by Stan Barstow
It starts to rain. Not much, but it must have been spitting for a few minutes before I notice it. It’s as good an excuse as any for breaking it up.
‘C’mon, we’d better make for the shelter.’
She starts to fuss about with her clothes, tidying herself before she gets up. When she’s on her feet she brushes herself down with her hand, then picks her handbag up. I give my raincoat a shake and put it on as we cut across the grass to the shelter. When we get there she starts to mend her make-up as best she can in the dark and I watch her, thinking how irritated it makes me and how much I’d have liked to see her doing it not long ago. I don’t get it; it’s beyond me. How can you think you’ve found so much and then suddenly wake up and see you’ve found nothing at all? And if I can’t understand it what hope have I of making her see it?
She finishes what she’s doing and clicks her compact shut and drops it into her bag. We sit a bit apart on the seat and watch the rain. In a minute she starts to tell me a bit of scandal about one of the bosses at Whittaker’s. I don’t much like this bloke she’s talking about and I’m interested in what she’s saying; only somehow it rubs me up the wrong way. I want to contradict her. I feel if she said black was black I’d say it was white just to be awkward.
I say something and she says, ‘I always thought you didn’t like him. You’ve said so to me.’
‘I don’t; but I don’t see ’at that’s any reason to believe everything anybody says about him.’
She knows I’ve snubbed her. I’ve never used that tone of voice to her before and I know she feels it. She doesn’t say anything, though, but dips into her handbag and fishes out a packet of fags and offers me one. She always has cigs when we’re out on a date and she usually won’t smoke mine. ‘You spend enough on me,’ she’ll say, ‘without me smoking at your expense as well.’ I’ve always thought this was nice of her, and I still do for that matter. Oh, she’s a decent kid, the sort any bloke would be glad to take out. It’s no good me trying to make out she’s common and easy, because she’s not. She’s just easy with me. And I don’t want her any more … It’s the awful truth. I smoke my cig and look out at the rain, waiting for it to stop so’s we can beat it.
‘Blasted weather,’ I say once, and she looks at me.
‘You’re not in a very good mood tonight, are you?’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘I had,’ she says. ‘Is it something I’ve said or done?’
‘No, course not.’
I suppose this is the time I ought to tell her how I feel, but I just can’t start to do it. How can I after half an hour ago? She’ll never understand. She’s bound to think I planned it all from the start.
‘There is something wrong, though, isn’t there?’ she says.
‘Oh, I’m a bit fed-up all round. I’m not very happy at work just now. I don’t know what it is. I allus used to be content enough.’
‘P’haps you ought to look for another job,’ she says.
‘Mebbe that’s it. Mebbe I should move right away, to Birmingham or Manchester… have a real change.’
‘Would you like to do that? Move right away from Cressley?’
I give a shrug. ‘I dunno. Mebbe I’d be just as bad off. I sometimes think it’s the job itself I’m fed-up with. Althorpe had us on the mat the other week, y’know. Me an’ Conroy…’ And I tell her about the fight, leaving out what really started it and that I bit Conroy.
‘Don’t you get on with Conroy, then?’
‘Oh, he’s a clever devil, allus throwin’ his weight about. I couldn’t help making that crack when he gave me the opening. Still, I like him better now than I did. He didn’t flinch when old Althorpe opened up, an’ it was a fair treat to see the way he stood up to Hassop afterwards. I wonder he didn’t sack him on the spot. You could nearly see Conroy daring him to.’
‘I always think he’s a funny sort of man,’ lngrid says. ‘I shouldn’t want to be on my own with him.’
‘Who, Conroy?’
‘No, Mr Hassop.’
‘Why, what’s up with him?’ This is a new slant on Hassop for me.
‘It’s the way he looks at you. Old X-ray eyes, the typists call him.’
‘Who, old Hassop? Does he ever try it on, then?’
‘Oh, no, he’s always very correct and distant. Never says a wrong word, in fact. But he’s got a way of looking right through your clothes that gives me the creeps.’
‘Well, I never knew he was that way inclined. I never told you about the time I went to his house with a message when he had flu, did I?’ I know that telling Ingrid is as good as telling all the female staff but somehow I don’t care whether it gets round and Miller knows I’ve talked or not. It’s something to talk about now till the rain stops and we can go.
‘… and then she come down the stairs in this kind of dressing-gown thing with this great envelope in her hand an’ I’m standing there spouting all sorts of rubbish about hoping Hassop ’ull be up an’ about again soon, an’ all she says is, “It’s in the envelope”.’
‘She said what?’
‘“It’s in the envelope”. When I asked her how Hassop was that’s all she said, and shoved it into me hands.’
‘Good heavens!’
‘But the funniest thing was when I was going out… I opened the door and the minute she saw the sunshine she gives a yell an’ comes for me shouting “Shut the door! Shut the door!” Anybody ’ud’ve thought she was scared o’ shrivellin’ up and turning to dust or something like vampires are supposed to do.’
‘Ugh!’ Ingrid shivers. ‘You’re giving me the creeps. What did you do then?’
‘I hopped it out, pronto. I’d just got me foot off the step when the door banged shut behind me. Five seconds slower and I’d ha’ been catapulted out through the porch windows.’
Ingrid says, ‘Well, I say…’ and giggles. She folds her arms across her bust as though she’s hugging the story to her ready to tell her mates. It’ll be all over the firm by dinnertime tomorrow, but I don’t care. I look out across the park.
‘It’s not doing much now. We’d better be off.’
We have to have another titivating session before she’s ready to go and I walk about on the concrete getting more and more irritated. I want to be away from her, on my own, this minute, so’s I can think about what’s happened and what I’m going to do about it. But I know I’ll have to take her home; and I’m glad it’s dark because, funny thing, I don’t want anybody to see me with her now. It’d be just too bad if somebody we both know saw us now and jumped to conclusions – all the wrong ones.
She finishes at last and we set off towards the gates.
‘Have you got your dinner suit pressed?’ she says.
I’m still feeling a bit contrary so I say, ‘Dinner suit?’ though I know very well what she means.
‘For the Staff Party.’
‘Oh, that! I’m wearing me tails; didn’t I tell you?’
And this is another thing. I was looking forward to the Staff Party because this year I’d have a girl of my own to take. I was so happy. Why can’t you stop in love with a bird once you’ve fallen for her. Why has everything to be so complicated? Better now if I’d never picked her out from the crowd that first time. That first date, though. I didn’t know where to put myself, I was that chuff with everything. And now… I’ll never be able to explain it to her. I know I won’t.
‘What’s the matter?’ she says.
‘Why?’
‘You’re sighing. You sound as if you’ve got the whole world on your shoulders.’
I feel as if I have; and what a blooming queer world it is!
‘You’re not sorry now, are you?’ she says. ‘About tonight, I mean.’
‘Course not.’
Why should I be? If I’m feeling a bit disgusted at myself it’s not because of that altogether. It’s because it’s shown me there’s nothing between us. It’s not only bints who have something to lose; I’ve lost something tonig
ht, and to a lass I don’t much like, let alone love. I suppose I’ve gained something as well: a bit of experience, if you look at it that way. I suppose you could put it down to experience. I’m brooding about it all the way across the park and through the streets to her house. I’ll just have to let it die a natural death, I’m thinking, let it cool off gradually. I reckon she’s a right to something better than this, but I know I’ll never be able to tell her and explain to her face.
‘When shall I see you again?’ she says at their gate.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘I mean outside work, silly.’
‘Well, not this weekend, I’m afraid. An old pal of mine’s coming over this weekend. I haven’t seen him for years. Anyway, I’ll always see you at work. We can fix something up any time.’
I reckon she can’t help but notice I’m not interested, even if she does know I’m lying about this mate. I bet she doesn’t know how interested I really am, though. How can she?
‘All right,’ she says, and I’m glad she doesn’t make anything of it.
She waits. We don’t say anything. She doesn’t lift her face and she doesn’t even look at me but I know she’s waiting to be kissed. And why not, after tonight? I only hesitate a second, then I put my hand under her chin and lift her face up. I kiss her on the mouth, but not for all the gold in the Bank of England can I put any feeling in it. She must know now, I think on the way home, even if she didn’t before.
II
I manage to steer clear of it for a few days by keeping away from Ingrid herself, but then she sends me a note by young Laisterdyke. I read it in the river caves and wonder what I’m going to reply. The easiest way is to just ignore it, act as if I’ve never got it. But that’s not fair, I think. I can’t just brush her off like that… I think about it for a bit, then I come up with a reply that doesn’t say anything straight out but has a lot between the lines. ‘Dear Ingrid, I can’t see you tonight because I’ve somewhere else to go. I’ve started Tech again now and I’m sitting for the National this time and I’ll have to work on other nights beside class nights if I want to get through. So I shan’t be able to get out much and I don’t think it’s fair to tie you down when I don’t know when I’ll have a free night, Vic.’
When I read it through I’m a bit ashamed of it but I can’t bring myself to be more blunt. So I give the note to young Colin and slip him a tanner at the same time.
‘Here, give her this – and keep your mouth shut.’
‘A pleasure,’ he says, pocketing the tanner. ‘Special deliveries a bob.’
‘A bob on your earhole if you don’t watch out.’
There’s a reply next morning. ‘Dear Vic, I was surprised to read your letter. I don’t see how you going to night school makes any difference to us. I know you won’t have much free time but that doesn’t matter if you really want to see me. I thought something was wrong the other night, and now I’m sure. If it’s something I’ve done I wish you’d tell me what it is. Ingrid.’
I’m feeling pretty low when I read this. She’s wondering what’s up and feeling miserable herself and I’m sorry about it. It’s disappointing all round. But you can’t help the way you feel, can you? Anyway, that just about winds it up. She’ll be too proud to write another note if I don’t answer this one; and I don’t intend to do that.
Part Two
1
I
Next week it’s the Staff Party.
Every year about this time Whittaker’s take over the Town Hall and invite the Staff to this do. If you’re married you can take your other half with you, and if you’re single a boy friend or a bird. There’s whist and dancing and a stand-up supper and a bar, and it’s all free for nothing except the booze, and you pay for that out of your own pocket.
Mr Matthew makes a little speech and tells the Staff how well they’ve done this last year and how much better he’s sure they’ll do next. Nearly always the same speech, it is; and then if there’s any old coves saying goodbye to it all the gold watches are dished out and there’s a lot of shaking hands and clapping. I mean, you’re forced to give a clap when some old keff what started in 1907 totters across the floor for his present, because you get kind of awestruck when you think he was working thirty years before you wore born, and you start to wonder if some lad born thirty years from now will stand here thinking the same thing when you hobble up for your watch or whatever it is they’ll be presenting in fifty years’ time. Somehow I can’t see it for me. To begin with, I can’t imagine myself at that age with all my troubles behind me and nothing left but pottering in the garden till the end.
Anyway, that’s what happens at these do’s, and there’s nearly always a presentation to somebody because Whittaker’s is the kind of firm blokes stay with for life.
There’s enough booze put away at one of these do’s to float all the battleships in Portsmouth Harbour and the bosses and the men get real friendly together. You know what I mean: lots of joking and back-slapping and introducing wives and thinking that old so-an-so isn’t such a bad bastard after all. Course, they’re all back on two sides of the fence again next morning but it’s nice while it lasts, I suppose. The women look forward to it more than anybody. All you can get out of them the minute Christmas is over is the Party. They parade their new frocks and their husbands or boy friends, not missing what the others have got, and saving it all up for after. I sometimes wonder which they like best, the Party itself or the tittle-tattle in the cloakroom after. Birds are queer. You can get two blokes who don’t think much to one another and on a night like this they’ll be like old pals. But get two women like that and a party only seems to make it worse.
Anyway, it’s a real good do, a grand night out.
Well, things being different I’d have taken Ingrid but now I get there on my own about eight. I have a couple of glasses of bottled beer that blows you up and a dance or two and a natter with any of the lads I run into. Going up to ten I’m standing on the edge of the floor when Conroy pushes past me. I can see he has a bit of load on and I watch him go down to the bandstand and have a word with the leader between sets. This bod, name of Oscar Winthrop, a tailor’s dummy type with patent-leather hair and a pencil-thin moustache, looks a bit doubtful at Conroy and gives a little smile. I see Conroy throwing his head about and pulling a face as if to say, ‘Come on, don’t be a nig-nog,’ and in a minute Winthrop seems to give way and Conroy climbs up on to the stand and shakes hands with all the blokes in the front row of the band. They’re grinning at Conroy and one another, but Conroy’s face never slips. Tom Evans, the construction shop foreman, who’s always M.C. at these do’s because he’s a real keen dancer and looks good in tails, moseys over to see what’s up. He has a word with Winthrop and Conroy, who takes next to no notice of him, then walks away again as though he’s washing his hands of the affair whatever it is.
Jimmy Slade comes up behind me. ‘What’s Conroy up to?’
‘Dunno; just wonderin’ meself.’
The leader puts his stick up and the band blow a chord.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ this bod says, ‘we have had a request from one of your own Staff members to sing a number with the band. Never let it be said that Oscar Winthrop failed to encourage new talent. I give you, ladies and gentlemen, the singing sensation of Dawson Whittaker and Sons – Al Conroy!’
There’s a bit of a laugh at this and one or two people clap. Conroy steps up to the mike, his face all red and serious, and bows all round. The leader gives the downbeat and Conroy buckles at the knees, throws his arms out and bawls into the mike:
Babe-e!
Who were you with last night?
A-huggin’ an’ a-kissin’ in the bright moonlight.
O-hoh,
I won’t have nobody flirtin’ with my baby,
I tell you this, oh baby, an’ I don’t mean maybe.
If you wanna keep me lovin’,
A-huggin’ an’ a-snuggin’
Then save your lovin’ kisses j
ust for me.
When he’s finished his chorus and the band’s having a turn Conroy starts to prance about the stage, twisting and shaking himself as though he’s got half a dozen scorpions up his vest. By this time the audience is going mad and the Drawing Office lads are sending up cheers over the noise of the band.
A voice right behind me says. ‘Isn’t that one of your staff, Hassop?’ I sneak a quick look round and see it’s Matthew Whittaker, the big boss himself.
Hassop sort of clears his throat and I bet he’s wishing he could disown Conroy. ‘Hmmm, er um, er yes, it is.’
‘Good worker, is he?’
‘Quite a clever young man,’ Hassop says. ‘A little too headstrong and irresponsible for his own good, though, I’m afraid.’
I’m all ears waiting to see what Mr Matthew will say to this, but Mrs Whittaker, a dark woman, quite nice-looking to say she’s past her first youth, says with a laugh, ‘He doesn’t sound as if he’d starve if he ever gave up draughtsmanship.’
They all laugh, and when I hear a noise like water trying to get out of a stopped-up drain I realise Hassop’s joining in.
They move off as Conroy finishes his number with a chorus of scat singing that’s a proper marvel the way he gets his tongue round it; and at the end he stops his capering about so sudden he nearly throws himself off the stage into the potted ferns. He gets a terrific hand. I’m clapping like mad and so is everybody else I can see, including the band. Oscar Winthrop slaps him on the back as he comes down the steps.
Conroy makes his way across the floor and people are laughing and saying things to him all the way. He comes up to me.
‘Seen Jeff Lewis?’