Her Victory Read Online Free
Author: Alan Sillitoe
cat. His smile was friendly, and his appearance scattered the thoughts which she was glad to be rid of. He looked at her as if she were a younger woman, though perhaps it was his way with all customers, men and women alike.
âHave you got any tea?â
âCertainly, madam.â She thought he added: âFor you thereâs whatever you fancy,â but she could not be sure, because the train became noisier. He was cheeky, but she was safe, and smiled at him.
Too hot to hold, she set the cup on the hand-sized table. He clacked the door shut and went to other compartments, leaving her to wonder if George would come after her on the next train. Perhaps of a sudden at work he had driven home in a sweat to find out whether she had hanged herself or left him. He would speed at a hundred miles an hour down the motorway and wait by the ticket barrier at St Pancras. Like many men who didnât care what you thought, he could be intuitively correct when his mind was put to it. âGot you, you whore!â
Let him say it. If he was there she would kill him. No mistake this time. He might say such things, but she had never been with another man since they had got married, though he might have carried on with women for all she knew. The fact that she didnât care had harassed him beyond endurance, robbed him of his manhood, one might almost say. But that sort of game had never appealed to her, though she had known some couples play, using it perhaps as a station on the road to divorce, where most of them had ended up â happier no doubt than she was who in her deadbeat way had chosen another and maybe worse method of getting clear.
He wouldnât meet her in London, would not even know she had gone till he got home, when she would be lost to him. She wasnât an animal to be hunted. However much he searched he would never find her, because the world was a big enough jungle for anybody to hide in.
Most of her life she had lived in a small corner of one that had smothered her nevertheless. When he was away on business for a night she could recollect her dreams next day. But when he lay in bed by her side he fed off them all night long, and no matter how much she strove to recall them she hardly ever could.
On a restless night she might ask if he was awake, and get out of bed at sensing that he was, knowing it wouldnât matter if he were disturbed by her movement. If he hadnât been awake she wouldnât have asked. In the morning she might wake him, so that he could then get up by himself and leave her sleeping for half an hour in warmth and peace. But when she got up in the middle of the night it was because something in a dream which she couldnât remember wouldnât let her sleep. So she would go downstairs and make tea. On her way into the toilet she realized that he had been awake for some time and waiting for her to get up, because he called out cheerfully: âBring me a cup of tea as well, duck.â At the shock of his voice she felt cheated. Though not lazy, he was a man who expected her to serve him in everything.
When he scratched himself in bed it felt as if he were trying to saw himself in half. If he succeeded there would be two of him to prey on her. He seemed at times to live in her skin, exerting such pressure that she began to know when her period was coming on because he got so moody. Otherwise she might not have known till the blood flowed. She longed for the day when its onset would take her by surprise. Freedom would be hers. She would feel blood on her thighs, and run into the nearest shop in a fever of embarrassment to buy a box of tampons, then hope to find a place to staunch the flow before going on her way.
The countryside went by in broad ribbons as the train cut a way at furious speed the nearer it got to London. Would she die if she opened the door and threw herself out? The thought was a hook that pulled at her stomach. She felt sick with alarm, and
âHave you got any tea?â
âCertainly, madam.â She thought he added: âFor you thereâs whatever you fancy,â but she could not be sure, because the train became noisier. He was cheeky, but she was safe, and smiled at him.
Too hot to hold, she set the cup on the hand-sized table. He clacked the door shut and went to other compartments, leaving her to wonder if George would come after her on the next train. Perhaps of a sudden at work he had driven home in a sweat to find out whether she had hanged herself or left him. He would speed at a hundred miles an hour down the motorway and wait by the ticket barrier at St Pancras. Like many men who didnât care what you thought, he could be intuitively correct when his mind was put to it. âGot you, you whore!â
Let him say it. If he was there she would kill him. No mistake this time. He might say such things, but she had never been with another man since they had got married, though he might have carried on with women for all she knew. The fact that she didnât care had harassed him beyond endurance, robbed him of his manhood, one might almost say. But that sort of game had never appealed to her, though she had known some couples play, using it perhaps as a station on the road to divorce, where most of them had ended up â happier no doubt than she was who in her deadbeat way had chosen another and maybe worse method of getting clear.
He wouldnât meet her in London, would not even know she had gone till he got home, when she would be lost to him. She wasnât an animal to be hunted. However much he searched he would never find her, because the world was a big enough jungle for anybody to hide in.
Most of her life she had lived in a small corner of one that had smothered her nevertheless. When he was away on business for a night she could recollect her dreams next day. But when he lay in bed by her side he fed off them all night long, and no matter how much she strove to recall them she hardly ever could.
On a restless night she might ask if he was awake, and get out of bed at sensing that he was, knowing it wouldnât matter if he were disturbed by her movement. If he hadnât been awake she wouldnât have asked. In the morning she might wake him, so that he could then get up by himself and leave her sleeping for half an hour in warmth and peace. But when she got up in the middle of the night it was because something in a dream which she couldnât remember wouldnât let her sleep. So she would go downstairs and make tea. On her way into the toilet she realized that he had been awake for some time and waiting for her to get up, because he called out cheerfully: âBring me a cup of tea as well, duck.â At the shock of his voice she felt cheated. Though not lazy, he was a man who expected her to serve him in everything.
When he scratched himself in bed it felt as if he were trying to saw himself in half. If he succeeded there would be two of him to prey on her. He seemed at times to live in her skin, exerting such pressure that she began to know when her period was coming on because he got so moody. Otherwise she might not have known till the blood flowed. She longed for the day when its onset would take her by surprise. Freedom would be hers. She would feel blood on her thighs, and run into the nearest shop in a fever of embarrassment to buy a box of tampons, then hope to find a place to staunch the flow before going on her way.
The countryside went by in broad ribbons as the train cut a way at furious speed the nearer it got to London. Would she die if she opened the door and threw herself out? The thought was a hook that pulled at her stomach. She felt sick with alarm, and
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