JACK OF DIAMONDS

iii

Sonia woke up to the cold and damp of an overcast morning still wearing her costume from the night before. It was a moment before she realized she’d fallen asleep on top of Nigel. She lifted her head, looking at him with a critical eye before she rolled off the bed—she’d somehow slipped between Nigel and the wall—doing everything she could not to wake him as she climbed off the bed.

She could feel the cold through her feet as soon as she touched the floor. She looked down at Nigel, pulling the blanket up from where he’d kicked it off, then tucking it under him again before restarting the fire in the stove from the dying embers glowing in its ebony belly. She put a large pot of water on the stove’s back burner, adding more coal and blowing on the embers in an effort to bring the stove back to life.

She took a slow look around the room while she waited for the water to boil. She wondered if it was the darkness that made the room appear as small as it did. It’s smaller than mine, she told herself, its size leaving what she considered little hope for privacy. She’d thought about leaving and washing up in her own room, but she’d have to start the stove up from scratch, and where was the sense in that? So while she waited for the water to boil she used a second pot to half-fill the wash tub from the hand pump. Her mother had taught her to measure water in a tub by using her hand. Before she filled it too full, she decided dragging the washtub around the corner of the kitchen seemed the best solution.

Looking up, she could see it wasn’t what she’d call perfect placement, but she told herself it would have to do. She could see Nigel laying on the bed, his sheepish features at peace.

Last night’s fever had broken late and left his face looking calm.

She felt confident he’d sleep a while longer.

Satisfied she had enough water, she slowly undressed, throwing the Chaplin pants, jacket and shirt over one of the two kitchen chairs. It was a moment before she stood naked at the sink, looking out of the window and washing her undergarments. She gave a quick look over her shoulder, reassuring herself that Nigel was still asleep before hanging the rest of her clothes above the stove. Finally, adding more water to the tub she tested it, stepping into it and settling down on her knees. The water came up to mid-thigh. She was using a rag to wash herself, thinking of how many times she’d done the same thing during the War. Only then, there hadn’t been a washtub for her to use.

A bucket and a rag. And we all did it, she remembered. Just not as often as some of us would’ve liked.

That was one thing she told herself she’d never miss. The mud had been a horrendous problem during the first winter of the War, and while she wasn’t sent over until 1917, she’d heard the stories. She had a fair share of her own stories to tell, she reminded herself. Stepping off the walkways wasn't advisable once the rain came. During the summer, the mud hardened, crumbling under foot and turning into dust with every step you took. Spring wasn’t as bad, but then, life on the Front had little to offer when you compared it to Paris in the Spring.

At least we spent two fuck-filled weeks together, she reminded herself.

The water was hot and she sat back on her heels, watching the steam misting around her. She so wished she could’ve slipped down under the water—the way she would’ve had she been in a proper tub—but the most she could do was dip her head in the tub and let the water run down her back and shoulders.

What more could a person ask for?

Someone to wash my back, maybe?

It’s been so long since a man’s touched me, she thought, and then she looked over her shoulder at Nigel, swaddled tight in his tiny bed.

She told herself she couldn’t let herself be distracted with thoughts of a more carnal nature—not now—and then smiled as she remembered how her father had lectured her on her upcoming wedding night.

She’d understood it was something a girl’s mother normally recited, and if not her, a grandmother, or favoured aunt, but her mother had died six years earlier and her father had insisted he be allowed. He did an amazing job explaining the science of it; but then, she knew he would. He’d handled himself in a professional manner, but he was a doctor. And she thought, how much more personal would it have been for both of them, had he shown at least some degree of embarrassment?

Yes, but he was a doctor, she told herself, and the Science of Nature was anything but embarrassing as far as he was concerned. Even when he told her about the mechanics of sex itself, he’d been patient, thinking how best to phrase it.

“A woman’s pleasure is the only thing that matters in a healthy relationship,” he said, giving her a large sleeved book. “In order for you to understand the art of love, I’ve commissioned a cinema school in London to reproduce scenes from the Kama sutra.”

“You did what?”

She pulled the book out of the sleeve and opened it to a random page; she was staring at the black and white photographs for too long when she looked up at her father.

“Am I meant to study this?” she asked, horrified.

And that was when he laughed.

“No, no, no. Nothing like that. It’s for you to share with your husband. Share it; learn to use it; re-enact the pictures if you wish. I’m not going to lie to you and say sex will be perfect the first time—or every time. It won’t. You’ll be nervous. He’ll be nervous. Who knows, he might ejaculate as soon as you—”

“Poppa!”

“Listen, you’re a nurse. You know how it works. You have an understanding of the science involved. But everyone deserves love. Anything less than that is anathema to a marriage,” he said, levelling a look that told her little in the way of whatever secrets he was withholding from her. “You need a certain degree of passion for any marriage to survive. You have to understand—and this is what your mother would’ve wanted me to say—that a woman isn’t put on God’s good Earth to serve her husband’s needs, but to stand at his side as an equal partner. That means as much a partner in the bedroom, as out of it.”

She felt now that enough time had passed, she finally understood. But it had taken her three lovers over the past seven years for her to fully understand the meaning of his words. There had been other lovers during that time, but only three of them had made a lasting impression. She would’ve married any one of them had circumstances allowed, but two of those men were married, unknown to her.

You never told me about love’s betrayal though, did you Daddy? But then, he’d never known it himself, had he?

She could feel the cold embracing her flesh and stood up to pour whatever remaining water there was in the pot, into the tub. She stepped out—raining droplets on the floor—and reached over to the counter top where there was a small pot. She bent down again, scooping the water over her head. Sitting up on her knees, she began using the pot to rinse herself, watching soapy tendrils scrolling down the length of her body.

She stood up and began soaping the rag again, smiling as she tried to recall the name of a nurse she’d once served with. Tits and bits, she’d referred to it when it came to washing her vagina: ‘You’ve got to wash your tits and bits!’ she’d said, as Sonia lifted one arm and then the other, washing her breasts and underarms. Tits and bits she smiled again, washing her thighs and sighs.

And who was it that came up with that one?

Thighs and sighs? she recalled, placing her foot on the edge of the tub and cleaning herself thoroughly.

She looked at Nigel over her shoulder again and saw him staring at her in the soft light of a breaking dawn.

“Are you watching me?” she asked. “Or the sunrise?” she added, leaning back and releasing a naked beam of blinding sunlight.

“I am,” he said.

She didn’t know what part of her body she should cover, and decided to cover her breasts. At the same time, she stepped behind the kitchen wall, knowing full well he could still see her, but telling herself she needed time to think.

“ ‘I am’? I am what? Purposely ambiguous?”

He smiled.

“Roll over; or turn your head, at least.”

“I don’t think I want to do that. The view’s quite nice from where I am. Besides, that wall’s not nearly as big as you think it is—and the nearest covering for you, is that battered old robe hanging from the nail on that post over there, or the jacket of your costume on the back of that chair.”

“You can’t do this to me!”

“Do what? I haven’t done anything. I wake up to find a naked woman in a washtub, washing herself. At first, I thought I was hallucinating. What would you have me do?”

“Close your eyes?”

“And miss The Birth of Venus?”

“The Birth of Venus?”

“I’ll admit, the washtub isn’t quite a clam shell, and you hair’s not as long as it might be, but with the way the sun’s coming in through that window behind you, believe me, you’re a painting come to life.”

“I thought you said you weren’t experienced when it came to women?” she asked, leaning forward to look at him from around the corner before she straightened up again, having made eye contact.

“I never said I wasn’t experienced, I said I was very good at it when it came to talking to them.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“Which leads me to assume that your experience with women consists of visits to the brothels of Paris? And because you were such a young boy, all your friends wanted to make a man out of you?”

“That about sums it up,” he said, and she looked at him again to see if he was indeed smiling. He was.

“And now, seeing me, what are you thinking?” she asked, stepping out from around the corner of the wall and reaching for the pants she’d hung over the chair. Unfortunately, her undergarments were still wet. She picked the shirt up and put it on, rolling the sleeves up, and then bent over the washtub and proceeded to wring her hair out.

“What am I thinking? That I’d like to paint you.”

“Paint me? What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, standing up and tying her hair into a knot.

“I like to paint. Didn’t I tell you that? Most of the time, if I paint female figures, I use old French postcards I brought back with me from Paris. Do you know the kind I mean? Girls from the Folies Bergère, and the Moulin Rouge?”

“I know the kind,” she said.

“I use those because I could never get up the nerve to ask a woman to pose for me. I wouldn’t know the first thing about asking someone to do that.”

“And yet, you just asked me if you could paint me?”

She sat down on one of the chairs at the small table, bending over and drying her hair as best she could. When she was satisfied, she wrapped the towel around her hair. She could feel the warmth of the stove and felt grateful for the heat. She pulled her chair closer to the stove.

“I did just ask you, didn’t I? But that’s because I saw you standing there.”

“And let me guess, you were inspired?”


“It doesn’t sound as good when you say it like that. So let me prove it to you.”

“What? You want me to take my clothes off for you?” she asked with a laugh.

“No. I want you to give me a piece of paper and a pencil.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll draw you your portrait.”

“What kind of portrait?”

“What do you mean, ‘what kind’? There’s only one kind! That’s why it’s called a portrait.”

She walked to a nearby drawer, looking for a notebook and a pencil. It took some time, but she finally found what she was looking for. She walked over to him and handed them to him. Nigel sat up in the bed, wrapping the blanket around himself. He was shivering and she could see he was struggling to hold the pencil.

“Where do you want me to sit?”

“Right where you are; I can draw you there. If you’d like, you can actually pose, but that’s up to you.”

“Here by the window, then? In the sunlight?”

She picked up her chair and moved it into the sun.

“Now what?”

He looked at her and smiled.

“Turn to the left and lean forward a bit. More. Now, turn your head and put your hands up like you’re tying your towel.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect.”

“What’s so perfect about it?”

“I can see the sunlight through your shirt.”

She folded her arms across her breasts and moved back toward the stove.

“I bet you think that’s funny?”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“What do you mean?”

He dropped the pad and pencil on the floor, his teeth chattering and pulled the blanket around himself tighter. She was on her feet in a moment and crossed the room, helping him lay down again and stuffing a pillow under his head.

“You should rest,” she told him, tucking the blanket under him.

“I am rested,” he argued.

“No. You’re not. You haven’t even begun with the withdrawal,” she said, working her way down his body and tucking the blanket under the mattress.

“What’re you telling me? This isn’t it?”

“Withdrawal usually takes place within twenty-four to thirty-six hours after your last ingestion of the drug,” she said, bending over him and looking at his eyes. “Look up here,” she said, moving a finger up and watching his pupils as he followed it. She moved her finger down, and watched his eyes grow wider. “Please. I’m trying to help you. Are your muscles aching? Have you had any muscle cramps, or spasms?”

“Aren’t they the same thing?” he asked, looking up from her breasts and into her eyes.

“You’ll soon understand the difference.”

“Are you telling me I haven’t started whatever it is I’m supposed to be starting? Then what was that last night?”

“Last night? You were drunk.”