by Stan Barstow
I lean on the trimming table and watch her for a bit. ‘Where’s young Colin?’ She shrugs without stopping this little dance she’s doing. ‘Dunno.’
Tell the truth I’m just a little bit scared of Phoebe because she says just what she thinks when she thinks it. She does her job well enough to keep out of trouble but one of these days she’ll speak her mind to the wrong bloke and then she’ll be out. Not that she’ll care because it’s obvious she wouldn’t care a hoot if she got the sack tomorrow. That’s the kind of lass she is.
‘Has he turned in this morning?’
‘I haven’t seen him.’ She makes a few more steps then a spin that brings her round to face me. ‘I don’t like your tie.’
‘What’s up with me tie?’
‘It’s not modern, up-to-date,’ she says. ‘It’s an old man’s tie. She reaches out and flicks it out of my jumper, calm as you please, so’s she can see it all. She shakes her head and dances away with her hands up and her fingers clicking.
I tuck the tie away again. ‘What sort o’ tie do you think I should wear, then?’
‘Well, a slim jim, or summat else modern. You’ve seen ’em in the shops.’
‘Aye, an’ they can stop in the shops for me. I wouldn’t be seen dead in ’em.’
‘If you want to walk about looking like your grandfather,’ she says.
‘I don’t want to walk about lookin’ a freak… An’ why don’t you stop jigging about a bit? You’ll have St Vitus’ dance, if you haven’t got it already.’
Phoebe knocks off dancing and pulls herself up straight, sticking this lovely chest of hers out, and says in her duchess’s voice, ‘If you’re going to be insulting, Mr Brown, you may leave the room.’
I get off the table, grinning at her, and toss her the roll of drawings. ‘Here, run us one off each o’ them, will you?’
‘When?’
‘Oh, any time as long as it’s in the next ten minutes.’
A bit later I see Phoebe go out of the print room and I pop down to catch young Laisterdyke on his own.
‘Here, Colin; you know that good-looking dark-haired lass in the typists’; Ingrid Rothwell her name is?’ Laisterdyke nods. He knows them all. He’s one of these cheeky undersized kids that women seem to take to, like they want to mother them or something. I take the note out of my pocket. ‘Will you give her this?’
He grins. ‘I’ll think about it.’ He takes the note and puts it in his pocket.
‘You know what I mean. On the quiet like.’
‘I know.’
I’m a bit uneasy about it as I leave him. Somebody else knows about it now, and if she turns me down I’ll look more of a twerp than ever.
There’s nothing doing in the way of a reply till after lunch. Once, in the canteen, I catch Ingrid’s eye and she seems to smile for a second before she looks away. Then about two o’clock Phoebe walks by and throws a letter on to my board and says in a loud voice, ‘A lass in the typists’ asked me to give you that.’ I put my head down and lock my fingers over my forehead. For a minute or two I daren’t look up because I’m sure everybody heard. I wait till my cheeks stop burning then sneak a look round and see everybody apparently minding their own business. I pop the letter into my pocket and nip along to the river caves where I can read it in private. I’m so excited I’m all fingers and thumbs opening the envelope.
It’s a very short letter. ‘Dear Vic,’ it says. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t come tonight because we have a cousin of mine staying with us for a few days, Ingrid.’
And that’s that. How many times do you have to be told? I hear somebody come in and run one of the taps so I pull the chain before I open the cubicle door and walk back to the office. It’s like a big heavy weight inside me. I’m like that all week, miserable as sin, going through the motions but hardly seeing what I’m doing, even though I know it’ll all very likely catch up with me later and get me into trouble. But I can’t help it. And I know I’m a fool but when it gets to Friday I know I’ll have to ask her just one more time. This time the chance comes like a charm. What happens is I’m by myself in the print room when she comes in to ask about some prints for Miller’s letters.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, rummaging about on the table. ‘You’ll have to ask young Colin. I don’t think he’s done ’em yet.’
She says all right, she’ll finish the letters and come back, and she starts to go out.
‘I say!’
She stops and turns round and doesn’t look at me. I think she knows what’s coming and she’s embarrassed because she’s going to say no.
‘Are you er… doing anything special tomorrow night? Have you anything fixed up?’
She says no, she doesn’t think so, still keeping her eyes down.
I’m fidgeting my behind on the edge of the table trying to look casual and snapping my penknife open and shut. I wish she’d look at me so I might guess what she’s thinking.
‘Well, look, I was thinking… wondering, would you like to go out with me? We could go to the flicks first, then on to a dance, if you like.’
It seems like there’s about ten years between me finishing and her speaking. Then she says. ‘All right,’ and that’s all. But it’s enough. Phoebe comes in jigging her hips as if she’s got all the office behind her in a conga chain and when I look round again Ingrid’s gone. But she said yes! Yes, yes, yes. I seem to float off the table and I grab hold of Phoebe and do a few steps with her.
‘What d’you know!’ she says. ‘It’s come to life!’
5
I
Saturday night sees me standing with my hands shoved deep into my overcoat pockets looking in at the suits on the dummies in Montague Burton’s window. I’m wondering how I’m going to pass the evening on now when a hand drops on my shoulder and Willy’s voice says, ‘Now then, tosh.’
I look round. ‘Howdo, Willy.’
‘What you doin’? Willy says.
‘I was just wonderin’ where to go. Where you off to?’
‘I was just plannin’ on havin’ an odd ’un an’ then catching this new Western at the Ritz.’
‘By yourself?’
‘Aye. Fancy it?’
‘Okay.’ It doesn’t matter much one way or the other what I do now the evening’s spoiled. But I reckon I’ll be better off with Willy than moping on my own. Not that I’ll be much company, the way I’m feeling. We walk past all the shops lit up on Cooperative Street. One of Granger’s windows blazes at us across the junction and a copper on the beat stops a minute to look at a few hundred quid’s worth of fur coats.
‘Who’s in this picture?’ I say as Willy nudges me to cross over the street.
‘Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas,’ Willy says. ‘In colour an’ all. Should be good. I like a good Western.’
Willy likes nearly any kind of picture. He goes three or four times every week and you can hardly mention a flick he hasn’t seen. Beer and the pictures are Willy’s hobbies. If you can’t find him in a pub you know he’s at the pictures. We’re crossing the road towards the lights and this jangly piano coming from the Weaver’s Arms.
‘Let’s find a quiet ’un,’ I say when Willy makes to go in.
‘It’s good ale here,’ Willy says.
‘Mebbe it is; but I don’t like pub pianos.’
Willy shrugs. ‘Okay, I’m easy. I think there’s another round the corner.’
We set off again.
‘Didn’t she turn up, then?’ Willy says after a few steps.
‘Who?’
‘This tart you were waiting for.’
‘Who said I was waiting for a tart? I was just looking in Burton’s window and wonderin’ where to go.’
‘I wa’ talking to a mate o’ mine on the corner for five minutes afore I came across,’ Willy says. ‘I saw you walkin’ up an’ down an’ looking at your watch.’
‘All right, I was waiting for a bint, then.’
‘And she didn’t turn up?’ Willy says. ‘Well, it’
s not the first time it’s happened.’
‘It’s the bloody last time it’ll happen with me!’ I say, letting some of it come out, though it’s not mad I feel at all really.
‘Famous last words,’ Willy says, then stops. ‘They’ve shifted it.’
‘What?’
‘That pub… I’ll swear it was here a fortnight sin’… Fancy me losing a pub in the middle of me own home town. I must be getting soft in the head.’ He stands looking round a minute, then gets his bearings. ‘I know.’ He starts off again. ‘C’mon.’ I follow him.
‘Oh, why did she do it?’ I’m thinking as I catch up with Willy and get into step again. Why, why, why? Why couldn’t she say no straight out instead of having me waiting twenty-five minutes with nothing at the end of it? All day I’ve been thinking about it. Knowing I was going to see her was like having a jewel in my pocket and every now and then I’d take it out and turn it over and gloat over it. Minutes like that I could remember just exactly what she looked like when I asked her in the print room. Shut my eyes and I could see how the light fell on her hair, and her face, and the way she wouldn’t look at me (and I know why she couldn’t now, the deceitful bitch… No, I don’t mean that really, either. I’m not mad, just miserable, and I’d run to her tomorrow if she wagged her finger at me). She had a pale pink blouse on with a high neck that came up on her throat, her plump little throat that I wanted to stroke, like I’m always wanting to stroke her, soft and gentle and quiet. And now … why? Why should she do this to me? Where did I go wrong? That’s what I want to know. We go into this pub – I believe it’s called the Cherry Tree – and get a couple of pints of bitter and take them to a table.
‘Have you been out with her afore?’ Willy says. ‘Or is this the first and last time?’
‘I’ve been out with her twice,’ I tell him. ‘Three times really, only I don’t count the last time.’
‘How’s that?’
I see straight away I’ve said too much and I run my fingers up and down in the moisture on the outside of the glass before I say anything else. ‘She brought a mate of hers with her.’
A big grin breaks on Willy’s face. He drinks from his glass and he’s still grinning when he puts it down.
‘Would you believe it?’ I say, putting on a show for him. ‘Brought her mate!’
‘You should ha’ called round for me,’ Willy says. ‘I’d ha’ taken care of her for you.’
I shake my head as I remember Dorothy. ‘You wouldn’t ha’ liked this one, Willy. Feet little fiddle cases’ mouth like a crack in a pie. You’d need a strong stomach or too much ale to make a pass at her… Imagine what I felt like, though, walking up an’ finding two of ’em.’
‘Didn’t she say why she’d brought her?’
‘Oh, she spun me a cock an’ bull tale about this pal turning up for her tea and she couldn’t get rid of her without offending her. Course, I didn’t fall for that one.’
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Willy says.
‘How d’ye mean?’
‘Well, you must’ve asked her again or you wouldn’t ha’ been stood up tonight.’
‘I wanted to test her like. You know, sort of find out where I stood.’
‘Well now you know,’ Willy says.
‘Aye, I do.’ I lift my glass and have a drink. The ale’s cold and refreshing, just the way I like it. I haven’t enjoyed a drink as much for a long time. Still, I’m half wishing I hadn’t met Willy because the way the conversation’s gone I feel a proper Sammy.
‘Mebbe you were a bit hasty for her,’ Willy says, watching me. ‘Scared her off.’
‘I never laid a finger on her.’
‘Well you were too slow, then.’
‘Well… we did a spot of neckin’, y’know. But I wouldn’t ha’ dreamed o’ trying anything else. Not with this one. She’s not like that.’
‘Not like what?’ Willy says.
‘Well… she’s different.’
‘How’s she different?’ Willy says. ‘She’s got two at the front and one in the middle, hasn’t she, like all the rest?’
I don’t like this kind of talk where Ingrid’s concerned and I feel my face tighten. ‘She’s a decent bird, Willy, that’s what I mean.’
‘Decent enough to leave you standin’ on a corner, you mean?’ Willy says.
‘Mebbe she got held up or summat.’
‘Mebbe she dropped dead after tea or summat,’ Willy says.
‘Oh, belt up, Willy,’ I say, and have another drink.
Willy’s glass is already empty.
‘Okay,’ Willy says; ‘we won’t fall out about a bird. Specially one ’at doesn’t turn up. Let’s have another pint.’
‘No, let’s beat it.’ I’ve bought the ones we’ve just drunk so I can say this without it looking as though I’m trying to skip my round. ‘We might miss the start of the big picture.’
This Western’s all about Wyatt Earp, the famous Marshal, and Doc Holliday and their fight with the Clanton gang at the O.K. Corral. I enjoy it, especially the last bit where they’re all going at it hammer and tongs blowing the daylights out of one another. They look as though they really mean it. Real peevish, they get. Anyway, it takes me out of myself for a bit and there’s times while I’m watching it when I might never have known any bint called Ingrid Rothwell. But once we’re outside again in the cold it all comes back.
‘We’ve time for a quick ’un afore they close,’ Willy says. We’re standing on the causeway in front of the pictures, making the people coming out down the steps walk round us. ‘Naw, I don’t really feel like it, Willy. I think I’ll beetle off home.’
‘I was thinking o’ going on to the Gala Rooms after,’ Willy says. ‘Why don’t you come on? Forget about this bint an’ we’ll pick some fresh talent up.’
I run my shoe along the edge of the step. ‘Naw, I think I’ll go an’ get to bed.’
Willy looks at me. ‘Gi’n you a turn, hasn’t she? You must ha’ been getting serious.’
‘Naw, it’s not that, Willy, honest. I’ve had a hard day at the shop, that’s all. Been on me feet since nine o’clock this morning. I don’t feel like ploughing round a dancefloor now.’
I could have done it with Ingrid, though, on feet as light as air.
‘Well, just as you like, tosh,’ Willy says. ‘I’ll be seein’ ye, then.’
‘Aye, be seein’ ye, Willy. Adios!’
‘Boners’ noses,’ Willy says.
The bus I catch doesn’t go up the hill and when I get off at the corner I catch the smell of fish and chips and I cross the road and go into the shop and buy a fish and four pennorth of chips. I sprinkle them with salt and vinegar and eat them out of the paper as I’m going up the hill. I really like fish and chips and there’s no better way of eating them than in the open air, straight out of the pan, all piping hot. These are so hot they nearly burn my mouth and I break the batter, all goldy brown, round the fish and let it cool in the fresh air. I have to hold them away from me because I’ve been a bit too liberal with the vinegar and soon it starts seeping through the paper on to my fingers. They last me till I reach the gate and then I wipe my hands on the paper and screw it up into a ball and drop-kick it ten yards up the road.
It’s half past ten and the Old Lady and the Old Feller are sitting with the table-lamp on watching television when I go in.
‘D’you want some supper?’ the Old Lady asks me.
‘I’ve had some fish and chips.’
‘You’ll want a drink o’ something, I suppose?’
‘It’s okay, don’t bother; I’ll make some cocoa.’
I go into the kitchen and make the cocoa and bring it back into the living-room and sit on the sofa at the back and light a fag. I’m thinking about Ingrid as I watch the picture that’s on TV. I’ve a feeling I saw it just after the war when I was a nipper. The Old Man stretches his legs out and sucks at his pipe and the Old Lady knits away in the dim light. A picture of perfect contentment, you might say.
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‘Where’ve you been?’ the Old Lady says in a minute and I know she’s got one of her newsy moods on.
‘Pictures.’
‘By yourself?’
‘With Willy Lomas.’
‘Willy Lomas? I don’t think I know him, do I?’
‘He’s a mate of mine. I used to go go school with him.’
‘Grammar School?’
‘No, Elementary.’
She grunts and I think, there, if I’d been out with Ingrid she’d either have got to know all about it or I’d have had to lie. And even if everything was all right with Ingrid I wouldn’t want the Old Lady to know about it yet. She hears wedding bells a sight too soon for my liking. She sets the pace and puts you out of your own stride.
The Old Man leans over and knocks his pipe out on the grate. ‘I don’t know why you pay good money to go to t’pictures when you can see ’em at home for nowt.’
‘All these are old stuff.’
‘What be that? They’re pictures just same, aren’t they?’
‘You can’t show colour and Cinemascope on TV.’
‘Cinemascope?’
‘Wide screen… bigger.’
He sucks at his empty pipe. ‘I don’t see as havin’ a bigger screen makes pictures any better,’ he says.
I don’t bother to argue about it. The picture’s finished and there’s a toothpaste ad on and I get up and throw my fag-end in the fire.
‘Going up?’ the Old Lady says.
‘Aye, I’m ready for it. Had a busy day today.’
‘You haven’t forgotten we’re all going to our Christine’s for tea tomorrow?’