by Stan Barstow
Mr Rothwell reaches out for a twenty-packet of Players from on top of the television set. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘Oh, yes… thanks. ‘I take one and we light up.
He’s got his eye on me now and I wish Ingrid would hurry up and come back.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve been looking forward to this?’
‘Can’t say I have. I had to face it, though.’
‘Right enough. I’m glad to know you’re prepared to face your responsibilities all round. Ingrid’s told us you’ve asked her to marry you.’
‘Oh, yes… well, I mean, I did straight away when I… when she…’
‘It came as a bit of a shock to you, did it?’
‘I’ll say it did.’
‘You must have known, though, that it might happen… didn’t you?’
My face feels as if it’s on fire. ‘Well, I… I suppose I knew it was possible. But it’s not as if we’d… as if we’d…’
‘Made a habit of it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. There was only the one time, y’see.’
He doesn’t say anything to this but just watches me with his dark eyes. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, whether he believes me or not. I suppose what we did the other times is just as bad in principle like even if it isn’t dangerous like going all the way is. I wonder if he knows about all that, if Ingrid’s told him.
‘Of course, you know, Ingrid’s not of age yet. I believe you’ve reached your majority.’
‘Oh, yes; six months ago.’
‘And you’ve told your parents about all this?’
I nod. ‘Yes, they know.’
‘What was their reaction?’
‘Pretty much what you’d expect, They were upset. Me father seemed to take it a lot calmer than me mother.’
‘Yes, I expect so. Women are always a lot more emotional about these things. It’s their nature, I suppose. You’ll find it the same with Ingrid’s mother. A man’s too busy thinking what’s to be done.’
I’m wondering where Ingrid and her ma have got to. Mrs Rothwell’s certainly keeping me on edge waiting for her.
‘I understand you were a draughtsman at Whittaker’s before you went into the shop.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m in engineering myself, y’know. As a matter of fact, I worked for Whittaker’s for a few years as a young man. I was surprised to hear you’d given up a good trade like draughtsmanship to go into a shop. I shouldn’t have thought the opportunities compared at all.’
‘Well, of course, I thought about all that before I decided,’ I say, and begin to try to tell him how it is with me and Mr Van Huyten. I don’t make a very good job of it because it’s something I haven’t got really cut and dried myself and I think by the time I’ve finished I’ve given Mr Rothwell the impression that it’s already in the will that I come in for everything when Mr Van Huyten cocks his clog. Maybe this isn’t a bad thing, though, because he seems to take better to the idea now.
‘And what’s your salary now?’ he asks me.
I tell him and he nods. ‘That seems reasonable. You seem to have found yourself a very good opening. This Mr Van Huyten must have a considerable personal liking for you.’
‘We get on well,’ I say, and I’m glad to say it because maybe this is the best testimonial I could have.
The door opens and Ingrid comes in with her mother. I remember it’s polite to stand when a woman comes into the room and I get up. One look at Mrs Rothwell’s enough. I don’t like her.
She’s a little woman, maybe a bit younger than Mr Rothwell, with blonde hair cut short and pressed tight to her head in little waves. She’s got a turquoise jersey frock on that shows her figure off – or at least, what’s left of her figure, because it might have been good at one time but now it’s mostly bust and behind. You can see she’s well corseted in, though, and there’s a couple of rolls of fat she can’t get rid of up under her arms. I don’t know straight away what it is makes me take a dislike to her on sight, and then I realise it’s her eyes, pale blue with a sort of crafty stupid glint in them that tells me I’m going to have some trouble there sometime if nowhere else. It’s awful to think I’m going to have to see a lot more of her and Mr Rothwell in future, whether I like it or not. I can feel it all closing in round me like a big net. Oh, what a chump I’ve been! And if only I could get out of it. Even now, at the back of my mind, I can hardly believe it’s true, and there’s no way out.
‘Mother, this is Vic.’
I say good evening and kind of half-lift my hand. She nods, real short like, and says good evening back. I feel as if I ought to say something. ‘Er… I’m sorry we have to meet in circumstances like these.’ The truth is I’m talking because I’m as nervous as hell and I know straight away it’s come out in the wrong tone of voice, just as if I think it’s really all a bit of a lark.
‘It’s a bit late to think about that, isn’t it?’ she says straight out.
Ingrid looks at the floor and I feel this smile, that’s absolutely out of place anyway, fade off my face.
They come round the sofa and sit down. Mrs Rothwell’s frock’s a bit on the short side and she shows a lot of leg while she’s settling herself. I’m looking at it an’ all. I couldn’t care tuppence about Mrs Rothwell’s legs actually but you know how it is when a woman’s showing a lot. You can’t keep your eyes off it. Nearly any woman – she doesn’t have to be attractive. Anyway, just for a minute I’m looking at her legs, which aren’t anything to write home about at all, and she’s looking at me looking and I feel myself coming up in a huge blush. I can imagine her talking to Mr Rothwell when I’ve gone and saying something like, ‘Did you see the way he couldn’t keep his eyes off my legs? He’s be trying to get into bed with me if we have him about the house!’
I hear a voice talking to me and see Ingrid’s dad holding the packet of Players out again. ‘Cigarette?’
‘No, here, have one of mine.’ I get my case out and offer it to him. Then I remember Mrs Rothwell. ‘Sorry, do you smoke?’
She hesitates for a second before she takes a cig out of the case.
‘That’s a very nice-looking case you have there,’ Mr Rothwell says. ‘D’you mind if I have a look?’
I pass the case over and he takes a good butcher’s at it, opening and shutting it and turning it over and back, feeling the weight of it.
‘V.A.B.,’ he says. ‘What does the “A” stand for?’
‘Arthur – after me father.’
‘I see… Yes, it’s a very nice case indeed. It must have been quite expensive.’
‘I’ve no idea how much it cost. It was a present, y’see.’
‘I bought it,’ Ingrid says, ‘for his twenty-first birthday.’
‘You bought it?’ her mother says, and holds her hand out and takes the case from Mr Rothwell. ‘Rather an expensive present for you to buy, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t all that expensive,’ Ingrid says, and she colours up a bit as though she expects her mother to ask how much.
But her ma passes the case back to me without pressing the point.
‘How long have you known my daughter?’ she says now, like a duchess asking a gardener for his references.
I nearly expect her to say ‘Brown’, but she doesn’t call me by any name all evening.
‘Well we’ve known one another by sight for a long time, but we’ve been friendly about eighteen months.’
‘Friendly!’ she says, screwing her little mouth up. ‘I suppose you realise that this business has upset Ingrid’s father and I very much.’
‘I suppose it must have. It’s only natural.’ I try to look shame-faced and it’s not so hard because I’m feeling that miserable.
‘I expect your parents have had something to say about it as well?’
‘Oh, yes, well, I mean…’
‘And I suppose they’re trying to pin all the blame on Ingrid, saying she enticed you into it.’
‘Oh, no, I would
n’t say that.’
‘Well I’ll have you know that we think there’s very little blame on Ingrid’s side at all. I know the way I’ve brought my daughter up and I know what sort of a girl she is. She’d only do a thing like that under extreme persuasion.’
(Oh, not too much persuasion, Mrs Rothwell. Not too much when it came to the point.)
‘I’ve brought her up to be a decent, honourable girl who could be at ease in the very best company…’
(So she thinks she’s got class, does she? Why, she hasn’t a quarter of the class our Chris has!)
‘We have very good connexions and we’ve always had high hopes of the match she might make. We don’t like having the pistol levelled at our heads in this way.’
She’s talking as though I’ve deliberately put Ingrid in the family way so’s I can marry her, when all the time it’s me the pistol’s pointing at. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so bloody tragic. I look at Old Man Rothwell but he’s watching his missis and letting her have her say.
‘You realise that Ingrid is well under age and needs our permission before she can marry?’
‘Now just a minute, Esther,’ Mr Rothwell chips in. ‘I don’t know much about the law but I don’t think you could get away with that in court. I think they’d give permission straight away if only for the sake of the child.’
As if I’d ever take them to court to make them let me marry Ingrid! Why, the best thing that could happen would be for them to stand up straight and say, ‘We don’t give our permission. Ingrid won’t marry you.’ They wouldn’t see me for dust! The kid, though… I’ve never really stopped to think about it before. I wonder if it will be a boy or a girl. Whatever it is it’ll be mine, mine and Ingrid’s. And I’m not ready to be a father yet. I’m just not ready.
Just for a minute Ma Rothwell glares at Mr Rothwell as if to say, ‘Whose side are you on?’ and then she climbs down off her high horse a bit.
‘I just want to make it clear that this sort of thing involves other people besides the two of them.’
‘Yes, I think Victor appreciates that,’ Mr Rothwell says. ‘I think he’s as sorry about it now as any young man could be.’
(Sorrier than that, old lad, if you did but know.)
‘He’s had his parents to face as well and I expect that wasn’t too easy. I don’t like the idea of young people starting married life this way any more than anybody else does, but the damage is done now and we shall just have to make the best of it. Victor’s come straight out like a man and said he’ll marry Ingrid, and I respect him for it. As for Ingrid, from what she’s told me I think she’d like nothing better than to be Victor’s wife, baby or no baby.’
This makes Ingrid blush a bit but she doesn’t look up.
Well, considering all the circumstances and the fact that I wish I’d never had to meet him, I’m beginning to like Ingrid’s old man, and I reckon he doesn’t think I’m all that bad either. Her mother’s got her little mouth all pursed up and I reckon she’s disappointed at not being let shout the odds a bit longer and a bit put out because her hubby’s put all his cards on the table so soon. She says nothing, though, and I wonder what she’s going to turn out like when Mr Rothwell isn’t around to keep her in check. I’m not very hopeful.
‘I think we ought to get down to practical matters,’ Mr Rothwell says, like a bloke who wants to get his business wound up because he hasn’t a lot of time to spare. ‘Such as how soon the wedding can be and where they’re going to live. I think the wedding should take place as quickly and as quietly as possible, with no fuss. I should say in three or four weeks’ time. What d’you think, Victor?’
‘I think that’ll be all right.’
May as well be tomorrow if it’s going to be at all. I can’t say anything else but okay because it’s got beyond me now. I’m not in charge any longer. I’m horrified, though, at how fast things are beginning to move. A month ago I was free to come and go as I liked, and a month from now, at this rate, I’ll be a married man with a wife I don’t particularly like, let alone love, and a chico on the way! Oh, what a mug, what a mug!
‘Of course,’ Ingrid’s dad says, ‘there’s still a chance that it’s a false alarm. A small chance. But in that event you’ll be married anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.’
That’s the maddening thing about it all, the way everybody’s looking at it upside down. They all think we’ve been courting in the ordinary way and got a bit impatient and jumped the gun. They’ve got no idea the way things have really been and I can’t tell them. All I can say is it’d be real rich if I wind up married to Ingrid and it does turn out to be a false alarm after all!
‘Registry office, of course,’ Mr Rothwell says, and Mrs Rothwell’s bottom lip starts to tremble and she feels for her hanky.
‘When I think’, she says, nearly repeating what the Old Lady said, ‘of the nice wedding I’ve always imagined Ingrid having. All in white, at church, with the choir and all our relatives and friends there. When I think what a proud day it would have been… And now this… this hole-in-the-corner affair.’
Ingrid puts her hand into her ma’s. ‘It doesn’t matter, Mother. I don’t mind.’
‘But I do,’ Mrs Rothwell says. ‘It’s a mother’s proudest day.’
‘Well I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about that now,’ Mr Rothwell says, ‘so we’ll just have to put it out of our minds. The next important matter is where they’re going to live. Have you any ideas on that, Victor?’
‘Well, I don’t really know…’ It’s all happening so quick, without giving me a chance to think. All I could think about was would I get out of it, would it be all right. I’ve always imagined that when I met that girl we’d have a house all lined up, or at least a flat to begin with. Somewhere private and cosy, just for the two of us. ‘I haven’t had time to think about it,’ I say. ‘I suppose we could live at our house for a while. We don’t stand a chance of finding a house of our own straight away.’
‘To rent, you mean?’
‘Yes. I can’t afford to buy one.’
I fancy Ingrid’s mother curls her lip at this but it might be just imagination. I’m in the mood for fancying that sort of thing.
‘What do your parents think to that idea?’
‘Well I haven’t actually mentioned it yet. I don’t think they’d mind, though. We’ve plenty of room.’
‘Well I have a suggestion,’ he says. ‘We talked it over before you came. I’m away most of the time and if Ingrid leaves too it’ll mean that her mother will be on her own. Of course Ingrid can’t stay to keep her mother company for ever, but for the present there’s no reason why you shouldn’t live here. The next few months will no doubt be a bit trying for Ingrid and it’ll help her if she’s near her mother. That will give you a breathing space to look for a house to rent, or save up enough to put a deposit on your own. What do you say?’
Here again, what can I say? They’ve got it all worked out. I look at Ma Rothwell, who’s saying nothing. I fancy they’ve talked this over and left it open till they saw what sort of a bloke I was and whether they could bear me about the place. Well, it seems I’ve passed muster on that one, anyway. Still, I’d’ve preferred to be in a place I know, especially now I’m not sure about how Ingrid’s ma will turn out. But I’m not calling the tune.
‘All right… Thank you.’
Well, the conversation carries on in a general sort of way now and they begin to fish for information about the family. I tell them about the Old Man and the Old Lady, and about Chris and Jim, and David. I think Mrs Rothwell would be happier if the Old Man was a doctor or a solicitor, or a business man even, rather than a miner. But I’ve never been ashamed of the Old Man’s job before and I don’t intend to start now. I think Chris and David help to make up for it a bit as far as Ma Rothwell’s concerned, because she’s a snob, no doubt about it.
A bit after nine, when I’ve had a cup of tea and a biscuit and promised to fix up for Mr Rothwell and the Old Man t
o meet each other and have a natter, I beat it. Ingrid comes with me to the corner.
‘Well?’ she says as we walk along.
‘It wasn’t so bad. And anyway, it’s done with now.’
‘Think about me,’ she says. ‘I’ve got it to face yet.’
‘Oh, you’ll be okay. They won’t eat you. Just be yourself and don’t put any airs and graces on and they’ll take to you okay.’
Why shouldn’t they take to her? I think. She’s a nice enough kid and they haven’t to live with her for the rest of their lives. Forty years, maybe longer. It’s a real life sentence, and no time off for good behaviour…
‘What will it be?’
‘I suppose the sooner the better now. What about tomorrow night?’
‘Oh, dear… Well, all right.’
A bit farther on I say, ‘I like your dad.’ I’m thinking it’s a pity he’ll be away most of the time because having him around would probably increase my chances of rubbing along with Ingrid’s mother. Anyway, I shan’t be the first bloke who didn’t care for his mother-in-law; or his wife, for that matter. Not that that’s any consolation at all. Not a bit.
III
‘Well he seems a nice enough chap,’ the Old Feller says when we get back home. It’s Wednesday night now and we’ve been to meet Mr Rothwell in the lounge bar of the Craven Arms. ‘Talks reasonable an’ quiet an’ doesn’t go flyin’ off the handle about summat ’at can’t be altered.’
‘You want goin’ an’ talking over your children’s futures in a pub,’ the Old Lady says.
‘It isn’t a pub,’ the Old Man says, ‘it’s t’best hotel in Cressley. It wa’ good enough for our Christine’s weddin’ reception, wadn’t it?’
‘That wa’ different,’ the Old Lady says. ‘We had a private room: we didn’t go into the bar.’
‘When a couple o’ fellers get together to talk things over they have a drink,’ the Old Man says. ‘I’ll bet there’s more important matters settled there than anywhere else in Cressley. ‘Xcept maybe t’Con Club. An’ anyway, I told you before, we had to meet on neutral ground like. If he’d come here he’d ha’ felt at a disadvantage, an’ I know I should if I’d gone to their house. Besides,’ he says, giving me a sly wink, ‘we didn’t want any women about throwin’ spanners in t’works.’