Sunday Best

by Bernice Rubens

  The row of net curtains dropped like frosted eyelids on business that was not their own. Now I don’t know what made me different from the others. I am a monumental coward, and what made me rush downstairs and into the street and up the Johnsons’ drive, I shall never know, and had I stopped to think I should have turned back. I had time to retreat as I stood at their door banging on the knocker. My knees quivered and I badly wanted to relieve myself. But I banged away, having no thought of what I would do once inside. The screaming continued as the door gently opened, and young Tom, terrified, stood blinking in the gap. I squeezed myself in. The screams were fainter now, and I feared that I had arrived just in time for the kill. But first things first. ‘Can I use your bathroom, Tommy?’

  He boggled at me. Had I come just for that? Didn’t I have one in my own house? Or was he just astonished that a schoolmaster, and his form-teacher at that, was subject to natural functions like anybody else. I’d never been inside the house before, but I ferreted out that bathroom with a kind of survival instinct, and bolted the door. For some reason I felt safe inside, and the strangled whimpering from below stairs did not bother me. I took my time with my toilet, staring at my parts with a loathed compulsion. I hated this position, that I, like all men, had to assume at least three or four times a day, and the enforced necessity of viewing oneself. A woman, if she so wished, could live out the whole of her life without confronting her gender. For a man it is impossible. And at each confrontation, I was filled with disgust. Perhaps had I been able to put my parts to better use than the mere tool of natural function, I would have felt less hostile towards them. I ought to tell you at this juncture in case it isn’t already very obvious, that my sex-life is practically non-existent, and has been such for many years. I could tell you all about it, but it would be a digression, or perhaps I use that as an excuse, for it would also be very painful. But whatever the reason for my withholding the truth, I intend to proceed with my story. It would be a relief indeed to take my mind off my present toilet position, with any digression whatsoever, but not that one. Any reflections on my inadequate sex-life would stun me into dumbness. Once you’ve started on your confession you’ve got to get on with it, but I’ve no intention of exposing myself to unnecessary pain by confessing with each and every part of me. For that I could go to an analyst, and because I was paying, would have to tell all, or else not get my money’s worth. But this confession is free, and I am entitled to be generous with it or otherwise. I don’t know why it should bother me that there are certain things I don’t want to tell you about. I am not, after all, in any way beholden to you. But I will not be nagged into total confession. I can and will be silent when it suits me. I will not be bludgeoned into complete exposure by anybody.

  I’ve got to get off this subject. I am trembling with an indignation that seems to have no source. It is doing me no good, this confession, and I must get back to that Johnson bathroom, or lose my sanity.

  Our own bathroom is a complete reflection of the state of our marriage, and I have a fancy that all couples reveal, or rather betray, themselves in their bathroom furnishings. Ours, for example, is clinical, with a permanent smell of disinfectant. It has, it is true, a lingering lavender odour, but I am not for one moment fooled by that one. There is nothing in our bathroom that isn’t white, unless it’s hidden away in the white medicine cupboard. Even our soap is white, always. And there is a double lock on our door. It is a room for ablutions and toilet only, and nothing beyond these two functions could conceivably take place within. We have a white clock too, which is my own contribution. I don’t know what my wife does in there, but she takes an inordinate time doing it, and sometimes, if I have the opportunity, I set the alarm before she goes inside. She has never referred to the clock, although she’s probably been jolted off her seat more than once by the bell. I suppose she understands, like she understands everything, tho’ I don’t know the meaning of it myself.

  Now the Johnson bathroom was a different story. It was completely unorganized, and yet it looked neat and clean. I suppose it was the colour; a duck-egg blue, which softened corners and reflected whatever dust there was with its own colour, thus making it acceptable. And even if it was just plain dirt, I found it far less disgusting than I would have had I found it in my own house. Often one can leave one’s neuroses behind, and more often than not, they are left in one’s bathroom, since there, they come most splendidly into flower.

  There was a bookcase filled with paperbacks, and this piece of furnishing attracted me too, though the titles were ones that I had spent many years dissuading my pupils from considering. Clearly, there was more to be done in this bathroom than the mere washing of hands. In my position, I was directly facing the window, and the shelf which held the Johnson disguises. Divided into two sections by a giant china soap container, her cover-ups were on the left, and his on the right. But in the middle, directly in front of the soap-container, stood a tin of denture cleaning-powder, and it irritated me that there was no clue as to which side of the partnership it belonged, and I resolved at my next meeting with the Johnsons, which threatened to take place pretty soon, if I was to justify my presence in the house, at that meeting, I would investigate whose choppers were portable, his or hers, or possibly, since the powder was in the middle, theirs. I wiggled my teeth again. At least I still had them, and I assured myself that as long as I laid off apples, I would keep them for ever.

  I buttoned my fly, and wondered what to do next, and as I stood marvelling at their neatly folded bath towels, it occurred to me to run myself a bath. I still wore my dressing-gown, and had missed my bath that morning. The apple incident had left me too depressed. But now, for some reason, I was feeling infinitely better, with the determination and courage to visit the dentist the following day. It seemed to me to be quite natural to take a bath while still undressed, and I ran the hot water at full speed to drown the moans that persisted from below. I lay in the bath, completely submerged, avoiding confrontation, and sailing a rubber duck across my chest. We have a rubber duck in our bathroom, a white one of course, and apart from the clock, my sole contribution. My wife, some ten years ago, had actually had thoughts of giving me a child, and I remember the excitement with which I had bought that duck as my first preparation for its arrival. Since then she has made many promises, but I know better than to invest in rubber ducks. I know, and she never ceases to remind me, that her own mother died when she was born. She is afraid, she says. But she’s lying. It has nothing to do with that. She simply doesn’t want to lose her figure. Now I know that if I’m writing in the first person, you are seeing my characters only from my point of view. But believe me, in the case of my wife, there is no other viewpoint. Anyone else would tell you the same. I am not trying to prejudice you. These are the facts I am giving you, and one can prejudice only with opinions. Another fact is that she offered to adopt a child. I am giving her her due. But I could never see the point in that. You’d never know where it came from, and after all, it wasn’t as if I couldn’t manage one myself. She actually stopped sleeping with me too. She wasn’t going to run any risks, she said. So I went and found it elsewhere for a while. And of course, she understood, and there is nothing more calculated to put an end to an extra-marital affair than one’s wife’s understanding.

  I shoved the duck away, and the ripple revealed my parts again. I got out hurriedly and dried myself with the ‘her’ towel. I wondered for a moment what had brought me to the Johnson bathroom, and then I realized the full impact of my whereabouts. I put my ear to the door, but after a few minutes it was clear that the performance below was over. The silence unnerved me, because it made less plausible my presence in their house, leave alone naked on the bathroom mat. (Hers.) I dressed hurriedly, tho’ now, whatever had happened was over, and beyond anybody’s interference. I wondered whether I could slip out of the front door and back home without being observed. As long as young Tom was not waiting in the hallway. I decided to make a bold dash for it, and alm
ost tripped on my dressing-gown as I ran down the stairs. I reached the front door, where Tommy, from nowhere, blocked my way. He was very white and I heard him trembling.

  ‘Go an’ look,’ he said with an accusing hostility that was quite beyond me. ‘Go an’ look wot she done.’

  ‘Go and look what she did,’ I corrected. I felt the need to delay, and I was playing for time.

  ‘Go on,’ he insisted. ‘Go an’ look.’ He was not prepared to correct himself and prove my victory, but neither did he want another rebuff, which the young lad would have got most certainly, for I am, first and last, a schoolmaster. ‘What has she done?’ I parried.

  ‘Go an’ look. You’ll see,’ he said.

  ‘Surely it’s none of my business,’ I tried.

  He sneered at me. ‘You ’ad a bath in our ’ouse, didn’t you?’

  I refrained from aspirating him. He was right. Having used their bathroom, I was practically one of the family.

  ‘I’ll go and look if you insist,’ I said nonchalantly, trying to imply that it was only a joke he was playing. I dawdled towards the living-room door but Tommy didn’t follow me. I would have given anything not to go inside, and heartily wished myself back in my own study, behind my net curtains and like everybody else in the street, minding my own business. Tommy was staring at me while I waited, with such a look of hatred, that I felt that whatever lay behind that door was my responsibility. As indeed it was, as I was soon to discover.

  I raised my hand to knock on the door.

  ‘You don’t ’ave to knock,’ he said with assurance, as if there were no formality inside that requested privacy. ‘Go on in. See wot she done,’ he risked it again.

  But I knocked on the door again, and waited. There was no answer. And now, glad of an excuse, I turned to go away. But Tommy was quickly at my side, in command of the situation. He kicked the door open, and practically pushed me inside, while I resolved to punish him brutally in class the following day. But I quickly lost all thought of Tommy as I was confronted by what lay on the living-room floor. Mr Johnson, the whole length of him, his curly head neatly filling the great angle of the hypotenuse on their triangled red Axminster. And there was no doubt about it that he was dead.

  ‘Who done it?’ I stammered, infected by Tommy’s outrageous lack of grammar. I looked up and saw her, sitting dumbly, her hair ruffled, her blouse and skirt torn, gripping one furry bedroom slipper in her hand. She struck me at that moment as being quite beautiful, and I quickly looked back at her late spouse again, as I suddenly recollected that tin of powder on the bathroom shelf. His mouth hung open, and thank God, his dislodged dentures claimed ownership, and I sighed with relief that the powder would never be used again. I had thoughts of bending down to his mouth and refitting them, to add, perhaps, a little dignity to his passing, but sod him, I thought. He’d probably deserved whatever had come to him, and I was too moved by his wife to feel any sympathy in his direction. Then I noticed that his eyes were open, and I realized that this was the first corpse I had ever seen. I do not know by what instinct I knew that Mr Johnson was dead. There was no blood on him, nor sight of any weapon that could have reduced him to that position. But I knew that he was dead, and probably looking as my father must have looked when his ticker gave out. I had flatly refused to look at my father’s body. Corpses should be avoided wherever possible, and I gave little thanks to Mr Johnson that I had accidentally come upon his. He reminded me so much of my father, tho’ they looked not one whit alike, that I wanted to pick up one end of the carpet and roll it over him. I was in no mood to be reminded of my father, I can tell you, and I see no reason why I should tell you why. My father was a bastard, let’s leave it at that, and I have no intention of giving him even the thinnest of immortality with my feeble pencil. Let him rot and let’s all forget him. He was a drunk and he brought no good to anybody in his life and to some people a great deal of harm. I know you’re thinking that this is no way to talk about a father especially if he is dead. You can think what you like. It’s my father and I can do what I like with him. No wonder Mr Johnson reminded me of him. They both had it coming to them.

  I swung round on Mrs Johnson, and for some reason I shouted at her. I felt like a policeman. ‘What happened?’ I said.

  She began to cry. Now in normal circumstances, a woman’s tears will drive me from the house. I spent most of my childhood running away from my mother, though you can think what you like. I won’t go into that one either. I cannot bear tears. They are the worst form of blackmail, and I will not be cowed by them. But for some reason, with Mrs Johnson I stayed put, probably because I feared that my exit in any case was blocked by her horrible son. I went over to her, and bending down, caught sight of her breasts through the rip in her blouse. They heaved as she wept, and I hoped she’d weep for ever. I waited, allowing a silence, which I thought was only decent in the circumstances, while gulping an eyeful of cleavage. I timed that silence rather well, I thought, then, covering her hand with mine, I repeated the question softly.

  I felt like the hero of an exceedingly ‘B’ movie.

  She did not look at me, but neither did she move her hand. ‘He just collapsed,’ she said. ‘He had a bad heart, I know.’

  ‘But you were screaming. He was hitting you.’ I wanted him to have earned his death.

  ‘We had a quarrel,’ she said.

  I felt it pointless now to ask what the quarrel had been about, but she was already pouring it out between the sobs, and tho’ her voice was highly charged, there was something flat about the whole narration, a bland unaccusing recital of facts. He had accused her of having other men. It was no new accusation. He was insanely jealous, and any seemingly irrelevant annoyance would spark off the charge. Over the years, she’d put up with it in silence, denying it time and time again, as indeed, as she claimed, she had every right to. But suddenly, she had had enough. Yes, she offered that there had been other men, plenty of them, and then, to give him his money’s worth, she told him that even Tommy wasn’t his. It was at this point that he’d started hitting her, and demanding the name of Tommy’s father. She hated him by now, and smarting under his blows, felt absolutely no need to withdraw her story. So she had just said the first name that had come into her head.

  She trembled at this point in her story, and so did I, and for good reason. For whose name is on the tip of all tongues? What other, than George Verrey Smith. He stopped hitting her to ask for a repeat, with which she obliged. Now if any name is to be reckoned with on a second take, it is mine, and he promptly collapsed and she supposed it was from his heart.

  My immediate impulse was to go over to him and tell him it wasn’t true. I had, on all accounts, to clear my name. I knew it was useless, but I did it all the same, and when I’d put him in the picture, I turned and did the same for her. ‘You know it’s not true,’ I said. ‘Why me, of all people?’

  She started crying again. ‘I suppose it’s because you’re a neighbour. You just came into my mind.’

  I felt a tinge of insult that this, in her mind, had been my sole qualification for putative fatherhood.

  ‘I think Tommy heard it too,’ she added, throwing off this last piece of information as if it were of no importance.

  I rushed outside to see if Tommy, eavesdropping as I had no doubt, had heard at least the truth of the story. But he was nowhere to be seen. I came back into the room. ‘Look,’ I said patiently, ‘it’s terribly important to know whether Tommy heard. Did he, or didn’t he hear?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly.

  For a moment I lost sympathy with her, realizing my own predicament. ‘We have to find out,’ I said, but I realized that she was in no state to deal with this problem, and that she needed some practical and immediate help. I phoned her doctor, mother and sister, and rallied the forces that she feebly volunteered. I made her some tea, and forced her to take a little brandy. I was suddenly anxious to leave, and I patted her forehead as a preliminary gesture of leaveta
king. I gave her promises to return, and to send my wife to console her, and I covered as well as I could my haste to get out of the door. And there outside, from nowhere, was Tommy. I looked at him for some clue, and there was the same hostility in his eye. I decided to take the bull by the horns.

  ‘I’m not your father, Tommy,’ I said. ‘Your mother was very overwrought.’

  He let me pass in front of him and I felt his eyes on me all the time. He waited for me to open the front door. Then he shouted, ‘You are my father. My mother told my Dad, and I hate you.’

  I hated him too at that moment, but resolved to postpone thinking about him, until I could do so calmly. My main purpose at that moment was to get back to my own house, rush upstairs to my study, bolt the door and collect my thoughts. I looked forward to tickling my teeth for a while. Moreover I had not yet looked at the Sunday crossword. And I toyed with the idea of putting on my Sunday clothes. And what with thoughts of my neighbour’s demise, I had a full morning in store. Life was good.

  But it was not to be. The hall was crowded with women and a sprinkling of their husbands from the neighbouring houses. I had been seen entering the scene of the crime, for crime it had to be, and they had gathered to await my return.

  ‘What happened?’ my wife shouted, as soon as I got a foot in the door. She was always speaking on everyone else’s behalf. She was a born chairman.

  ‘I’d rather not comment,’ I said, mindful of the desperate telly interview. ‘No comment at all,’ I added with authority, and with the hint that there was a great deal to comment about. Mrs Pratt from the corner double-fronted, stared at me with hatred. She had spent the waiting period salivating in anticipation, and now her mouth fell open and the spittle dribbled down her hostile chin. She would never forgive me. I pushed my way through the unfriendly crowd and managed to get half-way up the stairs, when a shrill voice called my name. ‘Mr Verrey Smith,’ it rang out, and I enjoyed hearing it. It is a name, you must admit, that needs to rend the air if it is to be savoured in its full splendour. I let its echo subside before I turned. The call came from Mrs Bakewell. I knew it was she, because the calling of a name like mine cannot but fail to leave an aura about the person who has voiced it. Besides which, her mouth was still open, Mrs Bakewell being slightly adenoidal.