint flutter of hope and excitement entered her heart as they danced the opening waltz at the reception, following the bride and groom. It turned out his girlfriend was also at the wedding—a petite girl with a pretty kitten’s face, and a tiger’s smile when she claimed him after the bridal waltz.

  Violet smiled back and retired to a corner where she was found by the bride’s uncle and merrily coerced into an energetic three-step that produced dark sweat stains under the arms of her satin dress and sent her hairstyle tumbling askew. She spent the remainder of the evening listening to the groom’s grandmother complain about the volume of the music, the unseemly depth of the bride’s neckline, the quality of the wine provided at the wedding breakfast, and the neglect the grandmother suffered from her family.

  By the time she was twenty-seven, Violet had given up any pretence of wanting to meet men. Although she had no particular affinity with small children, finding them puzzling and frequently alarming, her married friends seemed to feel her childless state was a deprivation, and introduced her to their screaming, snot-faced and smel
ly offspring as an unofficial aunt. Occasionally she would be invited to dinner.

  She would buy small presents for the children when she visited, hoping the teddy bears, colouring books and jigsaw puzzles were suitable, and exchanged stiff chit-chat with the latest tallish male acquaintance their parents presented for her inspection. A few of them were readers and she was able to keep up a semblance of sociability until she dried up and became tongue-tied. Fortunately, unlike her, tall men seemed full of confidence and most were happy to talk about themselves for as long as she was willing to listen.

  Usually they were divorced or widowed. Some had children, and nearly all of them were boring. Violet felt guilty about being bored, considering she was probably the most boring female the men had ever been subjected to, leading a narrow but satisfying life.

  An independent life. Being able to please herself without reference to anyone else was a luxury her married friends didn’t have. She could read in bed until midnight or sleep in on a Sunday, take a weekend trip on impulse without hunting for a babysitter, and afford small indulgences that family budgets didn’t allow. Watching without envy the sometimes turbulent relationships around her, the couples and families navigating petty crises and occasional wrenching tragedy, she was rather bemused by their efforts to find her a man of her own.

  One man offered to take her home, insisting it was no trouble. As soon as they drew up outside the tiny flat she’d rented following her mother’s death and then her father moving into a rest home, the man grabbed her and pressed a hot, wet kiss tasting of beer and coffee onto her mouth. Surprised, Violet didn’t react for a second, but when he fumbled at her breast she recoiled, pushing him away and slamming herself painfully against the door handle.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ the man inquired.

  ‘I … didn’t expect …’ Violet said. ‘I’m sorry if I gave you the impression I … I wanted that.’ Although she couldn’t imagine how she might have done so.

  ‘You didn’t think I’d go out of my way for nothing, did you?’ the man grumbled. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  ‘No!’ Wondering what rights he might have claimed if she had. ‘I’m sorry. Thank you for the ride.’ She found the handle that had dug into her back, and opened the door, scrambling onto the footpath.

  ‘You’re missing a better one, sweetheart.’ He leaned across to hold the door open as she tried to close it. She backed away and he added, ‘Don’t suppose you get that many offers, do you?’ Then he banged the door shut and took off with a roar.

  Violet was shaking when she entered the cold little flat. If that was what kissing was like she wanted none of it, thank you. And why had she apologised? Should she have slapped him instead?

  Or was she simply stupid, as the man had implied? Did all men believe they were entitled to payment for a simple courtesy? What would they want after a proper date, when they’d spent money on dinner or a film?

  How dared they? She knew the theory of sex but found it difficult to imagine getting so close to a man. She’d seen Gone With The Wind and thrilled to Clark Gable catching Vivien Leigh into his strong arms and kissing her madly. She’d wondered how it would feel to be kissed that way. Well, now she knew and she hadn’t liked it.

  Churned up and angry and mortified, she threw her small purse on the dressing table, tugged off the elastic band keeping her hair tightly contained at her nape, and saw in the mirror that her eyes blazed a startling amber and her cheeks were flushed; her hair, sprung from its bondage, fell about her shoulders. She looked like a stranger.

  Fascinated by this new view of herself, she stared until the brilliance in her eyes died and her cheeks regained their normal slightly sallow complexion.

  The illusion of elusive beauty was dispelled.

  Why, anyway, would she want to be beautiful? To attract men like the one she had just left?

  She had her hair cut short again. It fluffed out at ear level and looked odd, but was less trouble to wash and get dry, and she threw away the assortment of clips, bands, pins and elastics she had collected.

  At the library, having served her time as a junior, she’d been appointed cataloguer, which meant a raise in salary and, to her relief, less dealing with the public. She took driving lessons and bought a Mini, even though her long legs made getting in and out difficult.

  She had fewer invitations as families grew and parents became busier and their lives diverged from hers. Her circle of friends became smaller. Some were divorced, and the women attended concerts and art events with Violet when the ex-husbands had the children. Or they asked her to babysit while they went out with some new man. At first terrified, Violet found she could cope quite well if actual babies weren’t involved.

  Not knowing how to treat a seven-, ten- or twelve-year-old, she spoke to them as she did to adults, and found them equally interesting to talk with, often more so. They had a curiosity about the world and quirky ways of looking at it. Children were used to being smaller than grown-ups, and if one commented on her height it was a simple statement of a newly discovered fact or part of their endless quest for explanations of everything. ‘You’re nearly as high as the door,’ sometimes in impressed tones, or ‘Are you bigger than my daddy?’

  When computers were brought into the library system Violet attended a course and, at first sceptical of their value, discovered a new talent and took on teaching other staff the mysteries of word-processing, tabulation, spreadsheets and the online catalogue.

  Gradually she’d given up wearing make-up. She bought suits in black, navy or grey for work and wore them with white or cream blouses and good, low-heeled leather shoes. At home she preferred slacks, snapping up at sales any that actually reached her ankles. She briefly flirted with fashion when trouser suits and long plaid skirts were all the rage, because they suited her—several people told her so—only to have them languish in her wardrobe when they went out of vogue.

  The head librarian retired and Violet was promoted in her place. Required to report to the local council and deal with the occasional unreasonable member of the public, she joined Toastmistresses, stumbled through the first session, and the following week forced herself to give a prepared speech, earning a round of mild applause. The pity vote, but encouraging enough for her to return. She never became a star of the club but her confidence increased when she was nominated branch secretary, a position she held for ten years. She learned to speak up on behalf of her staff and her stock.

  Her hair began to dim as strands of grey appeared and she refused her hairdresser’s offer to tint it. Grey hairs appeared among her eyebrows and on her chin, some of them long and curling in odd ways. She plucked out any new ones each morning. A head librarian needed to look well groomed.

  Now she was invited to the weddings of her friends’ sons and daughters, and expected to provide a lavish gift to the young couple, some of whom she scarcely knew. For a time the invitations often included a list of desirable gifts, or the name of a store that held such a list, at least ensuring that whatever she bought would not be unwanted, but she couldn’t stifle a slightly resentful distaste for the idea and was glad when the custom seemed to wane. She took to buying generous gift vouchers, being thoroughly confused in the myriad ‘homewares’ shops where kitchen utensils resembled surgical instruments, and plates came in odd shapes for specific purposes.

  ‘What is this for?’

  ‘Olives,’ or ‘Tapenades,’ would come the patient and ever so slightly patronising reply from a girl surely barely out of school, or an older woman with bleached hair cut raggedly short above gleaming hoop earrings.

  Violet had never developed a taste for olives and had no idea what tapenades were. She cooked dinner for herself every night with a piece of steak, fish or chicken and three vegetables, followed by fruit plus a slice of cake or a tart from the bakery down the street. She liked something sweet at the end of a meal, only forgoing it when dining with friends. It seemed insensitive to eat such things in front of women
who claimed that chocolate cake or cream buns would put inches on their already ample hips.

  Her retirement was marked with a formal presentation from the mayor, attended by several councillors, numbers of staff and ex-staff members, and even the local MP. Overwhelmed, Violet became embarrassingly tearful during her speech of thanks. All her remembered life she’d been told she was much too big to cry, but the laughter when she blurted this out to the guests was sympathetic and even fond, she realised with gratitude.

  Looking round the assembly she saw liking and respect and understanding that made her warm inside.

  In retirement she was surprised at the number of former colleagues who visited her two-bedroom cottage, which had replaced the flat. In its small garden she spent weekends contentedly weeding, pruning and sowing, and harvesting her own vegetables. She’d bought the house after her father’s death, with the little money he’d left and her modest savings as a deposit, persuading the manager of the bank where as a teenager she’d opened an account with her very first pay packet, that a single woman with a good job and no dependents to drain her income didn’t need a male relative to guarantee her mortgage.

  Her hair by then had lost much of its colour and curl, and she was able to wear it just past shoulder-length and bundle it away from her face into a pepper-and-salt bun. Since she turned forty she’d been wearing glasses, but her long sight was still good and, driving her little car, she didn’t need spectacles.

  While she had retained her health and strength, she decided to take a guided European tour, and had a wonderful time visiting places she’d read about or seen on TV. She met nice people and afterwards exchanged Christmas cards with some of them for many years. But it was exhausting being with a crowd of other people all day for weeks. Having done her belated OE, she was happy to stay home with her garden and her books and records and the small treasures she’d collected over the years, and being visited by or visiting a diminishing number of old friends.