Choice of Straws

by Braithwaite, E. R. ;

  I suddenly noticed that the lights in the houses on both sides of the street had gone out. Everything was quiet and a little breathless. A stray breeze started up from somewhere near the bottom of the hedge, blew some dead leaves along a short distance then hurriedly hid itself as if scared by the small commotion it was creating. I wondered if, for the moment, it had lived. Whether it felt the weight of the leaves as it pushed or carried them along. Crazy little breeze, now you hear it now you don’t. Gone. Perhaps at this moment it was hiding among the hedge roots, building up another breath for the next little bash down the pavement. Must be okay to be a breeze, live, die, live again. Not like Dave. Dead and really gone. For good, always. No matter what that ruddy parson said.

  I heard the door click and Mum’s voice calling, ‘Jack, what’re you doing out there?’ Softly, so as not to let anyone but me hear her.

  ‘Nothing, Mum,’ I answered, feeling the tightness come on. Why couldn’t she leave me alone? I wasn’t stopping anybody from turning in and locking their ruddy bedroom door. What did she want, to have another go at me?

  ‘It’s damp out there, Son, you’ll catch your death.’ I turned to say something and saw her tiny figure wrapped up in that old beat-up dressing-gown. Whenever I see her in that old thing, so big for her I don’t know why she ever bought it, I get the feeling she’s so little and helpless. What’s the point of having an argument? I went in, she standing aside and locking the door after me.

  ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea. You’ve eaten nothing since you came home, and now I suppose you’ll go to bed on an empty stomach.’

  ‘I had something at the café next to Burton’s.’

  ‘So.’ She sniffed. ‘Leave your dinner and go to eat in a café. Go up and get into something warm and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’ And she hurried off to the kitchen. I mean, what can you do? I was all tight inside waiting for her to start on me, and she’s thinking about a cup of tea. Hell, I must have the craziest Dad and Mum in the world. I promised myself next payday I’d buy her a really nice dressing-gown, woolly and warm, but more her size. I’d ask Ruth to go with me to one of those shops up West and choose something for her. Then hide that horrible thing she insists on wearing.

  Dave was right. Dew falls so quiet you don’t even feel it. Looking in the mirror I noticed the tiny drops in my hair. I went to the bathroom for a wash, then changed into pyjamas.

  Mum came up with the tea in our Dad’s big cup, and two pieces of cake. I was clipping my finger nails. She put the tray down on the dresser, hardly looking at me, and at the door said, ’Night, Son.’

  ‘Mum.’ I stopped her. She looked at me, not saying anything.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum. About tonight.’

  After a little while, she said, ‘Your Dad seems to think you’re a man now, so I suppose you’ll do what you want,’ and left me, without another word, making me feel awful, like some ruddy bully or something. Oh Christ, why couldn’t it have been me instead of Dave, then everything would be okay for everybody.

  I ate it all, I was so hungry, then lay down, reading some of Dave’s stuff. Like talking with him, only different, because the words were not like in conversation. But knowing Dave had written them made all the difference. I wondered what he’d have written about Michelle.

  At breakfast next morning nobody said anything, but just as I was pushing off our Dad said, ‘Son, your mother and me had a bit of a talk last night. It’s okay if you want to invite any of your friends here. Any time.’

  He was watching Mum, not me. She was watching him, quiet.

  On the way to work I thought about it. What he meant was that I could ask Michelle home if I wanted to. Hell, he’d no need to say that about Ruth or anyone else. But the way Mum’s face had looked, he was wasting his breath. Maybe she wouldn’t exactly cut Michelle’s throat, but she’d make her about as welcome as the plague.

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  AFTER WORK I HURRIED home, planning to get changed and go over to see the Spencers. I didn’t telephone to let them know I was coming, just in case Michelle said no, she didn’t want to see me. I had to think up some excuse for Mum and the way she’d behaved. Soon as I got in Mum said some fellow had rung up asking for me. Gave his name as Ron and left a number for me to call him back. She said it, you know, in just the same voice as she’d have told me that Ruth had phoned, and I chuckled to myself, thinking of what her reaction would be if she knew who Ron was.

  When I got Ron on the phone he said it wasn’t important, he’d been talking with Ruth and remembered meeting me and Ruth gave him my number, and how was everything with me, and it was crazy me living so far away, out of touch, and did I realize I owed it to my friends to be visible from time to time? Funny as hell, and I’m laughing my head off, then he asks, ‘And how’s the beauteous Michelle?’ And right away I get the feeling that all the guff he’s shooting is merely to find out about her. That’s really why he phoned, who did he think he was fooling? I said that the last time I’d seen her she was okay, and he said, Come, come fellow, don’t make it sound as if she’s not always within kissing distance, laughing that laugh of his and saying that everybody had been asking about us, Michelle and me, so when were they going to have the pleasure of our company again? I laughed too, not feeling it, only making the noise. Saying I’d tell Michelle and we’d be coming up soon. Real soon. He said he had the idea of giving her a buzz but Ruth didn’t have the number and they couldn’t remember her surname or anything, waiting for me to tell him. Son of a bitch must think he’s so ruddy clever. So I laughed, just the noise, and said tough luck and I’d tell her.

  After he hung up I wondered about it. Bastard must imagine that because he’s coloured he can just ring up and everything would be okay.

  Mum asked who Ron was, and I said a fellow I met at Ruth’s when they had the party, and Mum said where’s Ruth hiding herself these days, she hadn’t been over. So I said something about her being busy, but I guessed she’d be over soon, and to stop her asking any more questions I picked up the phone and called Ruth. As usual her warmth and friendliness came bubbling out of the phone and she said, Well, hello stranger. So we nattered for a bit and keeping my voice quiet I said would she go with me to buy a dressing-gown for Mum and she said sure, when? So we fixed it up for Thursday because the places up West were open late. Then I told her Ron had phoned and she laughed and said did I tell him?

  ‘Tell him what?’ I asked her.

  ‘Well, if you don’t know, that means you didn’t tell him, so don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Come off it, Ruth, what’re you talking about?’

  ‘Well, didn’t he ask you for Michelle’s phone number?’ Her voice still had the laughter but now she was teasing.

  ‘No, he only said he’d thought of ringing her. So, what’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing. And how’s she?’

  ‘Okay. Mum’s been asking for you.’

  ‘Tell her I’ll be over soon. And how’s my boyfriend?’

  ‘Who, me?’

  ‘No, stupid. Your Dad.’

  ‘He’s okay.’

  We arranged where to meet Thursday. Time was getting on. I washed and changed. Dinner was okay. Dad said how there’d been a bit of a do at the building site because some four by fours had slipped out from a sling while the crane was carrying them, and a couple of the men had been injured, one of them was in hospital, still unconscious. And there’d been this argument because the man in hospital had not been wearing his safety helmet. Dad said there was a notice that everybody should wear these helmets and safety boots when engaged on certain jobs, but the helmets were pretty uncomfortable, especially in the heat, so the men didn’t like wearing them. The fellow in hospital, somebody named Doyle, had a wife and three children, the last one only eleven months old. The company wouldn’t accept full responsibility because he should have been wearing the helmet. Mu
m said that was nonsense because something falling from a height didn’t have to hit you on the head. And even if he was wearing the safety thing, he could have been hurt or killed just the same.

  I left them talking about it and went for my train. I got into a compartment with these two women, pretty old, about thirtyish or something like that, talking about where they’d been for their holidays. And this one, fat in a dress, flowered with a low neck and the sunburn red on her arms and chest, thin flakes of skin lifting at the edges on her nose and cheeks, must have just come back from some place where it was blistering hot. Couldn’t be anywhere in England, that was sure. Grey eyes with the lashes caked from the stuff she’d used, and her hair too black for that face, you knew it wasn’t her real colour. Why the heck do women dye their hair, they never fool other women, nor even men. Specially when it’s done black. Not shiny and alive like Michelle’s or that kid who was in our class in the Juniors. Judy Fischler. Real black her hair was and blue eyes. We used to pull her hair, she had it in this thick plait, and call her Fishy, and she’d get mad and stand by the girls’ toilet and cry. The other woman was not bad looking. Blonde, even her eyelashes, whitish, so that you had to look twice to see them. Why is it some people go brown so easily like this blonde, while some just go red and peel all over the place? The blonde was wearing a brown linen dress, plain and no sleeves, her arms brown and smooth to the red fingertips. A grey pullover was slung across her shoulders. And they’re gabbing about some place called Ibiza and how wonderful the food was and the wine, and you could stay all day on the beach. And about some painter fellow who lived near the hotel.

  ‘He’s a bit of a one,’ Fatty said, her voice making it seem as if she knew something.

  ‘Bit of a lineshooter, if you ask me,’ from Blondie.

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Always saying how about coming up to his place to see his paintings? He’d have to try another, that one’s got moss on it.’

  I’m watching the way Blondie’s eyes look naked till she blinks and you can see the lashes, then she looks at me, straight, still nattering to Fatty who says something to her and laughs, her mouth wide open and gold showing on a tooth way back on her lower jaw. Looking straight at me. I get this feeling of excitement sudden and strong, embarrassing the hell out of me, so I look away out of the window. I could feel my neck and face hot, blushing like some ruddy kid, and the two of them lowered their voices, whispering then laughing. Hell, you can’t keep looking out of the ruddy window, so I look at them again, and there’s Blondie’s eyes on me, this time the lipstick shiny as if she’d run her wet tongue over it. And Fatty is looking at me and looking away. Smiling, as if they know what was happening to me and are getting a kick out of it. I was glad when the train reached Leigh.

  Going towards their house I felt nervous. Kept repeating to myself how I’d say in a quiet voice that I was sorry for anything my mother had said but she didn’t mean to be unpleasant, it was only because she’d been holding in about Dave all this time, and now it was getting to her, making her nervous and irritable, and she was sorry if she’d sounded rude.

  Half-way down the steps I saw Mrs Spencer. She was under the apple trees collecting windfalls in a basket. Wearing grey slacks and a sloppy-joe sweater, with a blue scarf over her head and tied under her chin. Looking just like a young girl, bending over there, in the half-light of evening.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Spencer.’

  She hadn’t heard me coming down, and straightened up quickly, looking at me. Not smiling, she picked up the basket and came towards the steps, leaving clear footprints in the soft earth. I reached to take the basket from her. She hesitated a bit before giving it to me, her face not too friendly.

  ‘I had to come and explain about Mum, she’s not feeling so good just now. That’s why she was like that on the phone, but she didn’t mean anything.’

  All in a rush. Not like how I’d planned to say it, slow and careful. She was still standing there, a little below me because of the steps, this scarf around her face and the big brown eyes looking like a picture of some Greek women I once saw somewhere. All of a sudden she smiled.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ she said.

  ‘How do you mean, Mrs Spencer?’

  ‘You reminded me just then of my son. As a small boy whenever he became excited he had a way of gushing things out all in one breath.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Spencer.’ I meant about reminding her of her son.

  ‘Did you tell your mother you were coming here to apologize?’ Looking into my eyes.

  ‘No, but I know she’s sorry about last night. My Dad told me.’

  She walked down the slope beside the steps and I carried the basket.

  ‘Is Michelle indoors? I’d like to apologize to her too.’

  ‘She’s not in yet. She’s got a late lecture tonight.’ She didn’t seem to want to say much to me.

  At the door she reached for the basket, so I said, ‘Can I wait for her?’

  The way she looked at me, so different from the other times. Then she said, ‘Yes, of course.’

  I followed her through to the sitting-room where we’d had tea that Sunday. She said would I mind being on my own for a while because she wanted to prepare some of the apples, she’d already heated the stove to make some pies. She’d put on some records if I liked. I asked couldn’t I give her a hand with the apples, I knew how to peel and core them, often helped Mum when she was fixing stuff. She said okay, but as if she wasn’t too keen. I went with her along a short passage and into this big kitchen, everything white and shiny, and windows along one side looking over to the estuary, the lights from Southend pier blinking like stars.

  Without waiting for her to say anything I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of a chair, rolled up my sleeves and emptied the apples into the sink. I turned on the cold water and began to wash them. She was so quiet I looked over my shoulder at her in the middle of the room untying the scarf from her head, looking at me. I asked her for a knife to peel the apples and she pointed to a drawer and went off somewhere. By the time I heard her come back I had them peeled and was digging out the centres because I couldn’t find the thing to core them. She came behind me to see how I was getting on and I could smell the perfume she was wearing. She fetched a big china dish and without a word took the knife and apple from me and began slicing it away from the core into the dish.

  ‘I didn’t know you wanted them cut up,’ I told her. She’d changed into a dress with a bright coloured pattern of small leaves, green and brown and blue, with a thick blue cord tight around her waist. She hadn’t said a word, but the touch of her hand when she took the things sent cold fire all through me. I watched the strong fingers cupped around the apple, the skin shiny wet with juice, brown thumb of the other hand guiding the knife with quick sureness. Her perfume and the way she stood there, a slight ripple along the brown forearms. Then the eyes swung round at me. Large like Michelle’s, but brown.

  ‘Dry your hands. There’s a towel by the door,’ she said.

  I dried my hands and put on my jacket, then sat watching her. She carried on as if I wasn’t there. From the fridge she took two pyrex dishes all ready with pastry, and filled them with the sliced apples, adding raisins and sprinkling sugar and other stuff, before putting more pastry on top and bunging it into the oven. More or less the same way Mum did it. Funny, you never think of coloured people doing things like that, the same as anyone else. I couldn’t help watching her move about, those long legs with no stockings, and little gold slippers without heels, like ballet shoes.

  The look on her face must be because I’d got her started remembering about her son. Wish I could think of something to say to make her smile or talk to me. Bet her arms would be smooth and cool if you touched them. Like silk, I’d bet.

  The voice came singing through the house like a breeze, ‘Mummy, where are you?’ I turned around as she en
tered the kitchen door.

  ‘Oh!’ She stood still, eyes big, books and a string-tied package clasped to her chest. ‘Hi, Mum!’ She went over to kiss Mrs Spencer, then leaned against the refrigerator, looking at me, cold, as if I was something nasty crawled in from the bushes.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, with a question in it, expecting to know what I was doing there.

  ‘Hello, Michelle,’ I replied, ‘I just popped over to explain about the other night. Mum didn’t mean the way she sounded to you.’

  ‘How would you know what she sounded like?’ Her voice was spiteful and bitter. ‘You weren’t there.’

  ‘I know, but I had a talk with her, and she didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘Like what? And what’s all this about? Are you apologizing for her? Well, let me give you a little message. Tell your mother I’m not interested in her apologies, not even if I heard them from her own lips.’ And she walked out of the kitchen. I felt like a ruddy nit, not knowing what to say or do next.

  ‘Go and sit next door while I have a word with her,’ Mrs Spencer said, not looking at me, her head bent over whatever she was doing at the sink. I went into the sitting-room and stood at the window looking out at the winking lights along the slope and those reflected in the water from the stars above and the distant pier.

  Behind the black silhouettes of chimneys and storage tanks the greyish skyline promised that it was still day, somewhere, if only one could fly straight out to it. Like a bird. Those swallows I’d noticed earlier on. Once I’d read in a book that they flew from thousands of miles every summer just to come to England and I used to wonder what for. We used to have to repeat it together in the Juniors. Went something like: