Sunday Best

by Bernice Rubens

  I don’t know why I am telling you all this. The unease creeps upon me. Yet I cannot leave it for it is more to do with me than with my father. So I tell it to you for my own sake, and not in any way to let you into secrets which I have no intention of divulging. I have already told you that he was a drunk, and although on his homecoming he reeked of beer, the meat smell was still overpowering, as if the beer fumes only served to bring out the flavour of his calling. I never remember him sober but I remember times, when in his cups, he could be kind. But after my twelfth birthday, which seemed a turning point in my life, his intermittent kindness, such as it was, evaporated completely.

  My birthday fell on their wedding anniversary, coincidence uneasy for celebration, and the idea was put about for a dinner-party, with a few close friends, theirs and mine. Which meant entirely theirs, for I had no friends, close or otherwise. But it meant presents and a late night, so I did not complain. My twelve years alone, and their fifteen together, the sentences running mainly concurrently, were to be celebrated in unison, and sensing the precarious state of their relationship, I rather hoped that in the joint celebration my future happiness would in no way be conditioned by theirs.

  There were to be a dozen of us altogether, married couples, six pockets, so I could reckon on half a dozen presents. Preparations started a few days before, with my father offloading a large cut of meat into the refrigerator. He pinched my mother’s bottom as he closed the door. I remember it very clearly for, for some reason. I intended that he should pay for it. He went into the dining-room and poured himself an unending drink, and then another and another. Between each glass, he would seek out my mother and pinch her with less than affection. I saw my mother wince and I told my father to stop it. He had never once been told what to do, and I expected the full treatment. But he didn’t touch me. He staggered past the dining table and into the kitchen. I followed him because I feared he would take it out on my mother. But he brushed past her too, and went to the kitchen table where my mother had set out four large trifles, her speciality, which she had prepared for the celebration. And there and then, he unbuttoned his fly, and urinated into each one of them, taking a drunk’s meticulous care to give each bowl its proper ration.

  I stood and watched him. I marvelled less at what he was doing, than the sight of his member, which I realized I was seeing for the first time. I think my self-aversion was born at that moment, and I looked towards my mother with an overpowering envy. She was crushed and broken, it was true, but she was at least a woman. I watched her as my father, still unbuttoned, left the room, and saw her gather up the bowls one by one, and pour the contents down the sink, as if it was something my father did every day, and that she would clean up after him. I knew then, that one day I would kill him, and I began for the first time to think of the means.

  I suppose they must have made it up, because when my birthday arrived there were four new trifles, twelve guests, six presents and the promise of an enjoyable if not a memorable celebration. I don’t remember who was there, but I do recall an overwhelming smell of meat, since they were all in the trade, and until you got used to it, our dining-room smelt like an abattoir in full blast. I remember the conversation being punctuated with surnames, although they were all close friends, and I wondered at that a little. There was wine and my father was in charge of it, and each time he got up to circle the table and fill the glasses, keeping his own to the brim, my mother trembled. But miraculously he held it down. I remember that he was slightly more than jolly, but in the general atmosphere of celebration, he was nothing uncommon. Intemperance is in the eye of the beholder, and blurred or sharp according to the sobriety of that eye. I myself, I suppose, after two unaccustomed glasses saw a jollity without menace, but I was afraid to look at my mother, because if there were a danger, I knew that she could smell it, and that it would show on her face. My father suggested some dancing and he made his unsure way towards the gramophone. Everything was prepared, and he needed only to drop the needle, which he did, somewhere in the middle of a painful cry of rejected love. It was a slow tune, and as I see it now, meant as a warm-up to what he hoped might materialize, and had nothing to do with my twelfth birthday, and in all decency, even less with his anniversary. He grabbed at one of the Missuses as a sign of permission that couples could split, which they did, my mother hovering timidly on the edge of the room, terrified of two prospects, first of being asked to dance, and second, of not being asked at all. I remember toying with the idea of asking her myself, but I wasn’t married to her, and it was hardly my duty. I was grateful that not only was she asked, but that two of the Misters awaited her favour. I watched them as they circled the room. I felt even then that my father was too close for comfort to the Missus of his choice, and I tried to attribute his wandering hands to his show of friendship. Again I was afraid to look at my mother. Her face was an accurate diviner and forecaster, and I dreaded what I might find there. The music stopped and my father clung to his woman for a while, and then, unwilling to let her go, dragged her over to the gramophone, and held her while he replayed the record. It saved the time of changing, and promised the same mood as before. I was bored, and what with repeats there was no indication that the record collection would soon be exhausted. When the song was over for the second time, my mother boldly crossed to the machine, and turned it off. ‘George is bored,’ she said. ‘Let’s all play a game.’

  I was moved by her consideration, but resented being the focus of discontent. I knew my father would punish me for it. An extra run through the fields or a double shovel of snow on my bare back. It was summer still, but he would bide his time and remember, and I would have four long months to anticipate it. ‘I don’t mind,’ I offered, but my mother had already suggested a game of blind man’s buff, and even I thought that was rather childish. I was surprised that most of the grownups thought it a splendid suggestion, and one of their number, a Mister, was chosen to be blindfold. My mother did it herself with a table-napkin, while my father, sulking a little, poured the brandy. My mother turned the victim round three times and I noticed a look of extreme joy on her face, as if she were recalling her own childhood birthdays. There was much scuffling in the room to avoid the blinded figure, and when he caught one of the guests, there was much feeling up and down to identify her. My father, who until then, had been a sullen bystander, suddenly saw the possibilities in the game, and was impatient to have his turn. The blinded man in the centre still held on to his victim, and whether he knew her or not, he was taking his time to name her. So my father was restless, and threw out an unmistakable clue, and it would have been too obvious if the blindfold had hesitated longer. He was obliged to name her, and she, having been identified, to take his place. But she refused, obviously preferring the role of potential catch. I offered to take her place. My mother was already blindfolding me, when I heard my father shout that he wanted a go. I was glad I couldn’t see him, because I knew everybody was embarrassed by his behaviour, and I was still young enough to believe that if I shut my eyes, I was invisible. I heard him shout, ‘It’s my turn,’ like a petulant child, and he seemed to be coming towards me. I knew that whatever happened, another punishment was added to the list, and the prospect of such a bleak winter appalled me. I felt the napkin torn from my eyes. I dared not open them, but I felt myself being pushed to one side. I heard a tittering embarrassed silence, and when I opened my eyes, I saw him bandaging himself in the middle of the room. My mother had withdrawn. She was obviously not going to play any more. The silence in the room was unpleasant and it took my father a while to revive the jollification. He did it by cavorting a little and making strange contortions with his body. The guests tittered, politely at first, and because they too preferred to get on with the party, because it would have been less embarrassing than breaking it up, laughed heartily and the mood was restored.

  I watched my father and my hatred of him outweighed my embarrassment. I hoped fervently that he would die before winter. He had started
to prowl around, taking his time with the catch. He wanted to prolong his fun. But when his hand landed on an obviously male worsted sleeve, he pounced backwards, as if he had touched nothing. He took his time, like a boxer dancing around his opponent, refusing to come into the fray, and eventually the guests tired of dodging something that wasn’t there. Then my father suddenly darted across the room. My mother, who was hovering indifferently on the side, was a sitting duck for his lecherous hands, and he pounced on her, feeling her up and down, and I was astounded that out of all those women, he did not recognize the feel of his own wife. Not even the material of her dress, which he had probably never noticed, or the feel of her body, and I wondered when he had really touched her last. My mother sensed the danger of the situation, and vainly tried to get away, but my father was pawing at her, and in such delight and lechery, that it was patently obvious he had no notion who she was.

  There was much laughter amongst the guests and I could have killed them all for it, but they were not to know of the consequences of my father’s ignorance. My mother was trembling with fear, and I knew, as well as she, that on his discovery, he would punish her. The guests were laughing less now, curious as to how much more skin-pawing he needed to identify a body with which he had presumably slept for fifteen years. And as their curiosity grew, they became silent. My father, hearing the laughter trickle away, thought something amiss, and keeping one hand cupped on my mother’s breast, with the other he tore away the blindfold. I dared not look at him, but for my mother’s sake, I had to. As for her, she hung her head, as if in shame of her identity. ‘Jesus,’ I heard my father say, and then he looked round at his guests and was sobered into the realization of what he must have revealed of his state of matrimony. He caught sight of his hand on my mother’s breast, and he flicked it away with disgust, as if he had touched a heap of dung. My mother slunk into the nearest chair, and one of the guests, with great presence of mind, put on a record. The music cheered the proceedings slightly, but it was obvious that welcome had been outstayed, and shortly afterwards, even before the record had been played out, the guests were taking their leave.

  I went to bed as soon as they started to go. I had qualms about leaving my mother with him, but I needed desperately to be alone. I despised him, and I was afraid of what my hatred would lead to. I lay in bed and waited for their footsteps on the landing. I must have fallen asleep and when I awoke in the middle of the night, I could see the landing light still seeping through the bottom of my door. I wondered what they were still doing downstairs, and I dared to tip-toe across the landing to have a look. The living-room door was still open, and the light was still on, and I heard my mother weeping. I ran quickly downstairs, and as I entered the room, I knew by the sudden joy in my heart that my father was dead, and that I need not fear the winter. And indeed he sat there dead, as my mother said, from the heart, and I didn’t know why she was weeping.

  Neither do I know why I’ve told you all this. And you can believe it or not, I don’t care. He was my father and I can tell you what I like about him. There he was, in the chair, dead from a heart-attack. Well, for what other reason should a man drop dead in the middle of the night? Anyway, I shall leave him there. He’s interfered with my story and I don’t want to refer to him again. But he was dead all right, and you can take it from me, and I’m pretty unprejudiced about these things, it was his heart. I don’t know why I should bother to convince you. He’s dead and that’s the end of it, and I’ll prove it by never mentioning him again.

  I must try to get back to my story, and I can now, because he’s not on my mind any more. I’ve just got to clean the place out after him.

  Chapter Seven

  I didn’t realize what a mess my father left behind, so I cannot wholly guarantee that I shall never speak of him again, but if I do, it will only be by way of spring-cleaning, to clear a path for more relevant thought. So for the moment, I will leave him dead in that chair, from a heart-attack, I may add.

  I went to school the following morning, again by the back route, and when I entered the common-room, the conversation ceased.

  ‘Talking about me?’ I said, with as much good humour as I could manage. ‘Pray don’t stop because I’ve arrived.’ They did not respond. ‘Any news of the Parsons affair?’ I went on. I should not have shown myself so eager. ‘It would be nice to know,’ I said, gatecrashing their continued silence. ‘After all, none of you is responsible for his work. I suppose we can take it for granted that he isn’t coming back?’

  ‘Would you take him back,’ Miss Price asked, ‘if you were headmaster?’

  ‘I think it quite irrelevant what I would do,’ I answered. I had no intention of starting a conversation with an archenemy. ‘I’m sure you know his decision anyway,’ I said. ‘There’s not much you don’t know as far as he’s concerned.’

  She looked round the common-room for some support, but Miss Price was not well liked amongst the staff, and although no one would have dared to attack her, few would have rushed to her defence. Mr White, the neutral from Chemistry, quickly changed the subject and asked for confirmation of the date of the next parents’ meeting. But since nobody knew or cared, that subject did not get off the ground. We were all glad when the bell rang, and I was grateful to go to my classroom. But on the way I remembered the new image of myself that I had resolved to present to the boys. I put a smile on my face and found it fatiguing. I half wished for Tommy’s return and the spread of his story, so at least there would be something to deny. As I called the register, remembering this time to include Tommy’s name, I realized that it was Tuesday, and a half-day for those not involved in games. I remembered my decision to buy some Sundays for myself, and I decided to devote the afternoon to window shopping, if not to a little buying itself. I rushed through the register with excited anticipation. I looked up at the class and remembered the headmaster’s warning to be on the lookout for strange behaviour amongst the boys.

  ‘Anyone sullen here?’ I said.

  They stared at me blankly.

  ‘Anyone with any problems?’ I tried.

  ‘What sort of problems, Sir?’ They were confused by my line of questioning and they wanted to help me. ‘D’you mean school problems?’ one of them said.

  ‘Any old problems,’ I begged, like the rag and bone man, and they sat there, extrovert, uninhibited, problemless, screwing their faces into some semblance of neurosis that might answer to my request. ‘Well, you’re lucky,’ I said. ‘Now we can get on with some work.’ I took my classes, and Mr Parsons’s, gently through the morning. When I passed the boys in the corridor between lessons, I heard them whispering about me and marvelling at the sudden metamorphosis. I felt that perhaps I had gone too far, and should revert occasionally to my old unpleasant self, otherwise I would call suspicion upon me, and there was enough of that around without my inviting it. So I told them gruffly to be quiet and to get on to their classrooms, and I felt that they, as well as I, were relieved at the sniff of the old and known Verrey Smith.

  When lunch-time came, I went straight to the bank to cash a cheque. I really had no intention of buying anything that afternoon, but I had to be prepared in case something caught my fancy, and I couldn’t risk paying for it by cheque. I drew much more money than I had intended, and as I pocketed the notes I had a feeling that I had taken the first step on a decidedly hell-bent path, and that possibly I was making a great mistake, but that almost certainly, it was a path of intense enjoyment.

  I took a bus to the outer part of town where the shopping, I had heard, was rather more exclusive, but not particularly for that reason, but that I was less likely to meet anyone there whom I knew. After about twenty minutes’ ride, I got off at what looked like the start of a main street. The corner-shop window was a profusion of ladies’ underwear and tho’ I would dearly have loved to weave my eyes over the coloured laces and ribbons, I hurried past, strictly the man from the City, bent on buying something for his wife on their anniversary. I smiled at a
ll the ladies who passed, hoping to give them the impression that a man bent on a mission such as mine could not help but love all women in his orbit, and I stopped at each ladies’ wear establishment window, in order to give them, as it were, a dress rehearsal. There were many ladies’ shops, but they seemed to cater for the larger woman. I was in a residential area of genteel retirement, and I began to lose hope that I would find any shop that catered for the non-matron-like figure. And there, at the end of the shop parade, calling me with its creaking display sign, was the ‘Femina Boutique’, and its name seemed to answer all my requirements. I quickened my pace to the window, and I was not disappointed. Few items of clothing were on display, but every one of them I wanted for my own. I had already decided that I would go headlong into the shop and say whatever came into my mind, and not on any account to hover outside debating my approach. And so I made straight for the entrance, aggressively pushing the glass door. I was not to know that an electronic eye slid the doors open sideways, so that I almost fell into the shop into a staring circle of amused sales ladies. They had possibly seen the act many times before, and had never ceased to find it amusing, and they clamoured round the door for that purpose. It was not a good beginning. I recovered my calm, still smiling, and tried to direct my smile to just one assistant for, since there was no other client in the shop, it seemed that all of them were at my disposal. But none of them moved towards me, so I took a few steps into the centre of the shop. Perhaps they were waiting for me to look around. But I was too embarrassed to embark on a stock-taking without first having made my mission clear. I coughed, and all gave me their attention. ‘I have a problem,’ I said, not knowing specifically what the problem was, but sensing that it was an appropriate opening gambit. They gathered all four of them around me, used to problems, able to deal with them, full of solutions and sympathy. ‘My wife has been ill, you see. She’s been in hospital a long time.’ There was a quartet trill of commiseration. ‘But fortunately,’ I went on quickly, ‘she’s coming out tomorrow, and I’d like to buy her a completely new outfit.’ I was delighted with my invention, and so were they with their expected commission. They would be delighted to help, all four of them. ‘What size is your wife?’ said one.