Choice of Straws

by Braithwaite, E. R. ;

  For a moment after I’d sat down the conversation stopped. Then our Dad asked her, ‘You were saying about your brother … ’ and she began again, talking about how, apart from his hospital duties, her brother had been working on something with two other doctors. A research project she called it, to do with a new technique for heart operations.

  I must say she wasn’t bad looking, for a Spade. Big greyish eyes, slightly slanted upward. Slim nose and a sort of cleft in her chin. And built for it. Now and then she’d move a hand making some point or other with this trick of rotating her wrist with the fingers spread wide. Long, pale brown fingers, the nails red like blood. But mostly the hands were quiet in her lap, one on top of the other, sometimes with a finger idly flicking the hem of her dress just over her knee. Funny about those grey eyes. I’d always figured that Spades had everything black, skin, hair, eyes, everything. Grey eyes, the lashes long and curving upward just like Maureen’s.

  ‘ … he was in the habit of giving lifts to strangers at any time of the day or night. Anyone, no matter what they looked like. My mother and I were always fighting with him about it. Even so, I just don’t understand how it could have happened.’

  ‘You mean the accident?’ Dad asked her.

  ‘Yes. Bill liked to drive fast, but he was always very careful.’

  ‘May have been just something went wrong with the car, you never know with these things.’

  ‘But it was completely overhauled only a few days ago and Bill said it was working perfectly. I just don’t understand it.’

  Putting on airs like some ruddy duchess, just like those university types in the coffee bars and jazz clubs up West. They had this way of sitting near you and leaning forward to talk to somebody else on the other side of you, just as if you weren’t there. And some of them looking like hell, with those awful thick stockings and their hair hanging down all over the place as if they needed a real good wash. And this one carrying on just like them, except for the colour.

  ‘How long had he been at the hospital?’ You could see our Dad wanted to get her off talking about the accident.

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘You interested in medicine, too?’

  ‘No. At grammar school I’d thought of it, but changed my mind. I’m reading Marine Biology at King’s.’

  I wished I could think of something to say to put the bitch in her place. She wasn’t the only one who’d been to grammar school. So had Dave and me.

  I heard Mum say, ‘Have you and your brother been in England long, then?’ And I noticed that thing in the Spade’s face, just as when I’d seen her at the mortuary, the mouth tightening and the nose twitching, and the way she answered our Mum as if she was looking down on her from a great height.

  ‘We were born here, Mrs Bennett.’ Cool, the snooty bitch.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized … ’ from Mum, and I noticed she was blushing, something I’d never seen our Mum do before. Our strong little Mum, embarrassed by a ruddy Spade, and all because Dad wanted to prove how big-hearted he was. I felt like belting her one across that stuck-up black face. Or better still, spread her out the way I’d had that Sandra, only this time …

  She picked up her handbag, quickly uncrossing her legs without giving away even the smallest glimpse of anything, and stood up.

  ‘I think I’ll be going now, Mr Bennett,’ she said to Dad. ‘My mother will be anxious to know … ’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ he said. ‘Will you give her our regards, please, and say how sorry we are about everything?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bennett. I’ll tell her. I’m afraid I’m not very familiar with this part of Upminster. How do I get to the station from here?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not far.’ Then to me, ‘Jack, will you show Miss Spencer the way to the station?’

  I felt like saying no, but didn’t want to embarrass him. Going down the path to our front gate I saw Old Spotty Frock peeping at us from behind her curtains. Probably wondering if it was some bird I’d brought home. That was a laugh. Me and a Spade bird! That would give some of those nosey neighbours something to think about. Could just imagine them carrying on about it. Struck me as so funny, I even wished Old Mother Fennicott was there to see me. Put her off her food for a year.

  ‘Was your brother exactly like you?’

  ‘What?’ Came as such a surprise, her saying something to me.

  ‘I asked if your brother was exactly like you.’

  ‘Who, Dave? Yes. Exactly.’

  Nothing more from her, walking straight up as if she was doing me a favour by being near me.

  ‘Why?’ I wanted to know.

  ‘I was wondering whether he was as ill-mannered as you are.’

  Straight out, just like that. I didn’t say another word. Could have kicked myself for letting a Spade talk to me like that. Seeing the curtains flutter in the houses we passed. Then the people along the High Street staring at us. Mr Hardy where Mum gets her meat, putting up some notice in his windows and stopping to stare, his mouth a tobacco-stained fly trap. To hell with them. They could think what they liked. So I was ill-mannered, was I? And asking that about Dave. If he was alive and could see me walking along like that with her, he’d just about have kittens. What I should have done was leave her outside the station, but there I was standing with her on the platform, waiting for her train to come in. Not a word, her face looking up the line as if she didn’t give a damn whether I was there or not. Then they announced the Southend train and there it was coming down the straight.

  ‘Well, here comes my train. Good-bye, Mr Bennett, and thank you.’

  The train stopped and she got in, took a seat and kept her face straight forward. I stood there watching her, hating her, suddenly thinking of all the things I should have said to her.

  Chapter

  Five

  THEY TELEPHONED OR CAME around themselves, people from the street, to sympathize with our Mum and Dad. People I hadn’t noticed for years since I’d grown up. You know, you went to school with their kids and, those days, you were in and out of their houses, even calling some of them Uncle this or Auntie that, just because they were grown-up and you’d always known them. But then you grew up too and you couldn’t call them Auntie or Uncle anymore. Fact is you can’t call them anything not Mrs this or Mr that, so formal like, and you can’t suddenly call them by their Christian names like Jack or Bill or something like that, so, the best thing is, you keep out of their way. Especially if their kids grow up and move away or get different jobs or something.

  Like Angie Lucas. She was okay even when she was at the grammar school. Then she got this scholarship to the university and after that you’d think she’d never seen the Bennetts before in her life. Even her Mum started to put on airs. Well, Dave used to say, Up theirs.

  I mean, you walk up this street at least twice a day, not bothering with any of them, well, except for Old Mrs Collins. Nearly ninety if she’s a day. Hair white as silk, but the way she skipped about you’d think she was a kid or something. Always busy doing something. Digging in her front garden, or pruning her rose bushes. Never forget that day Dave and I were passing by and she’s on this little stepladder trimming her privet hedge and whistling. Not loud but real whistling, like a man. And Dave and me, we called out, ‘Hi, Mrs C.’ We always called her Mrs C, since we were kids. And she said, ‘Hi, peas.’ Same as usual. Always called us peas, like in a pod. Well, this day, Dave said that when she’d finished practising on her hedge, how about coming along and doing a real job on ours. And she started laughing at that, bending forward so she nearly fell off the ruddy ladder, we had to grab it to hold her still. Then, still laughing she said that that wasn’t a hedge our Dad had planted around the house, it was a wall with roots to lock in his two young bulls. Always kidding she was.

  Well, when I got back from the station I went up to my room, and I could hear Mum and our Da
d on the phone, saying thank you to someone or other. Then the doorbell would go and I’d hear a familiar voice. The way they were talking about Dave and how shocked they were to hear of the accident, you would think they’d been bosom friends. I wondered how it would be if I walked downstairs and said I was Dave and what was all this talk about me being dead. Just for a giggle. Anyway from now on they’d have no problem sorting out the Bennett twins.

  Around nine o’clock Mum called up to ask if I didn’t want something to eat, and I remembered I was hungry. Mum fixed some supper and this time she and our Dad ate. They told me the police had telephoned to say Dave’s body was now released, and they’d got on to the undertakers to collect it and fix it up. I asked our Dad if they’d be bringing Dave home and he said no, what was the use, nobody could see Dave’s face. Then he said the police had told him there’d be an inquest on Thursday week and would I mention it when I went back to work so that I could have the time off to go.

  After supper we sat around and talked, only this time it was okay—you know, easy, more like old times. Funny how something happens, something big and terrible and you think the end of the world has come and there can’t be such a thing as tomorrow. Then without even noticing it, you live through whatever it is and things are more or less the same again. Except that now and then Mum nearly called me Dave.

  Most surprising of all was Mum. You know, you read books and see flicks and things about mothers whose kids get into some trouble or get killed or something, and they put on this big act, crying all over the place and heartbroken, and lock themselves in their rooms and won’t see anybody, not even their dearest friends, only the doctor. But here was our Mum, dusting and cooking and talking on the telephone and reminding me to put out my dirty laundry, just like any day when Dave was here. I figure Dad’s right. You spend all your life with people and you never know what they’d do till the chips are down.

  Before falling asleep that night I read some more of the stuff in Dave’s diary. Amazing the things he had in it. After all, I guess he must have read some of that stuff somewhere else, because where did he know those words and how did those ideas get into his head. There was this poem called THE KING, all about a tomcat, and the way it uses people to get what it wants, but really despises them and prefers to move among the shadows at night, the same shadows that scare people out of their wits. Real creepy stuff.

  Then I hid the book and lay there thinking about that girl, just wondering about her and the way she’d said I was born here, Mrs Bennett. Funny thing I’d never before thought of any of them as being born here. I mean they’re supposed to be from somewhere else, Africa or the West Indies or wherever Spades come from. Old Simpson who was our teacher used to call them immigrants or something like that. Whenever you think of any of them you know they come from somewhere else. Like those cricketers, they’re from the West Indies. And all those fellows on the Underground and buses. You don’t see a Spade and figure that he’s an Englishman. I mean it’s not like those American Negroes. They belong there, in the States. But the way she’d said it, as if she had every right to be English, like Mum or me or anybody else. Wished I’d thought of something to say that would have put her in her place. Dave would have known how to fix her. Reading Marine Biology at King’s. Putting on the same damned airs as that Angie Lucas.

  Next morning Mum and our Dad said they’d talked it over and decided on cremation for Dave, and just the family attending. The funeral would be tomorrow, Saturday, at ten in the morning, with the service and everything taking place at the chapel in the cemetery. Funny thing the way we discussed it, so calmly, like where we’d go for the holidays. I couldn’t help wondering if that’s how it would have been if it had been me, instead of Dave. Don’t suppose it would have bothered him at all.

  Soon after I got in from work that evening they dropped in again, Baldy and his pal. Always together as if they were twins. And cute. Like how they said they’d brought Dave’s photograph, but not to return it; they wanted to ask if they could keep it a bit longer as certain things had come up which needed looking into.

  Then they said they’d had some information about Dave’s movements. This conductor on a bus had recognized Dave from the photograph as the young man who’d got on at Whitechapel the night of the accident, and had jumped off at Leytonstone. Said he remembered the face because he’d thought the young man had been drinking, but afterwards he’d found blood on the seat where the young man had been sitting. He’d called his driver and showed him the blood. Lots of blood, as if the young man had been in a fight or something and was cut or stabbed. And the driver had called the inspector and they’d telephoned the police to come before the bus was removed to the garage. And the police had looked around for the young man but couldn’t find him. They figured he lived somewhere in Leytonstone and had gone home. Anyway they’d made statements to the police, the conductor and the driver. Baldy and his pal didn’t say how they came to hear about it but they’d been up to Leytonstone and talked with the police there and found out about the conductor. They’d got his address and his bus depot, and gone to see him. Then they’d showed him Dave’s photograph and he’d said yes, that was the young man. He was sure. Said he’d never forget that face. And he told them he’d picked Dave up outside Whitechapel Underground and at first had thought Dave was tight, him smelling strong of rum or whisky. He’d never forget that face.

  Baldy said it seemed to them that Dave had caught the bus in Whitechapel and ridden to Leytonstone where he’d managed to get a lift in the car Dr Spencer was driving. And they wanted to know if I’d any idea what Dave might have been doing at Whitechapel or thereabouts. Whitechapel wasn’t the West End, and they didn’t know of any jazz clubs out Whitechapel way. Clubs, yes, but not jazz clubs. And that business about the blood the conductor had reported. That could mean that Dave had been in some kind of trouble. So they said they were checking with the East End police to find out if there was any trouble reported on that night. Any fights or quarrels at any of the clubs or anywhere else.

  All of this time they were watching me, but I wasn’t bothered by any of it. All that friendly talk wasn’t getting them anywhere because I knew nothing about anything so they might just as well save their breath.

  Mum said, quietly, ‘My son Dave is dead. What’s the point of asking all these questions about him now? What does it matter where he was or who he was with?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bennett,’ Baldy said, ‘but we’ve got to look into everything which has any bearing on the accident. We don’t know what happened or why it happened, so we’re supposed to pursue our investigations as far as possible to learn the facts in order to present them at the inquest. We understand how unpleasant it must be for you, but we have no choice.’

  ‘He’s right, Madge,’ Dad said.

  ‘What about his friends?’ Baldy asked. ‘Did he go around with any special friend or group? These days most young fellows get together, sometimes three, four of them, go around together. Did you and your brother have any special friends you went around with?’

  I told him that mostly Dave and me, we went around by ourselves. We didn’t like going about in groups. We knew lots of fellows and girls but we met them places, at jazz clubs and things like that. Then he wanted to know why we didn’t like chumming up with other fellows, so I had to explain it to him. Dave and me, we had this way of suddenly thinking of something and looking at each other and grinning. And if we were with fellows or even girls, they’d want to know what we were grinning at. But it wouldn’t be something you could explain to them, and they’d get funny, you know, mad. Sometimes they’d imagine we were laughing at them. So it was better to go about by ourselves. I mean, we’d meet birds and fellows at the jazz clubs, or up at the Palais, places like that, but it was best to be by ourselves for going around.

  While talking to him I was thinking of the times we’d decide to go somewhere and we’d wait for a train and while it wa
s slowing into the station we’d see a nice-looking bird sitting in a compartment. Then Dave would go in one door and I’d go in the other and we’d sit apart, both of us watching her. Sooner or later she’d look up at one of us, then look away and see the other. Then she’d have to look again to make sure she wasn’t seeing double or something. And we’d grin and she’d colour up, not wanting to watch us. Or sometimes we’d see someone watching us, curious because we’re so alike, and we’d give them the treatment, you know, both of us staring without smiling or blinking, till they looked away, embarrassed. Dave used to say we were giving them the Evil Eye, that in some countries identical twins like us would be killed at birth because the people would be afraid of our power.

  Then suddenly Baldy asked, ‘Why did you leave him and come back home last Wednesday night?’

  I could have laughed. I mean, what did he think he was playing at, trying that one? So I asked him what did he mean? That last Wednesday night Dave had gone off by himself.