The Girl in the Polka Dot Dress

Beryl Bainbridge

THE GIRL IN THE POLKA DOT DRESS

 

 

 

 

 

E
arlier that morning, on the eighteenth
of May, Wash­ington Harold had fled abreast of a mob hurling cans, sticks and stones at the
windows lining the boulevard. It wasn't per­ sonal, simply a matter of being in the wrong
place at the wrong time; he shouldn't have stalked Artie Brune's cat.

Now, at three thirty in the afternoon, he was sitting inside the
cabin of his newly bought secondhand camper, waiting for Wheeler's woman from England. Not a
speck of dirt on the dashboard, every last streak removed with a square of cloth, clean even
behind the miniature clock with the face of Abe Lincoln stamped beneath the numerals. Pity
about the rain throwing up squirts of mud against the paintwork; protected by the coat of
polish given before the weather turned bad, it should wipe off. Wheeler's girl would be
knocked out by the whole thing—the icebox, the basin with the running water, the little
snazzy curtains. They'd get to know each other real well and sunset time, wearing her
polka-dot dress, she would toss the salad while he fixed drinks and made the fire; later,
dark time, he'd stab his fingers at the heavens and list the names of the stars.

If they really hit it off he might even take her into his con­
fidence as regards Wheeler. Not everything of course. From what he remembered of her, he
doubted if she would under­ stand much of what he intended. Though not unintelligent she was
far from educated. Some things, ordinary things like the workings of Wall Street and the
aims of political groups, were foreign to her, which made it all the more puzzling that
Wheeler had become attached to her. But then, Wheeler was a womaniser, while he, Harold
Grasse, was considered shy. A shy kid and an unapproachable adult. Not exactly that, more
that he was cautious, choosy.

He leaned back and tried to fit all of his face into the oval
mirror but saw only his forehead, balding and still tanned from an earlier vacation in
Florida. A touch of the Willie Shake­speares about that brow, domed, intellectual, though it
had to be admitted his grades at college hadn't been great.

He peered through the wash of rain that obliterated the air­ port
buildings and the concrete rectangle of parking lot. Deeper into Maryland and the weather
would be just fine. He'd put on his shorts and maybe her hand would sink onto his leg, and
she'd stroke the skin with her fingers. Judging by the tone of their correspondence, she was
a hell of a friendly girl, if somewhat hysterical. That time he'd walked her home in
England, she'd gripped his hand on the excuse that the street was dangerous. Death under the
streetlamps, she inti­ mated, could strike at any time.

Smoothing out the crumpled paper on his lap he read again the
letter from the woman he was waiting to meet.

 

Harold dear,

All in a rush and feeling maybe I should not be doing
this. People have been so nice, you have no idea. My friend in the room below has lent me
a pair of slacks and Polly two jumpers and a skirt. Arn't people kind? Also I cashed in my
dividends due from the Co-op, £6 and 15 shillings in all, which has let me buy some sun
oil and a new dress with polka-dots all over. The frock is an extravagance but not the oil
as my skin is very sensitive due to my mother suffering from pernicious anemia before I
was born and having been subjected to gold treatment, an old fashioned medicine now
considered dangerous. A district nurse came every day and injected her with a kind of
hypodermic reserved for sick horses. About money—I have only managed to gather together
about the equivilent of 47 dollars. I thought I better tell you this in advance as I am so
embaressed at the meagerness of my contribution when compared with your generosity. Polly
would have given me money, but I didn't like to ask. As our letters will cross I wonder if
you have heard anything yet of the whereabouts of Dr. Wheeler. The whole business is very
exciting and I can't help thinking that fate has drawn us together. Dr. Wheeler may be
dead . . .

I'm prepared for that. I read somewhere that life
should be regarded as a dream, and death as an awakening, though I don't really know what
that means, unless it's religious.

Enough . . . kisses . . . Rose.

 

p.s. I don't doubt that when we catch up with Dr.
Wheeler he will reburse you for what I have recieved.

p.p.s. Scuse spelling.

 

It was useful, he thought, that she appeared to be labouring under
an obligation. It would make her more compliant when the time came.

 

Rose hadn't liked the sound the aircraft made as it tore through
the sky, and it must have made her breathe heavily because the man in the next seat kept
urging her to relax and take hold of his hand. All her life people had been telling her what
to do, even strangers, which was curious. He was quite a nice man, in spite of him confiding
that his wife had bad breath, so she did as he suggested. It didn't help.

It was a mistake to refuse the umbrella offered at the door of the
plane. She ran with bent head towards the arrival build­ ing and entered with hair flattened
and stockings splattered. Waiting damply for her suitcase to be cleared, she strained to
glimpse Washington Harold through the glass doors. Where was the constant sunshine, the
brightness of high summer?

The arrival lounge was half empty and she picked him out at once,
leaning against a wall with his hands in his pockets. His beard, though he had written of
it, was a surprise. The colour of dying daffodils, it was thick and wide, as though he was a
sea captain.

He said, ‘Well, I guess you made it.'

She said, ‘Yes . . . isn't this rain dreadful.'

‘It's been bad for some days,' he assured her, leading the way
through the doors into the deluge.

She saw nothing save a grey landscape blotted with cars and swept
by water. He halted and pointed with obvious pleasure at a large vehicle at the edge of the
parking lot.

‘Isn't she something,' he crowed.

She said, ‘Oh, yes . . . lovely.' Water was running down her face
now and seeping beneath the collar of her coat. She stood on one leg and clenched her teeth
to stop them from chattering.

‘You cold, Rose?'

‘Not really. I'm tired, I think . . . after the flight. The time
thing, I expect.'

She was relieved that he'd used her name. It made her feel less of
a stranger. All the same, she was embarrassed at the meeting and suddenly appalled at
arriving.

At last he was opening the doors of the van and shoving her case
inside. She could see cupboards and a sort of cooker, and what appeared to be a rolled-up
mattress. ‘It's very nice,' she said.

Opening the side door, he warned that the step was high up, but he
didn't offer a helping hand when she hauled her­ self into the passenger seat. The woodwork
was yellow, highly polished, the seats covered in plastic. She watched his blurred figure
move past the window and wished she was back home in Kentish Town. Once inside, he made no
effort to start the engine, just sat there holding the shiny wheel.

‘It's a lovely van,' she enthused, thinking he needed encour­
agement. ‘It must have cost a fortune.'

‘It's not a van,' he corrected, ‘it's a camper. There's an icebox,
hanging space for clothes, a folding table, and the seat­ ing comes down to make a bed. Know
what I mean?'

She was thinking what he really meant was that they weren't going
to spend nights in boarding houses as she'd supposed. Surely he didn't expect her to lie
beside him? They'd been writing to each other for over a year, planning the details, but
there had never been the slightest hint, not the slightest suggestion . . .

‘The only thing missing,' he said, ‘is a luggage rack for the roof.
I thought we might go look for one on our way back to the apartment. That all right with
you?'

‘Of course,' she said. ‘I'm all yours.' He started the engine and
drove out of the airport, the great rubber tyres throwing up spray.

She looked out of the window to see something strange in her
surroundings, something to prove home was far away. There was little out there save other
cars, bigger than usual but not really so different, not if you went to the pictures a lot.
She thought Harold must be loaded with money, bothering about a luggage rack when there was
all that space behind. ‘So many cars,' she murmured.

‘Oldsmobile, Chevrolet, Ford, Lincoln, Mustang, Ply­mouth, Dodge,'
he recited, as though remembering a poem.

‘The plane was marvellous,' she gushed. ‘So much food they give you
. . . all that drink. A gentleman who spoke can­ didly of his wife treated me to champagne .
. . wasn't that kind of him? He'd been away on business, first in Tokyo, then in Ireland.'
Only the bit about the business trips was true; she hadn't been bought champagne.

Harold mumbled a reply, something about the rain. He drove with one
hand, the other tugging at his beard.

‘I'm sorry you had to send all those particulars to the American
Embassy,' she said.

‘Say, what gave there? What was the idea?' He was giving her his
attention now.

‘When I applied for the visa I had to say how much money I was
taking with me. And the reason for the visit. I couldn't really explain that. I mean, I
couldn't say I was looking for Dr. Wheeler when I didn't really know where he was.'

She stopped, worried that he might take that the wrong way. She
hadn't meant it as a criticism, just that the Embassy had gone on about her possibly
becoming a public charge or whatever. She'd had to declare that she was only taking four­
teen pounds with her. Bernard said they simply wanted to make sure they weren't going to
have to fork out for the flight home. Polly said they were within their rights to make
enquiries, and that it was odd of Harold not to enclose a return ticket. As a seasoned
traveller he should have been aware of the rules.

She said, ‘When we find Dr. Wheeler, he'll pay you back . . . I
know he will.' Harold didn't reply, just kept pulling at his captain's beard. Perhaps he was
so rich he wasn't bothered.

They drove down an avenue of cars for sale, neon adver­ tisements
cutting gold dollars through the wet sky. ‘This stretch,' he said, ‘fully illustrates a free
society enjoying the privileges of free enterprise.'

She said, ‘I see,' though she didn't.

‘Just look at that goddamned monstrosity,' he shouted, point­ ing a
finger at a Disney castle bright lemon in colour and festooned with fairy lights. ‘Have you
ever seen anything like it?'

‘We've got Blackpool,' she said. He sounded quite fanatical.

They turned left into another grey square and drove towards a
concrete building with glass panels. There was a flag dripping from a pole in the middle of
the parking lot.

‘Sears Roebuck,' Harold announced. ‘Greatest store in the world . .
. for quantity, not quality. Everything from a pair of socks to a Buick. Take your
pick.'

She would have preferred to stay where she was and straighten her
stockings, but he had jumped out and was wait­ ing for her to follow. Already his brown
suede boots were darkening under the rain. Bedraggled, she trailed behind him into the
store, shoes slapping over the tiles, eyes glittery from the glare of lights splashing
across chrome and steel.

He drew her attention to the clocks with illuminated dials, and
asked, ‘Do you have this sort of thing in England?'

‘I expect we do. I don't really know about cars.'

‘The automobile industry,' he said, ‘is catering more and more for
women. It's who they aim for now.' His tone was contemptuous.

Everything was available, mirrors to go on the dashboard, heaters,
tartan rugs, mountains of scatter cushions covered in plastic, mottled to resemble animal
hide, lines of mascots with dangling limbs and eyes that turned jungle red as they spun.

‘Didn't Wheeler own a car?' Harold asked.

‘I don't think so. He was always on foot when we met.'

‘Doesn't sound like the Wheeler I knew. He was strictly an
automobile man.'

He seemed undecided what to do. There were several sales­ men
hovering about, yet he just stood there, shoulders bowed.

She had to sit down. That morning she had worked four hours behind
the reception desk at Mr. McCready's dental practice in Cavendish Square, travelled on a
coach to Heathrow, spent countless hours shuddering though the heav­ ens, only to find that
time had stood still and the day had scarcely moved on.

Harold ambled away and studied fire extinguishers. She hadn't
remembered he had a stoop and bleached eyelashes. Polly had met him at some conference to do
with the lasting damage done to children whose mothers had been deserted by their spouses.
She'd said he was remarkably prejudiced against fleeing fathers—for an American, that is.
Rose had nodded approval, out of politeness. To her way of thinking, absent dads were
something to be encouraged.

There were no seats as such, so she perched herself on an upright
heater and was confronted by a pyramid of lit head­ lamps under bulging glass; it was like
being in an operating theatre. Out of the walls came the sound of a piano, notes pat­ tering
upon the silver machinery. She closed her eyes, and Dr. Wheeler came through the darkness,
the brim of his trilby hat rocking in the sea breeze.

They sat on separate tombstones for a while, not
speaking, listening to the wind soughing through the pine trees. He wore a blue muffler
tucked into the top of his duffle coat and knitted gloves. Once he leaned forward and
shoved her hand away from her mouth, woolly fingers scratchy against her chin. Then he
began to lecture her on Napoleon, in particular about the French soldiers who had perished
trying to conquer Russia. She said it must be awful to be responsible for thousands of
deaths, and he said numbers didn't matter, that to be the cause of even one death was
reprehensible. He didn't look at her, but then he never did, not directly, not eye to eye.
Perhaps, she countered, Napoleon had been bullied as a child . . . by his father. He
remained silent, staring upwards at the clouds scudding above the swaying trees.