Free A Five Year Sentence by Bernice Rubens

change, while Miss Hawkins fumbled frantically in her bag hoping she had enough. As she counted out her change, he stood and watched her, and even when she found herself a few pennies short, he made no move to assist her. Sadly, she withdrew a five pound note from her wallet that she was loath to break into for a few mere pennies. She counted out her change and followed him into the darkness. A torch guided them down the circle flight of stairs and as she groped for her seat, she remembered her diary’s order. ‘Enjoy yourself.’ She sat down and took honest stock. No, I’m not enjoying myself, she thought. She tried to ascribe his lack of courtesy to an unwillingness to commit himself, an unreadiness to play the role of consort. Yet the thought niggled her that he was just plain downright mean, and she wished she’d had more man-experience to understand whether stinginess in men was a norm. She was angry. The act of breaking into a five pound note was always depressing, but it pained her less if it were for a largish sum, at the supermarket, for instance, for a week’s shopping. To break it down for the sake of a few pennies seemed an extra extravagance and she regretted that she hadn’t opted for the stalls. She looked sideways at him and he smiled at her, then out of the blue, he took her hand and instantly she forgave him. He squeezed her fingers, but such sudden ardour made her suspicious. Perhaps, she thought, he was celebrating the discovery of a companion who could pay her own way. Am I enjoying myself? she thought. She longed wistfully for a red tick, but she could not in allhonesty feel that it was yet merited. She relaxed her hand in his, and decided to give him another chance. ‘Shall we have tea in a cafe afterwards?’ she asked.
    He nodded, his eyes on the picture. She would give him a chance to pick up the bill, and if he paid, she could sincerely tick off the diary’s order. If not – she postponed thinking of that alternative and decided at least to enjoy the picture.
    It was called
The Splendours of the Night
, and the titles were just creeping up on the screen. It was years since Miss Hawkins had been to the pictures. Since her acquisition of a television set, she had seen no reason to duplicate her pleasure and pay for it into the bargain and she tried not to think of the broken five pound note again.
    The film now seemed to have started in earnest, for at least five minutes had passed without a printed credit. They were in a ballroom. There was old-fashioned dance music, and beautiful fancy dress, and immediately Miss Hawkins was swept into the romance and glamour of the occasion, oblivious of the man at her side. So oblivious, that she didn’t notice that he let loose her hand, for he too was transported into the unknown longed-for country, and for each of them, the other had no possible part of it, for their fantasy was so extreme, it could only contain themselves. Thus, side by side, they were separately transported into a beat of life that was never ugly, never lonely, never poor, and never sick. Miss Hawkins picked on the central figure of a beautiful girl with whom to identify, and with her she would stay throughout the picture. At her side, Brian too was fixing on his dream-image and on a far less obvious target. His focus was the grandfather of that same young beauty, whose youth now throbbed vicariously at his side. The old man sat both at the summit and centre of his lineage, attended with equal fervour by his peers and his inheritors. The young nurtured and sated his carnal appetites; a single movement of a finger was enough to conscript an army to fulfil his smallest wish. And on every level, large or small, this continuous and loving service was prompted above all by respect. Brian sighed. Yes, that was his final thrust of joy. Respect, that acknowledgement that all hislife he had constantly sought, and had constantly eluded him. He blamed his