Choice of Straws

by Braithwaite, E. R. ;

  I heard our Dad calling her from downstairs but she wasn’t listening, just going on at me. I knew if she didn’t stop I’d do something. Something. Then Dad came into the room and told her to shut up, pulling her out.

  At the door she looked back and said, ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  My own Mum. Long after she’d gone the words kept ringing in my ears and I could see her face, the mouth pulled back at the corners and a little bubble of spittle on her lower lip from saying nigger over and over. Hell, what had I done, anyway, that was so terrible? No, the best thing was to get to hell out of there as soon as I could, because if she kept on at me and calling Michelle a nigger like that I might do something that everybody would be sorry for. Just as well our Dad pulled her away. He was another one. Ruddy well sitting there stuffing his dinner while she carried on at me, and not saying a word. And he was the one always telling me what nice people the Spencers were. Why didn’t he tell Mum that they were nice people when she kept shouting about niggers? Yes, better to get the hell out, then nobody would have to worry about what I did and who I went with.

  I could hear the telephone ringing downstairs, then somebody answered, and hung up. That was a quick one. I put on some records, loud, to drown the echoes in my head. Lionel Hampton kicking up hell on the vibraharp. I lay on my bed, not really listening to the music, but letting it beat around my body. What the hell was happening to our Mum all of a sudden? Never in my life heard her carry on like that before. Never. As if she was going off her nut or something. I mean I could understand if Michelle had been rude to her that day when she was here, but all she’d said was that she was born here in England. Well, where’s the harm in that? Why should me sitting with Michelle in a train set her off like that? I wondered what that old bugger Hardy had said to her. Must have dressed the story up good and proper. Well, up his. I didn’t have to give a damn about him anyway.

  I suddenly realized I was hungry, but I didn’t want to go anywhere near the kitchen to give Mum a chance to start on me again, because as sure as hell if she said any more like that about Michelle I might do something I’d be sorry for later.

  I slipped on my old suede jacket and went downstairs. From the darkened living-room I could hear the murmur of tinny voices from the television, just loud enough so nobody would hear the door as I went out. Our street had the heavy quiet of living going on behind thick curtains and the sly watchfulness of neighbours. Would be fun to be able to slice off all the fronts of houses and see what they were all doing. I headed for the High Street and that café near to Burton’s which stayed open a bit late. Passing Old Man Hardy’s shop I wished I was a small boy or didn’t live around here, so I could bash his window in with a brick. Give him something to do besides shooting his old mouth off about things that were none of his ruddy business. What the hell did he care who I was with? On trains or anywhere else. Old bugger was past it, so now he had to go sticking his nose into things which didn’t concern him.

  Not many people in the café. A few old boys playing dominoes in one corner and the waitress leaning against the counter watching them. God, I was hungry. She came over to where I sat, taking her time as if next year would do just as well. I asked her if I was in time to have a cooked meal, and without answering she went back to the counter, and fetched a menu, so grease-spotted that some of the typewritten words could hardly be read.

  ‘Steak and chips, with peas,’ I told her.

  ‘Steak’s off,’ she replied, her voice tired or bored or both.

  ‘Well, make it chop, with chips,’ I was too hungry to be fussy.

  ‘Chop’s off.’ Still in the same voice. I felt the anger tightening my guts. Why the hell did they have the stuff down on the menu if it was all off?

  ‘What’s on?’ I asked, feeling like hitting her or saying something to wipe that stupid look off her face.

  ‘Eggs and sausage. Fish. Beans on toast.’ She couldn’t care less, her eyes were looking over my head to something in the street outside.

  ‘Sausage and chips,’ I told her.

  ‘No eggs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coca Cola.’

  ‘No cokes. Seven Up or Pepsi.’

  ‘Pepsi.’

  She went away, leaned over the counter and shouted something to someone I couldn’t see. Bitch acted as if it was the ruddy Ritz and she was doing you a favour to serve you. If I wasn’t so hungry I’d walk away right now and let her stuff the ruddy sausages right up. While waiting I watched the domino players. The way those old boys hummed and hawed and pondered over every move you’d think it was a matter of life or death. Then they’d slam the domino hard down on the table before fitting it into position, taunting each other. Why did old people get so excited about something like a game of dominoes? I mean, all sorts of things happening in the world, in the street outside, and they’re sitting there fitting pieces of wood together. Must be at least fifty or sixty, both of them. Half-way to the graveyard and wasting time in a ruddy café playing dominoes. What a hell of a way to live.

  Either the food was okay or I was too hungry to care, but I cleaned it up. All of it. Then sat drinking the cold Pepsi and watching the old-timers. Now that I’d eaten there wasn’t anything else to do but go home. Suddenly I missed Dave more than I’d missed him before. When he was here at least we’d be together even if we just sat around without talking. Just knowing he was there was enough. Funny how a little thought like that can grind you up inside. Wonder what he’d think of Michelle and the way Mum had carried on? Just suppose Dave was still here and somehow or other he’d met Michelle and got to know her? What would Mum have said? Her ruddy favourite and a nigger!

  I couldn’t sit around that dingy café all night long, and I was in no hurry to go home. I paid and left, undecided where to go or what to do. The red phone booth at the corner gave me an idea and I went in. Mrs Spencer answered. I told her it was me and could I speak to Michelle. She didn’t reply for a moment, then, in a changed voice, cold and distant, she said, ‘I don’t think my daughter wishes to speak with you, Mr Bennett.’

  I felt as if the whole world had fallen on top of my head. I don’t know what I said to her, stammered something or other asking her why, what was the matter, what had I done, what happened?

  ‘Your mother has been extremely rude to her on the telephone.’

  I felt cold and weak. Just stood there holding the receiver but not thinking or saying anything, I don’t know for how long, then I realized I hadn’t said or heard anything and I said ‘Hello, Mrs Spencer,’ but there was no reply. She had hung up. The phone booth was hot and I was sweating, hating our Mum till I couldn’t see straight. What did she want to do that for? God! I’d never have believed our Mum would do something like that, ring Michelle to tell her off. She must have asked Directory Enquiries for the number. Couldn’t get at me so she had to try it on Michelle.

  Jesus, God, what had she said to her? Clear as ever I could hear the words she’d said as our Dad pulled her out of my room, ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Without stopping to think I ran all the way to the station and bought a ticket to Leigh. As the train clanked along I tried to get my mind straight about what to say to them, Michelle and her mother, but all I could think about was what my Mum might have said about me to put Michelle off. Going down the steps to their house I suddenly felt scared to face them, dressed as I was without a tie and the zip on my suede jacket not able to close more than half-way up. I sat on one of the steps, looking down to where the lights from their house shone through the moving pattern of leaves, wondering about them, probably sitting there talking about me, hating me. I couldn’t go down. I had to know what our Mum had said. I’d go back and find out and to hell with it. Whatever happened let it happen.

  I could hear their voices in the kitchen. Mum was raising the cup to her lips when I walked in
. Funny the things that stick clear in your mind, the brown cocoa mark at the edge of her mouth, her left thumb over the edge of the saucer on the table, and the thick grey hairs of our Dad’s chest curling up through the V of his open shirt and catching the light in thin silvery gleams.

  ‘What did you want to ring her for?’ Although I’d planned to control myself and say it quietly, the anger spilled out with each word. ‘What’s she ever done to you? What did you have to ring her for?’

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ our Dad said, putting down his cup and glaring at me.

  ‘Ask Mum,’ I told him, ‘What’s she want to ring Michelle for and tell her off?’

  ‘What’s he on about, Madge? What’s he talking about?’

  ‘Michelle. Miss Spencer.’ I said. ‘She wasn’t satisfied with saying all those rotten things to me, she had to go and ring her. Why the hell can’t you leave us alone?’

  Our Dad jumped up and came towards me but I didn’t give a damn, I wasn’t scared of him. Just let him lay a hand on me again and see what the hell would happen. But all he said was for me to keep my voice down. Then he turned to Mum, his face confused.

  ‘Madge, did you telephone Miss Spencer?’

  ‘I telephoned nobody,’ she replied, in that flat quiet voice which didn’t give a damn.

  ‘Jack here just said you telephoned that young woman. Did you?’

  ‘I telephoned nobody,’ she repeated, taking a long drink before putting the cup into its saucer and gently pushing them to one side.

  ‘She’s lying, Dad,’ I said, ‘I know she did. Mrs Spencer told me. I telephoned them and she told me. Now she’s bloody lying.’

  ‘You watch that tongue of yours,’ our Dad said to me, his hands tightening into fists, but I couldn’t care less.

  ‘Well, what does she want to lie about it now for? Mrs Spencer wouldn’t say it if she hadn’t.’

  ‘I telephoned nobody,’ Mum repeated, like some ruddy talking mynah bird. ‘One of his nigger friends rang here asking for him and I told her not to ring here again.’ I felt the relief like a balloon inside me. She hadn’t said anything to Michelle. Not anything about me anyway.

  ‘But why, Madge?’ our Dad asked her.

  ‘I’ve said it once and I mean it.’ Still in that flat, hard voice. ‘I don’t want them coming here or ringing on that phone either. They cause nothing but trouble and I’m not having it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I told her, ‘I don’t have to stay here. I’ll find somewhere else to go.’

  ‘You can suit yourself about that,’ Mum said. Cool, as if she didn’t give a damn if I dropped dead. I hated her so much I couldn’t look at her, so I walked out and up to my room. I’d have liked to go and see Michelle but it was too late now. I could hear our Dad and Mum going at it downstairs, then our Dad came up to my room. He closed the door and stood there looking at me for a while, then sat on the bed beside me.

  ‘Look, Son, don’t let what your mother said downstairs upset you. She hasn’t been herself these past weeks, you know.’

  ‘I’m getting out,’ I told him.

  ‘Now, take it easy, Son. There’s no call for that. When your mother gets upset she says things she doesn’t really mean. We all do. In a day or so she’ll have forgotten all about it.’

  He could go right ahead and kid himself if he liked. Mum wasn’t saying all that because she was upset or because of Dave or anything. She meant it. You could hear it in her voice, feel it in every word she said. She hated coloured people. Must have been hating them for a long time. Maybe that’s where Dave and me got it from, without even knowing it. Couldn’t be because of what happened to Dave.

  ‘What’s going on between you and Miss Spencer?’ He switched off from talking about Mum.

  ‘Nothing’s going on.’

  ‘Then why all the fuss with your mother? The way you carried on anyone would think something’s up between you.’

  ‘Well, nothing’s up.’

  ‘Look, Son. You can talk to me about it. After all, I’m your Dad, and that’s what a Dad’s for. This thing with your mother, I don’t think she has anything personal against the girl.’

  Like hell she didn’t. Christ, that time Dave and me had gone up West and heard those people in Hyde Park talking about why didn’t they send all the coloureds back where they came from, that Sunday afternoon. All those people talking and arguing, but none of them had sounded like Mum did. Remembering it, they’d all been standing around this fellow on a little box with a piece stuck up in front where he had some papers and things. And he’d been saying how the coloureds were taking all the jobs and all the houses and living off the women, and the best thing for the country was to send them all back where they came from. And the people listening had started arguments with him, some of them agreeing and some not. But none of them had sounded like our Mum, as if hating the coloureds was a personal thing. Did he think I was going to discuss Michelle with him so he could go and tell our Mum?

  ‘Do you go over to the Spencers much?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much. I’ve been there a couple of times.’

  ‘You serious about the girl?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘What do you mean, serious, Dad?’

  ‘Look, Son, you know what I mean. You go there and you’re seen all over the place with her. The way you carried on tonight I wondered if, I mean, I had the feeling you really liked the girl.’

  ‘I like her.’

  ‘What I mean is that you sounded as if it was really serious between you and her.’

  What he was hinting at was that I might be in love with Michelle. Funny thing, I suddenly realized that I’d never heard our Dad or Mum talk about love or loving anybody. Here was our Dad, angling to find out if I was in love with Michelle, but he’d never use the word. He asked if I liked her or was serious about her, but all the time he wanted to know if I was in love with her. I wondered what he’d say if I asked him if he was in love with our Mum.

  ‘You’re not thinking of going courting with her or anything like that, are you, Son?’

  Going courting. Michelle would get a laugh out of that if she could hear him. He sounded a little frightened and I had half a mind to say that yes, I loved Michelle, not really meaning it, but just to hear what he would say. Most likely he’d go and tell Mum and then the whole ruddy house would explode. Oh, hell, let him stew in his own ruddy juice. I didn’t say anything.

  ‘What about that friend of yours who comes here? What’s her name, Ruth or something. Aren’t you friends any more?’

  ‘Ruth and me. Sure we’re friends.’

  ‘Don’t you still go out with her?’

  ‘Yes, Dad, sometimes.’

  ‘I think she’s a very nice girl. Very well-mannered and respectful. A very nice decent girl.’ What the hell did he know about it? Because she was white she was nice and decent, no matter how easy it was to get in there. Don’t suppose even Mum would mind too much if she knew what had happened with Ruth. She’d still think she was a nice, decent girl. Well okay, she’s nice and decent. But what about Michelle? Wasn’t she nice and decent too?

  ‘She’s okay,’ I told him.

  ‘You know, Son, I don’t go along with your Mum the way she talks about coloured people. I always say that a man’s a man no matter what the colour of his skin. In the war there were a few black fellows in our Company, and you couldn’t hope to meet nicer chaps. Their skins might be black but they were whiter inside than many white fellows, I used to say. After all, the world’s big enough for all of us, so I take people as I find them, black, white, tall, short, however they come. You can’t say I’ve ever taught you different, can you?’

  ‘No, Dad.’

  ‘At the same time I can’t say that I hold with black and white mixing too much, you know what I mean. It just doesn’t work. I’ve seen a lot and I know what I’m talking about. Where
ver they try it, it never does any good, only causes a lot of trouble, and you get the worst of both worlds. Look at what’s happening here already to us, in this house. With your brother gone we should be even closer together as a family, not yelling at each other … ’

  Through the open window came the shattering, half-human screams of cats tangling up somewhere outside, and the thought came into my mind, What would it be like if human beings were like that, every time you tried to get a piece the bird started yelling the place down? Nights wouldn’t be fun any more with everywhere like some ruddy madhouse.

  ‘ … Don’t forget I was young too, Son, and I know what young fellows get up to. In my day we used to call it sowing our wild oats. After all, you’re not a child any more. My old father used to say to me, if you can’t be good, be careful. I can’t say that I was always good, but I tried to be careful. So now it’s my turn to give you a little sound advice. Anyone can see that Miss Spencer is a very attractive girl. Very attractive. But she’s coloured. I keep telling your Mum that she’s getting herself worked up over nothing. You’re nobody’s fool. Have your fun by all means, but don’t put yourself in any position where you’d become involved. Yes, she’s very attractive. Only wish I was about your age … ’

  He was half smiling, with the same look on his face as Old Man Chalmers down at the shop when he’s talking about women. I got the drift of what he meant and suddenly felt like pushing my fist down his ruddy throat. I mean, it’s one thing to hear an old lecher like Old Man Chalmers carrying on like that, but not your own ruddy dad. Made me feel sick. I got up and cleared off out of the room, downstairs and through the front door. I didn’t want to hear any more, not the way he was talking as if Michelle was some bloody tart or something.

  I leaned against the gate, feeling the cool of the metal through my slacks. Along the top of the hedge you could see wetness on the leaves reflecting pieces of lamplight. Funny thing about dew, falling all around you and you don’t notice a thing till you see how wet everything is. Like when Dave and me were kids in the scouts. And this week-end we went camping way over the river in Kent, tracking and using a compass and making knots and all kinds of things. And chopping sticks for firewood. And singing around the campfire, all kinds of songs like John Brown’s Body, then sleeping in the tent. And next morning all the grass around soaking wet with big silvery drops. And Dave said they must be fairy tears because nobody heard them fall in the night and they didn’t splash and burst like rain. And this fat, dopey kid, what was his name, Leyland or something, he began to laugh because Dave said that and Dave got mad and jumped on him, punching him, and we had to pull him off.