Stories

by Doris Lessing

  “I’ve got to be getting to work. I’m working an early shift.”

  He said: “If you feel like it,” thinking it might be better for her to work. And so he left her, and went back home to get some sleep.

  That next evening he came by expecting to find her gone, and saw her sitting at the table, in the yellow glow from the candles, her hands lying idly before her, staring at the wall. Everything was very tidy, and the dust had been removed. But the crack in the ceiling had perceptibly widened. “Hasn’t anyone been to see you?” he asked carefully. She replied evasively: “Oh, some old nosey-parkers came and said I mustn’t stay.” “What did you tell them?” She hesitated, and then said: “I said I wasn’t staying here, I was with some friends.” He scratched his head, smiling ruefully: he could imagine the scene. “These old nosey-parkers,” she went on resentfully, “interfering, telling people what to do.”

  “You know miss, I think they were right, you ought to move out.”

  “I’m staying here,” she announced defiantly, with unmistakable fear. “Nothing’s getting me out. Not all the king’s horses.”

  “I don’t expect they could spare the king’s horses,” he said, trying to make her laugh; but she replied seriously, after considering it: “Well, even if they could.” He smiled tenderly at her literal-mindedness, and suggested on an impulse: “Come to the pictures with me, doesn’t do any good to sit and mope.”

  “I’d like to, but it’s Sunday, see?”

  “What’s the matter with Sunday?”

  “Every Sunday I go and see a friend of mine who has a little girl …” She began to explain; and then she stopped and went pale. She scrambled to her feet and said: “Oh, oh I never thought …”

  “What’s wrong, what’s up?”

  “Perhaps that bomb got them too, they were along this street—oh dear, oh dear, I never came to think—I’m wicked, that’s what I am….” She had taken up her bag and was frantically wrapping her scarf around her head.

  “Here, miss, don’t go rushing off—I can find out for you, perhaps I know—what was her name?”

  She told him. He hesitated for a moment and then said: “You’re having bad luck, and that’s a fact. She was killed the same time.”

  “She?” asked Rose quickly.

  “The mother was killed, the kid’s all right, it was playing in another room.”

  Rose slowly sat down, thinking deeply, her hand still holding the scarf together at her chin. Then she said: “I’ll adopt her, that’s what I’ll do.”

  He was surprised that she showed no sort of emotion at the death of the woman, her friend. “Hasn’t the kid got a dad?” he asked. “He’s in North Africa,” she said. “Well, he’ll come back after the war, he might not want you to adopt the kid.” But she was silent, and her face was hard with determination. “Why this kid in particular?” he asked. “You’ll have kids of your own one day.”

  She said evasively: “She’s a nice kid, you should see her.” He left it. He could see that there was something there too deep for him to grasp. Again he suggested: “Come to the pictures and take your mind off things.” Obediently she rose and placed herself at his disposal, as it were. Walking along the streets, she turned this way and that at a touch of his hand, but in spirit she was not with him. He knew that she sat through the film without seeing it. She’s in a bad way, he said helplessly to himself. It’s time she snapped out of it.

  But Rose was thinking only of Jill. Her whole being was now concentrated on the thought of the little girl. Tomorrow she would find out where she was. Some nosey-parkers would have got hold of her—that was certain; they were always bossing other people. She would take Jill away from them and look after her—they could stay in the basement until the house got rebuilt…. Rose was awake all night, dreaming of Jill; and next day she did not go to work. She went in search of the child. She found her grandmother had taken her. She had never thought of the grandmother, and the discovery was such a shock that she came back to the basement not knowing how she walked or what she did. The fact that she could not have the child seemed more terrible than anything else; it was as if she had been deprived maliciously of something she had a right to; something had been taken away from her—that was how she felt.

  Jimmie came that night. He was asking himself why he kept returning, what it would come to; and yet he could not keep away. The image of Rose, the silent, frightened little girl—which was how he saw her—stayed with him all day. When he entered the basement she was sitting as usual by the candles, staring before her. He saw with dismay that she had made no effort to clean the place, and that her hair was untidy. This last fact seemed worse than anything.

  He sat beside her, as usual, and tried to think of some way to make her snap out of it. At last he remarked: “You ought to be making some plans to move, Rose.” At this she irritably shrugged her shoulders. She wished he would stop pestering her with this sort of reminder. At the same time she was glad to have him there. She would have liked him to stay beside her silently; his warm friendliness wrapped her about like a blanket, but she could never relax into it because there was a part of her mind alert against him for fear of what he might say.

  She was afraid, really, that he might talk of her father. Not once had she allowed herself to think of it—her father’s death, as it must have been. She said to herself the words: My father’s dead, just as she had once said to herself: My mother’s dead. Never had she allowed those words to form into images of death. If they had been ordinary deaths, deaths one could understand, it would have been different. People dying of illness or age, in bed; and then the neighbours coming, and then the funeral—that was understandable, that would have been different. But not the senselessness of a black bomb falling out of the sky, dropped by a nice young man in an aeroplane, not the silly business of a lorry running someone over—no, she could not bear to think of it. Underneath the surface of living was a black gulf, full of senseless horror. All day, at the factory (where she helped to make other bombs) or in the basement at night, she made the usual movements, said the expected things, but never allowed herself to think of death. She said: “My father’s been killed,” in a flat, ordinary voice, without letting pictures of death arise into her mind.

  And now here was Jimmie, who had come into her life just when she needed his warmth and support most; and even this was two-faced, because it was the same Jimmie who made these remarks, forcing her to think … she would not think, she refused to respond. Jimmie noticed that whenever he made a remark connected in any way with the future, or even with the war, a blank nervous look came onto her face and she turned away her eyes. He did not know what to do. For that evening he left it, and came back next day. This was the sixth day after the bomb, and he saw that the crack in the ceiling was bulging heavily downwards from the weight on top of it, and when a car passed, bits of plaster flaked down in a soft white rain. It was really dangerous. He had to do something. And still she sat there, her hands lying loosely in front of her, staring at the wall. He decided to be cruel. His heart was hammering with fright at what he was going to do; but he announced in a loud and cheerful voice: “Rose, your father’s dead, he’s not going to come back.”

  She turned her eyes vaguely towards him; it seemed as if she had not heard at all. But he had to go on now. “Your dad’s had it,” he said brightly. “He’s copped it. He’s dead as a doornail, and it’s no use staying here.”

  “How do you know?” she asked faintly. “Sometimes there are mistakes. Sometimes people come back, don’t they?”

  This was much worse than he had thought. “He won’t come back. I saw him myself.”

  “No,” she protested, sharply drawing breath.

  “Oh, yes I did. He was lying on the pavement, smashed to smithereens.” He was waiting for her face to change. So far, it was obstinate, but her eyes were fixed on him like a scared rabbit’s. “Nothing left,” he announced, jauntily, “his legs were gone—nothing there at all, and he didn�
�t have a head left either….”

  And now Rose got to her feet with a sudden angry movement, and her eyes were small and black. “You—” she began. Her lips shook. Jimmie remained seated. He was trying to look casual, even jaunty. He was forcing himself to smile. Underneath, he was very frightened. Supposing this was the wrong thing? Supposing she went clean off her rocker … supposing … He passed his tongue quickly over his lips and glanced at her to see how she was. She was still staring at him. But now she seemed to hate him. He wanted to laugh from fright. But he stood up and with an appearance of deliberate brutality, said: “Yes, Rosie girl, that’s how it is, your dad’s nothing but a bleeding corpse—that’s good, bleeding!” And now, he thought, I’ve done it properly! “You—” began Rose again, her face contracted with hatred. “You—” And such a stream of foul language came from her mouth that it took him by surprise. He had expected her to cry, to break down. She shouted and raved at him, lifting her fists to batter at his chest. Gently holding her off, he said silently to himself, giving himself courage: Ho, ho, Rosie my girl, what language, naughty, naughty! Out loud he said, with uneasy jocularity: “Hey, take it easy, it’s not my fault now….” He was surprised at her strength. The quiet, composed, neat little Rose was changed into a screaming hag, who scratched and kicked and clawed. “Get out of here, you—” and she picked up a candlestick and threw it at him. Holding his arm across his face, he retreated backwards to the door, gave it a kick with his heel, and went out. There he stood, waiting, with a half-rueful, half-worried smile on his face, listening. He was rubbing the scratches on his face with his handkerchief. At first there was silence, then loud sobbing. He straightened himself slowly. I might have hurt her bad, talking like that, he thought; perhaps she’ll never get over it. But he felt reassured; instinctively he knew he had done the right thing. He listened to the persistent crying for a while, and then wondered: Yes, but what do I do now? Should I go back again now, or wait a little? And more persistent than these worries was another: And what then? If I go back now, I’ll let myself in for something and no mistake. He slowly retreated from Rose’s door, down the damaged street, to a pub at the corner, which had not been hit. Must have a drink and a bit of a think…. Inside the pub he leaned quietly by the counter, glass in hand, his grey eyes dark with worry. He heard someone say: “Well, handsome, and what’s been biting you?” He looked up, smiling, and saw Pearl. He had known her for some time—nothing serious; they exchanged greetings and bits of talk over the counter when he dropped in. He liked Pearl, but now he wanted to be left alone. She lingered and said, again: “How’s your wife?” He frowned quickly, and did not reply. She made a grimace as if to say: Well, if you don’t want to be sociable I’m not going to force you! But she remained where she was, looking at him closely. He was thinking: I shouldn’t have started it, I shouldn’t have taken her on. No business of mine what happened to her…. And then, unconsciously straightening himself, with a small, desperate smile that was also triumphant: You’re in trouble again, my lad, you’re in for it now! Pearl remarked in an offhand way: “You’d better get your face fixed up—been in a fight?” He lifted his hand to his face and it came away covered with blood. “Yes,” he said, grinning, “with a spitfire.” She laughed, and he laughed with her. The words presented Rose to him in a new way. Proper little spitfire, he said to himself, caressing his cheek. Who would have thought Rose had all that fire in her? Then he set down the glass, straightened his tie, wiped his cheek with his handkerchief, nodded to Pearl with his debonair smile, and went out. Now he did not hesitate. He went straight back to the basement.

  Rose was washing clothes in the sink. Her face was swollen and damp with crying, but she had combed her hair. When she saw him, she went red, trying to meet his eyes, but could not. He went straight over to her and put his arms around her. “Here, Rosie, don’t get all worked up now.” “Fm sorry,” she said, with prim nervousness, trying to smile. Her eyes appealed to him. “I don’t know what came over me, I don’t really.”

  “It’s all right, I’m telling you.”

  But now she was crying from shame. “I never use them words. Never. I didn’t know I knew them. I’m not like that. And now you’ll think …” He gathered her to him and felt her shoulders shaking. “Now, don’t you waste any more time thinking about it. You were upset—well, I wanted you to be upset. I did it on purpose, don’t you see, Rosie? You couldn’t go on like that, pretending to yourself.” He kissed the part of her cheek that was not hidden in his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m ever so sorry,” she wept, but she sounded much better.

  He held her tight and made soothing noises. At the same time he had the feeling of a man sliding over the edge of a dangerous mountain. But he could not stop himself now. It was much too late. She said, in a small voice: “You were quite right, I know you were. But it was just that I couldn’t bear to think. I didn’t have anybody but Dad. It’s been him and me together for ever so long. I haven’t got anybody at all….” The thought came into her mind and vanished: Only George’s little girl. She belongs to me by rights.

  Jimmie said indignantly: “Your dad—I’m not saying anything against him, but it wasn’t right to keep you here looking after him. You should have got out and found yourself a nice husband and had kids.” He did not understand why, though only for a moment, her body hardened and rejected him. Then she relaxed and said submissively: “You mustn’t say anything against my dad.”

  “No,” he agreed, mildly, “I won’t.” She seemed to be waiting. “I haven’t got anything now,” she said, and lifted her face to him. “You’ve got me,” he said at last, and he was grinning a little from sheer nervousness. Her face softened, her eyes searched his, and she still waited. There was a silence, while he struggled with commonsense. It was far too long a silence, and she was already reproachful when he said: “You come with me, Rosie, I’ll look after you.”

  And now she collapsed against him again and wept: “You do love me, don’t you, you do love me?” He held her and said: “Yes, of course I love you.” Well, that was true enough. He did. He didn’t know why, there wasn’t any sense in it, she wasn’t even pretty, but he loved her. Later she said: “I’ll get my things together and come to where you live.”

  He temporised, with an anxious glance at the ominous ceiling: “You stay here for a bit. I’ll get things fixed first.”

  “Why can’t I come now?” She looked on in a horrified, caged way around the basement as if she couldn’t wait to get out of it—she, who had clung so obstinately to its shelter.

  “You just trust me now, Rosie. You pack your things, like a good girl. Ill come back and fetch you later.” She clutched his shoulders and looked into his face and pleaded: “Don’t leave me here long—that ceiling—it might fall.” It was as if she had only just noticed it. He comforted her, put her persuasively away from him, and repeated he would be back in half an hour. He left her sorting out her belongings in worried haste, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  And now what was he going to do? He had no idea. Flats—they weren’t so hard to find, with so many people evacuated; yes, but here it was after eleven at night, and he couldn’t even lay hands on the first week’s rent. Besides, he had to give his wife some money tomorrow. He walked slowly through the damaged streets, in the thick dark, his hands in his pockets, thinking: Now you’re in a fix. Jimmie boy, you’re properly in a fix.

  About an hour later his feet took him back. Rose was seated at the table, and on it were two cardboard boxes and a small suitcase—her clothes. Her hands were folded together in front of her.

  “It’s all right?” she enquired, already on her feet.

  “Well, Rosie, it’s like this—” He sat down and tried for the right words. “I should’ve told you. I haven’t got a place really.”

  “You’ve got no place to sleep?” she enquired incredulously. He avoided her eyes and muttered: “Well, there’s complications.” He caught a glimpse of her face and saw there—pity! It made him
want to swear. Hell, this was a mess, and what was he to do? But the sorrowful warmth of her face touched him and, hardly knowing what he was doing, he let her put her arms around him, while he said: “I was bombed out last week.”

  “And you were looking after me, and you had no place yourself?” she accused him tenderly.

  “We’ll be all right. We’ll find a place in the morning,” he said.

  “That’s right, we’ll have our own place and—can we get married soon?” she enquired shyly, going pink.

  At this, he laid his face against hers, so that she could not look at him, and said: “Let’s get a place first, and we can fix everything afterwards.”

  She was thinking. “Haven’t you got no money?” she enquired diffidently, at last. “Yes, but not the cash. I’ll have it later.” He was telling himself again: You’re properly in the soup, Jimmie, in—the—soup!

  “I’ve got two hundred pounds in the post office,” she offered, smiling with shy pride, as she fondled his hair. “And there’s the furniture from here—it’s not hurt by the bomb a bit. We can furnish nicely.”

  “I’ll give it back to you later,” he said desperately.

  “When you’ve got it. Besides, my money is yours now,” she said, smiling tenderly at him. “Ours.” She tasted the word delicately, inviting him to share her pleasure in it.

  Jimmie was essentially a man who knew people, got around, had irons in the fire and strings to pull; and by next afternoon he had found a flat. Two rooms and a kitchen, a cupboard for the coal, hot and cold water, and a share of the bathroom downstairs. Cheap, too. It was the top of an old house, and he was pleased that one could see trees from Battersea Park over the tops of the buildings opposite. Rose’ll like it, he thought. He was happy now. All last night he had lain on the floor beside her in the ruinous basement, under the bulging ceiling, consumed by dubious thoughts; now these had vanished, and he was optimistic. But when Rose came up the stairs with her packages she went straight to the window and seemed to shrink back. “Don’t you like it, Rosie?” “Yes, I like it, but …” Soon she laughed and said, apologetically: “I’ve always lived underneath—I mean, I’m not used to being so high up.” He kissed her and teased her and she laughed too. But several times he noticed that she looked unhappily down from the window and quickly came away, with a swift, uncertain glance around at the empty rooms. All her life she had lived underground, with busses and cars rumbling past above eye-level, the weight of the big old house heavy over her, like the promise of protection. Now she was high above streets and houses, and she felt unsafe. Don’t be silly, she told herself. You’ll get used to it. And she gave herself to the pleasure of arranging furniture, putting things away. She took a hundred pounds of her money out of the post office and bought—but what she bought was chiefly for him. A chest for his clothes: she teased him because he had so many; a small wireless set; and finally a desk for him to work on, for he had said he was studying for an engineering degree of some kind. He asked her why she bought nothing for herself, and she said, defensively, that she had plenty. She had arranged the new flat to look like her old home. The table stood the same way, the calendar with yellowing roses hung on the wall, and she worked happily beside her stove, making the same movements she had used for years; for the cupboard, the drying-line and the draining-board had been fixed exactly as they had been “at home.” Unconsciously, she still used the phrase. “Here,” he protested, “isn’t this home now?” She said seriously: “Yes, but I can’t get used to it.” “Then you’d better get used to it,” he complained, and then kissed her to make amends for his resentment. When this had happened several times, he let out: “Anyway, the basement’s fallen in. I passed today, and it’s filled with bricks and stuff.” He had intended not to tell her. She shrank away from him and went quite white. “Well, you knew it wasn’t going to stay for long,” he said. She was badly shaken. She could not bear to think of her old home gone; she could imagine it, the great beams slanting into it, filled with dirty water—she imagined it and shut out the vision forever. She was quiet and listless all that day, until he grew angry with her. He was quite often angry. He would protest when she bought things for him. “Don’t you like it?” she would enquire, looking puzzled. “Yes, I like it fine, but …” And later she was hurt because he seemed reluctant to use the chest, or the desk.