Choice of Straws

by Braithwaite, E. R. ;

  I heard them come upstairs, then close their door. Best thing to do was hunt around for a little flat of my own, then I could invite whoever I liked into it. Even Spades if I wanted to and nobody could tell me what to do. Just suppose Michelle softened up and I could make it with her, where the heck could I take her? Couldn’t try anything with a bird like that in back of the flicks. Don’t suppose she’d even let me hold her hand in their fancy house. Couldn’t bring her here, even if Mum wasn’t carrying on like she was. Best to have a place of my own, like Ruth’s friend, Naomi, had up West. Suit myself what I did, then. Michelle. Suppose if she was a white bird, living in a house like that, the fellows would be hanging around all over the place. Don’t suppose she gave a damn about fellows, anyway.

  I got up and fetched a piece of paper and a biro. Maybe if I thought hard about it, I could write stuff like Dave did. After all, we were the same, so if he could do it, why the hell couldn’t I? I sat on the bed, thinking hard about all kinds of things, birds and trees and flowers, things like that, but mostly about Michelle. And words came into my head, but hell, you couldn’t write:

  I want to be with you.

  To take you in my arms and feel

  The sweet excitement in the touch of you.

  Like a wild moth, fluttering.

  Just for fun I wrote it down as I thought of it. Funny the way things come into your head when you think hard about them. I read it over and over. Hell, you couldn’t say that to a bird, especially one like Michelle, not if you didn’t want to get your head knocked off your ruddy neck. Should change that bit, ‘like a wild moth, fluttering’. Why the heck did I think of that? Suppose she were here right now. Michelle. In this room. Listening to some records. Would be fun to show her what I’d written. Only afterwards. And watch her face, reading it. Afterwards.

  I tore it up. Didn’t make any sense. Didn’t even begin to express the things that were inside of me. I began reading Dave’s stuff again, but she was behind every page, waiting for me. I began to wonder at myself, carrying on that way over a Spade. Normally I didn’t spend much time thinking of birds, I mean, not any one of them specially. Think of them for a minute or so, if you’ve a date and you think there’s the chance of something. Then afterwards you forget it. Sometimes even sooner than that. For instance you’re walking along, down the High Street or even up West, Bond Street or Regent Street or somewhere like that, and just ahead of you is a bird with nice legs and a nice jiggly behind, a real sweet-looking piece. And you think to yourself how it would be to get into that. And just then you notice something in a window, a tie or shirt or a nice pair of slacks, tapered and with no turn-ups. Continental style. And right away you forget all about the piece. I mean, your mind starts figuring about whether you can afford a pair like that and if it will go with your sports jacket and shoes. And long after you’ve gone past the window you’re still thinking about the stuff displayed in it. But this Michelle, thinking about her so much night and day. I must be going soft in the head.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  ONE DAY DURING THE week I saw a little piece in the Evening Standard about the police appealing to anyone who lived in the vicinity of Hillingdon Terrace and heard or saw anything which might help them in their investigations into the murder of the West Indian Carlton Thomas, to come forward. The piece mentioned the date in August and the time of night when the murder was supposed to have taken place. It was a dead give away that they hadn’t a clue so there was nothing for me to worry about. After all, I didn’t kill the Spade and Dave was dead and gone, so that’s that. Wonder what Baldy must be doing, him and his shadow and all that stuff he was trying on.

  Two evenings later I was watching the news on TV with Mum and our Dad, and before you know what’s happening this announcer is talking about the murder and the police appealing to anyone who was in or near Hillingdon Terrace on that evening to get in touch with them. And while he’s talking they show this photograph of the Spade, Carlton Thomas. Funny, looking at him, he seemed to be looking straight at me, but smiling and friendly. Perhaps it was taken a long time ago, the photograph, but he looked young, even younger than me. But somebody once said you can never tell about Spades, I mean, about their age. Twenty-four he was, but with a face like eighteen or so. Good-looking, like that fellow Ron, but bigger and with a round face. Made me nervous watching him. All this time I’d not felt nervous or anything, but now, watching that face I felt nervous and shaky inside. After all, Dave had killed him, not me. But if they found out I’d be just as responsible. But the thing was, all the time I didn’t really know him, hadn’t really seen him, so it didn’t really bother me. But now, sitting there, and him smiling at me …

  After the news our Dad said, ‘They never give up.’ Meaning the police.

  For days after I could see that face in my head. I’d be doing something at the bench, or eating, or walking along, and thinking of Michelle, seeing her face in my mind, then her face would get mixed up with this other face. Or I’d be lying on my bed, reading or just thinking, and this face would come into my mind, smiling. But after a while I stopped thinking about it.

  I didn’t even try to telephone Michelle all that week. I wanted to but she’d said she’d be busy, so I didn’t. The next Tuesday I rang her and she said sorry but she had a lot of work to do and I said I’d ring again at the end of the week and she said okay. Sounded as if she couldn’t even spare the time to talk on the phone, and all that Mr Bennett stuff same as always. Why the hell did I bother with her anyway? Right then I promised myself I’d not phone her again. If she wanted to see me she’d ruddy well have to call me.

  The following night Ruth rang me soon after I got home from work. She always sounds happy, her voice warm as if the most important thing for her in the world is talking to me. And always kidding. Said she needed to borrow a couple of strong willing arms to help her move her stuff over to Naomi’s and did I know anyone who’d oblige? So I said sure, and what rate was she paying? Kidding her back. She could borrow somebody’s car and if I felt like coming up to help, she’d meet me in town Saturday morning and we’d move her stuff from Willesden. Ron had promised to help her but he’d got this part in a television production so she was left high and dry. The way she spoke of Ron irritated me a little, but I said okay, I’d meet her outside Oxford Street Station at ten o’clock. Would mean getting up early on Saturday morning for a change, but I figured that once wouldn’t kill me. I’d help Ruth and ring Michelle later. Or not ring her at all. Why did I have to go begging her for a date, anyway? Lots of other birds in the world.

  Ruth was bang on time, I didn’t have to wait more than a minute before she drove up in this big old Morris. I got in and she kissed me, her face smiling and happy. She was wearing that big old black sweater and slacks and no make up, but nice. It was hell driving up the Edgware Road, but it didn’t bother her, people dashing across in front of the car against the lights. She kept chatting all the way, excited about moving in with Naomi and what they were planning to do at the flat, paint it over and buy new drapes and some plants and have lots of parties, everything in that breathless, laughing voice. And her Mum had treated her to a new divan bed which had already been delivered to the flat, and some new bedding. So she didn’t have to bother about moving the old bed.

  At the house her stuff was already packed in a big trunk and two suitcases, with a big carton full of books, all loaded on her bed. She’d been up early, packing things away. We were alone, her mother worked at the electricity showrooms. We humped all that stuff down to the car, into the boot and the back seat. Amazing how much there was when you saw it packed inside the car.

  When we’d taken down all the heavy stuff Ruth said how about some coffee, and went into the kitchen to make it while I collected the little things left in her room, some photographs in little silver frames, and coloured shells, all shapes and sizes. She brought the coffee up to her room and we sat
on her bed, drinking and talking. Then she had a cigarette and lay back, blowing smoke at me, her hair every which way over her face. I leaned over and kissed her, and now it was different from all other times with other birds, even Sandra. Long and exciting, with her arms going up around my neck, and the mystery of what the touch of another person can do to you down inside, the need urgent and compelling. And I’m a bit scared remembering that time with Sandra and not wanting Ruth to know it’s the first time, really, for me. I mean going the whole hog. But helpless because everything is happening and I want to say something to Ruth but it’s too much, and hearing sounds but far away. And feeling terribly strong and hearing her cry out then floating away for miles and coming back slowly, all my bones and muscles soft like water.

  ‘You’re dripping,’ Ruth said. I opened my eyes and the perspiration is pouring off my face on to her. We’re naked, though I can’t remember either of us undressing. Her body, damp against mine, breasts full and flushed, the rest of her amazingly white except for the thick black hair.

  ‘Who is Michelle?’

  I don’t know what the heck she’s talking about so I ask her what she means.

  ‘I mean, who is Michelle?’

  ‘You said that before. I don’t get it.’ I couldn’t figure what she was driving at.

  ‘Just now you called me Michelle, so I’m asking you who she is.’

  That shook me. I must be going daft or something. I couldn’t remember saying anything, least of all calling her that. Christ. I must be haunted.

  ‘Just somebody I know.’

  ‘Your girl?’

  ‘I don’t have a girl.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me about it, Jack.’

  ‘I’m not lying. I don’t have a girl.’

  ‘Then why … ’ She suddenly turned her face away, the blush spreading up from her neck. I noticed the narrow crooked scar near her navel and gently touched it.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I had an appendix operation last year.’ Still with her face looking away.

  ‘Come on, turn around.’

  Then those eyes on me, big, sad and accusing through the strands of hair.

  ‘Why lie to me, Jack. If you have a girl why can’t you just say so?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t have a girl. What are you on about?’

  ‘This Michelle.’

  ‘Look, I told you.’

  ‘Are you in love with her?’

  ‘What the heck are you on about?’

  ‘Your friend, Michelle.’

  First Mum, then her. Friend. What kind of crazy talk was that? I felt like laughing. In love with her? Hell, they should be there and hear us. Mr Bennett. Miss Spencer. In love? Everybody must be plumb crazy.

  ‘Well, are you?’

  To put an end to the ruddy talk I told her about Michelle. Well just that Dave, my twin, had been killed in an accident while hitching a ride with this Doctor Spencer, Michelle’s brother. And I’d met this girl at the police station and she’d come over faint and my dad had brought her up to our place for a cup of tea, and a week ago her mother invited me over to their place at Leigh-on-Sea. That’s all there was to it. And she’s watching me while I’m talking, those big eyes searching for the truth behind every word.

  ‘You’re a strange person, Jack,’ she said, after a while. ‘Thinking about her while making love to me. Is she beautiful?’

  ‘Look, she’s a Spade.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘You know, coloured.’

  ‘What was that you said? A Spade? What does that mean?’

  ‘Hell, nothing. Just the same as coloured.’

  ‘And what difference does it make that she’s coloured?’

  The way she’s looking at me as if she’s getting ready to be angry. Like our Dad.

  ‘What do you mean what difference does it make?’

  ‘I mean about her being beautiful … Is she?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose she is.’

  ‘What’s she like. Tall, thin, what?’

  So the questions began until I’d told her all I could, about Michelle and her mother, where they lived, everything.

  ‘Ever kissed her?’

  ‘Are you daft or something? I hardly know her. Just met her those few times.’

  She laughed, a funny ironic sound, and I remembered about her.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why didn’t you try? Because she’s coloured? Some of them are very nice.’ She said it so simply, as if she knew all about it.

  Then I remembered what she’d said about Ron, that he’d promised to help her move, and I wondered if he’d have been beside her now, instead of me. If she would, with him, all the way.

  ‘What about you and Ron?’ I asked, even before meaning to.

  ‘Well, what about Ron and me?’ she repeated.

  ‘I mean, would you let him kiss you?’ I couldn’t ask the other thing.

  ‘Why not, if he wanted to.’

  ‘And suppose he wanted … ’

  ‘Don’t bother to say it.’ She interrupted. ‘Ron goes with Hilary, so don’t waste your time asking silly questions.’ She rolled away, on to her feet, and began picking up her clothing, dressing quickly with her back towards me. Then she tossed mine on to the bed and I got up and dressed. Suddenly she was as distant as Michelle. We carried the cups to the kitchen and washed them, then took the pictures and shells to the car, locking the house. We didn’t say much on the way to Kensington.

  Naomi was in and helped us unload the stuff and they asked me to stay to lunch. When Ruth’s room was straight with everything in place we sat around playing records and talking.

  After two o’clock Naomi went out to meet some friends and I wanted to push off too, to get to a phone and call Michelle, but I also wanted to talk to Ruth, to see how it was with her and me. While Naomi was there we were talking about everything as if nothing had happened, but when she left Ruth would hardly say a word. I tried to kiss her but she wouldn’t let me and after a while I got fed up with that and was leaving, but when I reached the door she called me back and said she was sorry and let’s kiss and make up. But she didn’t want to, again, so we sat around talking and I’m thinking it was much better being with Ruth, talking and I could kiss her if I wanted to and nobody being snooty and difficult.

  She said why don’t I stay and we could go out later, eat somewhere, then meet Naomi and some of the others at a coffee bar in Earls Court, but I felt a bit mucky, just in those old slacks, sweater and sports coat I’d worn to help her move. So she said that we still had the car so why didn’t I wait till she fixed herself up then we could drive up to Upminster and I could change, but I’d have to buy the gas. That was okay with me. It was fun with her. The only thing was I wished I could drive instead of just sitting there while she did the driving.

  When we went indoors I could hear Mum upstairs, so I went up to ask her and our Dad to come down and meet Ruth. Mum was putting away the clean laundry, sheets and towels and things in the big cupboard on the landing. I asked her if she’d come and meet a friend of mine, and you should have seen the way her face immediately changed, got tight and hard like something suddenly dried up. She asked who it was. Right away I guessed who she thought I’d brought home, and I had half a mind to say nothing more but just go down and hike Ruth out of the house. Anyway I said it was a friend of mine from Kensington, a girl, and you could see her face easing up, the tension going, leaving her mouth and eyes soft again. Heck, she must hate Spades worse than Dave and me ever did. Come to think of it we didn’t hate them. At least I didn’t. And Dave never looked like that even when we were going after them. With us it was a kind of game.

  She came down and met Ruth and said our Dad was over at the allotment. You could see that she and Ruth clicked, right away. She said how about a cup of tea a
nd Ruth said, fine, but she must let her help, and the two of them go off into the kitchen chatting away like old friends. I went up to wash and change, hearing their laughter coming up now and then, and thinking that I ought to give Michelle a buzz but Mum would be sure to hear me on the phone and it would spoil everything. Better wait until we were up town somewhere. Just suppose she said she was free and could I come over? I’d just have to say I couldn’t make it as I was with some friends. Be a bit of a change from always having her say ‘No, I’m busy.’ Funny how every time I thought about her these days that vague photograph of that fellow Thomas kept popping into my mind. Didn’t bother me much, though.

  After I’d cleaned up I went down to the kitchen and sat listening to Ruth and Mum while they got the tea ready. Ruth was talking a blue streak about sharing the flat with Naomi and Mum asked didn’t her mother mind about Ruth going off and leaving her on her own, and Ruth said not really, that she was the one who used to be left alone, her mother had all these friends and was always busy doing something or other. And Mum said what about her Dad, and Ruth said he’d walked out on them years ago when she was at grammar school and they never heard from him or knew where he was. He never wrote or anything and it was just as well, because he and her Mum had always been quarrelling and fighting.