A Kind of Loving

by Stan Barstow

  ‘Like what?’ I say.

  ‘You just swore.’

  ‘I feel like swearing. I’ve felt like it ever since tea-time.’

  ‘Well don’t bring it in here. Save it for your friends. I imagine they’re the type to appreciate it.’

  ‘My friends,’ I say, and I hear my voice rise to a kind of falsetto. ‘You think your friends are the last word. A bunch of bloody jumped-up social climbers. I might tell you I’ve just been out with a bloke who’s got more money behind him than you an’ all your friends put together ever dreamed of.’

  I’m feeling a wee bit queasy in the guts now. I think it’s a mixture of petrol fumes, a pork pie I’ve had, and the brandy on top of all the other booze, that’s done it. I make for a chair, nearly falling over a stupid rug on the way.

  ‘It seems he’s been spending some of it tonight on drink.’

  ‘I’ve had a drink. I’m not denying it.’

  ‘A drink. More like a dozen.’

  ‘All right, I’ve had a dozen. And I enjoyed ’em. Is there any law against it?’

  ‘There’s an elementary sense of decency that stops a man coming home to his wife in such a condition.’

  ‘So I’ve no sense of decency now, eh? I’d enough to marry your Ingrid when she was in trouble. Oh, I know I got her into trouble, but it takes two to do that, y’know. And don’t think she wasn’t getting what she wanted when I married her. She’d have married me any time, baby or no baby.’

  ‘She’d have been in a position to listen to advice if she hadn’t been seduced.’

  ‘That’s a good ’un. D’you think I had to tie her down to do it? Don’t worry, if it hadn’t been me it’d have been somebody else.’

  I don’t think this is strictly true but I’m past splitting hairs. I’m out to get Ma Rothwell foaming and I’m coming pretty near it now.

  She trembles with rage. ‘How dare you make such disgusting accusations against my daughter’s character! You come in here, you little upstart, drunk, as though you own the house, and sully a good girl’s name with your filthy talk…’

  Well now I’ve really got her going and she looks as though she’s good for a while yet, only I cut her short as I feel this queasy feeling suddenly spread out and up and before I know it I’ve leaned forward and thrown up on the nice cream carpet right in front of her. It’s the easiest thing I ever remember: no heaving and retching and sweating – I just kind of hiccup and there it is on the carpet between my feet, all my tea and the pork pie I’ve had in the pub since, everything in a sloppy pinkish blob about the size of a tea-plate, mostly soft and creamy but with whole bits of stuff that have never tried to get digested stuck among it.

  We both sort of look at it in surprise for a second or two and then, maybe it’s the beer and I don’t give a damn anyway, I don’t know, but I start to giggle.

  Ma Rothwell’s mouth is open as though she’s going to let me have it any second now, but it’s as though she can’t get the words out. Her whole body goes stiff and her eyes bulge and her hands are clenched up in front of her and it’s just as though her voice has packed in and she’s fighting and straining like mad to bring it back again. She’s paralytic with rage. Her face has got past red and it’s purple now. And there we are, the two of us, looking at one another across this puddle of sick, me waiting for what’s going to happen and her looking as though she’ll fall down and kick her heels and foam at the mouth any second now.

  And I’m just thinking what a repulsive old sow she really is and how much I hate her when her voice-box starts operations again.

  ‘You filthy pig,’ she says. ‘You filthy disgusting pig.’

  It should hurt like hell for her to call me that and it probably would have any other time, but all I can see now is the funny side of it. I feel another giggle coming up and choke it back and splutter over it. But it’s no good and I have to let it rip. And then I’m rolling back in the chair and laughing. I shout with laughing. It’s as though I’ve never laughed before and I’ve only just found out how nice it is, and how lovely it is to let it come till you’re helpless with it and it begins to hurt right across your guts.

  I hear Ingrid’s ma give a little scream and then the door slams, fair shaking the walls, and an ornament bounces down off the piano.

  And now it doesn’t seem as funny any more so in a minute I manage to give up and I light a fag and stretch my legs out, careful not to get my feet in the mess. I begin to smell it before long. Rotten it is, enough to make you want to throw up again, except there’s nothing left to come. So I begin to think about cleaning it up, because it’s one thing to throw up on Ma Rothwell’s carpet and another to expect her to clean it up. I think about it. Newspaper’s no good because it might go soft and split and then I’d get it on my hands. And if I use the dishcloth I’ll only have to wash that out after. So I decide the coal shovel’s the best thing and I get up and go into the kitchen and open the coal-place door and get the shovel out.

  I have to use a bit of newspaper in the end to scrape the stuff off the shovel into the fire, but I get it up off the carpet okay. There’s a bit of a coaly patch on the carpet from the shovel when I’ve finished but I reckon that can’t be helped and Ma Rothwell will soon shift that with a bit of panshine or something. The little china jug she knocked down is in bits on the floor. It said ‘Best wishes from Llandudno’ round the outside before it was smashed and I’ve heard Mrs R. say she thought a lot about it because she got it on her honeymoon. I get a piece of writing-paper out of the bureau and write I DIDN’T DO THIS – YOU DID and put it with the bits of jug on top of the piano. Then I sit down and light another fag.

  In a bit it dawns on me I’m feeling randy and I reckon it’s the beer and the fact that what with one thing and another I’ve been on starvation rations for the last three or four months. I wonder if Ingrid’s asleep and if she’ll come the don’t-touch-me stuff if I go up and slip into bed and turn her over.

  I get up and throw my cig into the fire. I fetch the fireguard and put it up and switch off the lights in the kitchen and the sitting-room, taking a last look at the patch on the carpet before I do. I know Ma Rothwell isn’t going to like that, but I can’t help it. I can’t even be bothered to think about tomorrow. I reckon after tonight we can’t carry on as per, but I can’t be bothered thinking about it. All I want is to get into Ingrid’s warm bed and make love to her like I’ve only just found out about it.

  I go upstairs and start getting undressed by the landing light and I never think to look at the bed till I’m down to my underwear. Then I see that the clothes are pulled about and the pillow dented, but there’s no Ingrid. I remember now sort of half-hearing voices while I was downstairs but I didn’t pay any attention. I go out on the landing and knock on Ma Rothwell’s door.

  ‘Ingrid.’

  There’s no answer.

  I knock a bit louder. ‘Ingrid.’

  Ma Rothwell’s voice says, ‘Go away.’

  ‘I want Ingrid.’

  ‘I won’t let my daughter sleep with a drunken sot like you,’ the old bitch says.

  ‘You won’t what?’ This does it. I bang on the door with the side of my fist. ‘I want my wife. Send her out, d’y’ear. Send her out.’

  There’s the sound of low voices, then Ingrid says something from the other side of the door.

  ‘Go to bed, Vic.’

  ‘You come on in here, where you belong.’

  ‘I’m staying in here tonight.’

  ‘I’ll come in an’ fetch you if you don’t come out.’

  ‘You can’t get in; the door’s locked.’

  ‘Locked?’ I try the handle. ‘Dammit, what the hell are you playing at? D’y’ear? I said what the hell are you playing at?’

  I thump on the door. I’m really going now.

  ‘You’ll wake the neighbours, Vic.’

  ‘Bugger the neighbours. Let them see to their own troubles. Come on now, come out.’

  ‘For the last time,’ Ma
Rothwell says. ‘She’s not leaving this room tonight.’

  ‘All right, then, you old cow,’ I shout, ‘you’ve done it. She’s made her choice an’ now I know where I stand.’

  I storm back into our bedroom and slam the door. I’d pack up and get out now, except I’ve no place to go. I finish getting undressed and I can hardly fasten my pyjama buttons I’m that wild.

  I get into bed and lie there swearing in the dark, and then in a bit I cool down and begin to think about it all. This is what it all comes to, is it? I think. Bawling and swearing at midnight like people in a slum. This is where the dreams end … I never wanted much in the first place, just a girl I could love, who loved me, one I could be pals with besides loving her and all that. Not much to want. Oh, I know I’ve brought it all on myself. I shouldn’t have carried on with Ingrid once I knew how things were. But still, thousands must do it and get away with it and we have to go and slip up the first time. And now what happens tomorrow? Do I clear out and leave her? I can’t stay now, that’s for sure. I won’t stay, and that’s for certain. I’ve had what’s commonly known as a bellyful.

  I fall asleep thinking I won’t and I have the most weird dream I ever remember. I’m walking along an ordinary street and I go into what looks like an ordinary pub. In fact it’s the pub I met Percy in tonight. Only inside it’s like a big hall, so big you can’t see the walls, and there’s a kind of swirly mist all round. As I’m standing there wondering what’s going to happen I hear a horrible scream that dies away in a moan. I’m scared stiff, and all of a sudden the blonde from the pub comes out of the mist, walking a foot off the floor. She’s stark naked and she’s reaching out for me with hands that have fingernails six inches long and painted blood-red. It’s the way she’s looking at me that starts me running. There’s pure murder on her face, it’s all twitching and twisting, and I see that it isn’t paint on her nails at all, but blood, dripping and dripping. I’m running and running and making no progress because my shoes weigh about fifty pounds apiece, and all the time I can feel this raving bint gaining on me. And just as them great sharp nails are clawing out for me, I wake up.

  I’m hanging head down over the foot of the bed and the eiderdown and sheets are all over the floor. I’m in a cold sweat and my heart’s thumping away like billy-ho. It’s half past four. I tidy up and climb back into bed with a cig. I don’t remember putting the cig out before I fall asleep again.

  When I wake up the next time it’s half past six and I know what I’m going to do. I get dressed with fifty little elves tapping away with hammers inside my head, but cut out washing and shaving for fear of waking the two of them in the next room. I pack as much of my stuff as I can into one case and open the window and drop it into the garden. Down in the kitchen I find half a bottle of milk and I swig this. I collect my raincoat from where I dropped it in the front room last night, put it on, and go and open the back door. As I step out and pull the door shut behind me I hear the Yale lock snap and I think, Now, it’s done. No turning back now even if I wanted to. I collect the case from the front garden, trying to remember what I was thinking about to drop it out like that instead of bringing it down the stairs with me, and walk off down the steps to the gate and down the road.

  8

  I

  As I come into the drive between the stone gateposts with the big stone balls on top I’m wondering what I’m going to say to her, and somehow, now, going to see Chris to tell her I’ve made a muck of it all and chucked the sponge in is the worst feeling of all. They might not even be up, I think, and I’ll feel pretty silly then. I look at my watch and it’s just after a quarter past seven.

  I ring the bell over their card and in a couple of minutes the door opens and there’s David in his pyjamas with a green Tootal dressing-gown with white spots over them.

  ‘Hello, David.’

  He looks gone out for a second as he sees me and the case standing there at the crack of dawn. Then he rises to it and says, ‘Good morning, Vic. Come to spend your holidays?’

  ‘If you’ll have me.’

  He stands to one side and lets me in and shuts the door behind me. He shivers. ‘Ugh, a bit raw this morning.’

  ‘Is Chris up yet?’

  ‘Yes, she’s getting breakfast ready.’

  I know he’s wondering what it’s all about and probably making a good guess, but he’s too polite to start noseying and he just follows me up the stairs, saying something else about the weather till we get to the door, then he goes in first and calls out, ‘Here’s Vic, Chris.’

  Chris comes into the kitchen doorway with a coffee pot in her hands. She’s got a pale blue dressing-gown or housecoat thing on, with a tight bodice and a high neck and a skirt that touches the floor. She says hello, Vic, not turning a hair, though I can tell her mind’s beginning to tick over as well. She says something about the milk boiling over and disappears back into the kitchen.

  ‘Sit down, Vic,’ David says. ‘Take your coat off. You’ve plenty of time before you’re due at the shop, haven’t you?’

  ‘Bags.’

  I take my coat off and David takes it out and hangs it in their little lobby while I sit down. They’ve got the electric fire on because I suppose they don’t bother to light a coal fire till evening with them both being out all day. David comes back and hangs about a minute, reckoning not to look at me; then he says he’ll go and help Chris with the tray, and beetles off out to the kitchen, leaving me on my own.

  ‘Will you have a cup of coffee, Vic?’ Chris calls out.

  ‘Please.’

  She sticks her head round the door. ‘Have you had any breakfast?’

  ‘Well, no, I haven’t, act’ally.’

  ‘Boiled egg and toast go down all right?’

  ‘Grand.’

  Her head vanishes and I look round the room. All of a sudden I’m near to crying. I think about Chris and David and Ingrid and me, and I’ve all on not to let go. I’m all right again by the time David comes through with the tray, though, and in a minute we’re sitting down at the table and I’m wolfing the egg and toast. It crosses my mind that if this was a picture they’d have me poking about in my grub and looking miserable till somebody asked me what was wrong. As it is, nobody says a dicky bird yet and I shift the egg and toast in no time, I’m that famished. I haven’t had a bite since that pork pie last night and you can’t count that because it ended up on Ma Rothwell’s carpet.

  Well Chris holds off and chats with David about this and that till I’ve finished eating and got my third cup of coffee in front of me. Then she hands me a cig and as I’m having the first drag of the day she comes at me straight on.

  ‘Well, Vic?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s the trouble? You didn’t just drop in on your way to the shop, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  David pushes his chair back and gets up. ‘I’ll go and shave.’

  ‘You can stop and listen if you want to,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll hear all about it later, anyway.’

  ‘No, really,’ he says, and gives me his little grin. ‘You two have a chat. I should be getting ready anyway.’

  I start rolling the ash off the end of my cig on to the plate, wondering where to begin. Chris pushes an ashtray across to me, watches me for a minute, then makes the opening for me.

  ‘Is it you and Ingrid?’

  I nod, without looking at her. ‘I’ve left her.’

  ‘What d’you mean? You mean you just walked out on her this morning?’

  I nod again. ‘My case is in the hall.’ She’s looking straight at me but I still can’t look back.

  ‘What brought this on?’

  ‘That bloody woman,’ I say. ‘She brought it on. I just couldn’t stand any more. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Ingrid had been on my side, but she’s right under her mother’s thumb.’

  Chris just sits and looks at me. I sneak a quick look at her and see the wheels turning behind her eyes.

  ‘I had a bit
of a row with Ingrid last night and went out and met an old mate of mine. I was fed-up so I got plastered. When I got back Mrs Rothwell was waiting up for me and I told her a few things I’d been saving up.’

  ‘She didn’t tell you to go, did she?’

  ‘No, but she took Ingrid in with her and locked her door. We had a real old set-to then. It all came out. It’s been piling up for some time and I’d had a drink or two and was past caring… I used some pretty bad language… I couldn’t have stayed after that, I don’t suppose. Anyway, I’d made my mind up. I’d finished. I came away this morning before they got up.’

  I’m watching Chris’s hands and thinking how slim and neat they are when she gets up and walks away from the table.

  ‘How long have things been like this?’

  ‘Oh, it’s been brewing up for ages.’

  ‘Was it the miscarriage?’

  ‘Not altogether. That just made it worse. I didn’t get on with her before that. She took a dislike to me the minute she laid eyes on me. Not good enough for her daughter. Not her idea of a match. You’ve seen her; you know what sort she is. You know she never rang me up when Ingrid fell down the stairs. I didn’t get to know till I got home and the neighbours told me. That’s a fine thing, isn’t it? Then she blamed me. As if I could help it. As if I pushed her downstairs. Things just got worse and worse after that. Well I told her. I told her I might not be good enough for her daughter but I was good enough to marry her when she was in trouble.’

  ‘You got her into trouble, Vic,’ Chris reminds me gently.

  ‘I know. And I wish to God I hadn’t. How I wish I hadn’t!’ I put my head in my hands. ‘Oh, Chris, if only I could have met somebody like you: somebody who’d have made me better than I am, not worse.’

  ‘But you did marry Ingrid, didn’t you? You did choose to marry her.’

  ‘Aye. You’ve had your fun and now you can pay for it. Is that choosing? You know there’s only one thing to do round here when you put a girl in the family way and that’s marry her. It doesn’t matter whether you love her or not as long as you make her respectable.’