by Ted Lewis
“You’d better stay,” said Joan. “You won’t be able to get home otherwise.”
“Ta,” said Harry between the bites.
“Janet’s sleeping in your room?” I said to Joan.
Harry looked at me then carried on eating.
“I thumped her up, if you must know.”
“Well, there’s a thing now,” he said, cutting into his second round of toast.
The next morning.
I awoke next to Harry. We were in a double bed in a south-facing bedroom. I got out of bed and looked out of the window. The fields rolled away down to the river, and across it I could see my hometown sharply defined in the morning sun.
Harry switched on the radio next to the bed. “Children’s Choice” cut into the lifeless-seeming atmosphere of the large bedroom. I lit a cigarette and got dressed.
The memory of the night before lay like lead at the bottom of my stomach. My hangover was only noticeable as a fitting minor parallel to my feelings of sick emptiness.
Harry climbed out of bed and sat on the edge. He was still wearing his shirt. He picked up his detachable rounded collar from the carpet and examined it.
“Is this collar mucky or is it mucky!” he said.
I looked at him. His remark struck me as the funniest remark I had ever heard in my whole life. I laughed and laughed, tears rolling down my face, my laughter empty of body or of point.
Janet and I sat on the edge of her bed. She wore her dressing gown wrapped tightly round her.
“I don’t know what I can say. I just don’t know.” My voice sounded as though it was issuing across a cold void. Janet said nothing.
“It was because I couldn’t trust you. Something in me wouldn’t let me. What I said about the last year, about why I went out with you... I don’t know why. It wasn’t true. Nor about the other girls. You must believe that. But I don’t suppose it makes any difference now, whatever I say. It’s too late.”
“I don’t know what to think.” Her voice was quiet and sounded very young. Her face was pale and she didn’t look at me.
“I know. Now you’ll never be able to trust me. Not that that’s important. What I did last night kills everything, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
It seemed as if I had no energy to generate the words I wanted to say and yet to have said them, I felt would have been a further affront to Janet. I couldn’t even say I was sorry.
Janet just sat there, numb and silent. I got up from the bed.
“I love you,” I said.
Janet looked at me. I didn’t feel the right to touch her and tell her and persuade her to believe me again, so I walked out of the bedroom.
Half-past two. I walked in the back door of our house. I walked through the kitchen down the hall and into the living room. My mother was sitting on the settee drinking her coffee.
“Hello, Victor.”
“Now then, Mother.”
“Have a nice time?”
“Yes, not bad.”
“And Janet?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” She got up from the chair. “I expect you’d like something to eat.”
“Yes, please. Any news?” I meant news from the agency that currently had my work.
“No, nothing.”
“I wish they’d make their bloody minds up.”
“So do I and don’t swear, love. It’s not nice coming from you.”
At one o’clock on the following Tuesday, the telephone rang. My mother went out of the room to answer it. I had just got up and was eating my bacon and egg. My mother put her head round the door.
“It’s for you, Victor. Janet.” She smiled. I looked at her for a minute and then got up from my chair. I took the receiver from my mother and sat on the stairs, closing the door as I did so.
“Hello? Janet?”
“Hello, Vic.”
“God, I’m glad you phoned. I really am.”
“Are you?”
“I was going to ring you. Believe me, I’ve been going to phone you every minute since I left you on Saturday. Sweetheart, I love you. Say you forgive me.”
She laughed.
“Forgive you? Why? I couldn’t be more grateful for what happened on Saturday.”
“What do you mean? It was awful.”
“Awful? My God, it was nothing compared to yesterday.”
“Yesterday? Look, why do you say you were grateful for Saturday?”
“Because now I know what you’re really like.”
“But Janet, you know why—”
“No, not because of what you did to me on Saturday. It’s since then that’s been important. What a fool I’ve been. God, when I think of it, of the way I’ve been taken in.”
“Janet, please tell me what you’re talking about.”
“You. I loved you. You don’t know how much. Trust me, you said. I trusted you, Vic. And then—now—” Her voice caught for a second, “and you didn’t trust me. It’s so funny.”
She began laughing.
“Janet. Tell me.”
She stopped suddenly.
“At college, on Monday morning, they all knew about Saturday. The bedroom door was open and one of the girls had been passing and she heard it all and she told everybody. All the people at college knew. I didn’t want to talk about it with them, but I was upset and I sat in the cloakroom all morning, and they tried to cheer me up but they couldn’t. I was so miserable. Then they told me about you. They enjoyed every minute.”
Her voice trembled but now there was a hard deliberate edge to it.
“They told me about the last year. They told me about you and—and all the other girls, Vic. The ones you said meant nothing. They told me how many there have been this last year while you’ve been seeing me. That orgy you were at with the band. How you bragged to Jerry about having me at his place. Everything. Oh Vic. Why? I just sat there and listened to them telling me. I wanted to die. You told me there couldn’t be anyone else. You lied. You lied all the time. It was true what you told me in Joan’s bedroom. It’s meant nothing. You’ve been laughing at me, cheating me the whole year. And they said you told people at college how it was when we slept together.”
She began to cry.
“Janet, listen, you must listen to me. It’s not true. Honestly I—”
“Don’t lie anymore. I know it’s true. Don’t make it worse.”
“Listen to me. Please.”
“No, not anymore. I was a fool to believe you. I’ll never believe anything again.”
“They’re lying, Janet. They’re lying. It was only twice. Only twice.”
“Then it is true. Oh, Vic.”
“It was only twice. Only twice. It didn’t mean anything. You know it didn’t.”
“It meant something to me. And at the beginning you saw Hilary while you were seeing me for months. And before you left college you’d been seeing a girl called Caroline regularly. I know, Vic. They didn’t keep anything back.”
“It’s not true, Janet. Bloody hell, listen to me. I had to see Hilary. She threatened all kinds of stupid things she’d do to herself if I didn’t. But I only saw her a couple of times. I swear it. And the others: once was with Stella, the night after the Christmas dance—”
“After the Christmas dance! The first time we were together. And the next night—Oh, no.”
“Janet, sweet. Listen. It was because I thought everything would be all over with us. I was so sure. I know it sounds terrible. And the other time was with Caroline but only the once. Just the one time. That thing with the band. That’s not true.”
“How am I to believe you now? You lied. You said we should trust each other. I thought it was wonderful, marvellous, the way we were,
but you didn’t mean anything you said, any of the words you said. It doesn’t matter how many times.”
“You don’t mean that. You know I love you. I do. I meant everything I ever said.”
“I worshipped you. I thought you were God. Oh, Vic.”
“Janet. Please. I can’t tell you over the phone. I can’t. I must see you. I’ll come over tonight.”
“See me? My God, what do you think I am. See me? No, Vic, you’re not going to do that. How could you think I’d want to see you now? Everything’s changed. It’s over now.”
“No, Janet. Not after this year. You know it isn’t.”
“It is. It’s too late. There’s nothing for you to say. You can’t change anything.”
“Please, Janet. We can’t end like this. Not over the telephone. We can’t finish. You know it. Why did you phone if it’s finished?”
“I phoned because I had to. I love you, Vic. But I’m not going to see you anymore. Ever. I’ve made up my mind. Vic, how do you think I feel. Everything’s been destroyed. You destroyed it and you were everything. I’m almost going mad because I loved you so.”
“Then for Christ’s sake see me. You must.”
“If I saw you it would make it worse for me. It’s over and it’s going to stay that way. I’ve got to go now. I’ve got to get back to college.”
“Don’t go. Listen. I’ll phone you tonight at home.”
“Don’t do that. That’s another thing: My mother knew you stayed the night on Saturday. She thought we slept together until I broke down and told her everything. She’s furious. I had to beg her not to telephone you and tell you what she felt about everything.”
“Oh, hell. Hell fire.”
“I’m going now.”
“No wait. Phone me again, please. Tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
She laughed.
“Please.”
She paused before answering.
“I can’t tomorrow.”
“Why? You’re not seeing anyone else are you? Janet, I—”
“How dare you ask me that? It’s nothing to do with you anymore. Nothing.”
“You must phone me. You must. You must.”
“Oh, Vic. Why couldn’t you—why did you have to spoil everything.”
“I didn’t. I didn’t.”
“I’ll—I’ll phone you on Wednesday.”
“Janet—”
The phone went click.
After a time I put the receiver back on the cradle and walked back into the dining room. I could hardly see through the wetness in my eyes. I sat down on the settee and picked up the newspaper. My father was eating his lunch at the table. My mother was sitting by the fire.
“Do you want to tell us, son,” said my father, setting down his knife and fork.
“There’s nothing to tell, Dad. Just a difference of opinion. It’ll straighten itself out by tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” said my mother. “So long as it’s nothing serious.”
“No, it’s nothing serious, Mother. You know how it is. Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down.”
“Anyway,” said my father, getting up from the table, “you must always feel you can talk to us about things, whatever they are.”
“I know.” I turned to my mother. “Is there any tea going? I could just fancy a drop.”
The phone rang on Wednesday at half-past one.
“I’ll get it,” I said. “It’ll be for me.”
I picked up the phone.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello, Vic.”
There was a silence.
“I don’t know what to say to you,” I said.
“There’s nothing you can say.”
“How do you feel about things now?”
“I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve never been so unhappy.”
“Neither have I.”
“You see, it hasn’t changed my loving you, but it couldn’t be the same again.”
“Why not? It could be, the way we feel.”
“The way we felt. We trusted each other. That’s the difference.”
“I still feel the same way about you.”
“You can’t. You can never have felt the way I thought you did or else you wouldn’t have been able to go with the others.”
“Try and understand.”
“I asked you to do that over something that was nothing and you couldn’t. How am I expected to get over this?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think yet.”
“Can’t we try again?”
“No. It’s too late. It would be useless.”
“You love me.”
“I know. But that isn’t enough now.”
“This can’t be happening.”
“That’s what I thought on Monday morning.”
“Don’t go with anyone else. Please.”
“Why shouldn’t I? It’s going to be hard enough to get over this terrible time. I have to use everything I can to be able to bear it.”
“But you can’t go with anyone else. Not after the way we’ve been. How could you?”
“You could.”
“But try and understand.”
“I’m going now.”
“Who did you see yesterday? When you couldn’t phone.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. You must tell me.”
“It’s no good. I’ve got to go now.”
“But college doesn’t start till two.”
“Good-bye.”
Half-past eleven on Saturday morning. I walked off the ferry. Ron, from home, was with me.
“Which one first?” he said.
“The King Billy is as good as any. It’s got music. A juke box.”
The cool wind shredded fast flying clouds and from time to time the sun rapidly drove back the grey shadows before us. We reached the pub and went in, ordered our drinks and sat down.
“That’s better,” I said, after I’d taken a drink.
“What’s the plan, then?” asked Ron.
“Move round the pubs until closing time, pictures, then in again at six. How’s that strike you?”
“Suits me. Makes a change from sticking at home at the weekend.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“It must be worse for you, after having lived it up over here for the past four years.”
“It’s not too hot. But it won’t be for long.”
“You had a good time, didn’t you? I mean, you could tell the way you looked when you came home at weekends sometimes. We envied you --- Mark and me and the lads. We wished we’d been able to do it. We were the original no-talent kids.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“No, I guess not. We just didn’t bother.”
“Anyway, it’s not bringing a lot of joy at the moment.”
“No, but at least you’ve got prospects. And that bird, Janet. You’re bloody lucky there, you know.”
“Yeah.”
“How come you aren’t seeing her this weekend?”
“She had to go away for a few days. Relatives. Gives me a chance to get a few in. It’s not all roses.”
“Neither with me and Jean. I’ve been going with her for about eight months now and she’s still a bloody virgin. Won’t let me touch her. I mean, she likes pictures and music and everything, and I like going with her a hell of a lot but it’s bloody narking. Still she’s the only girl I’ve met with the same interests. It’s bloody rare is that.”
“You’re lucky. You want to stick hold of it.
”
“Yeah. I know.”
Ron went and got some more drinks. I tried not to think of Janet, but, of course, it was impossible. All the impotent misery of my twenty years was collected together in a great black knot in my stomach. The telephone calls of the past week pursued me every minute of my waking.
Ron returned with the drinks. We sat in silence for a while. My mind, although still not properly comprehending the events of the last days, yearned in pain for a path out of the churning sickness which the speculation of Janet’s actions brought. And I still believed that it was only a temporary state, however crashing, which could be ended by my seeing her and talking to her.
“You know, Ron,” I said, “whatever happens to me, to you, to any of the other lads, there’ll still be the lads. I mean, they’ll always be close. Nothing can change that.”
“Yeah. It’s funny. Phil’s a doctor, studying to be one anyway, down in London, and Noel’s with him doing chemistry, and there’s you an artist, and Ash an engineer. And the rest of us in no account jobs stuck for the rest of our lives but whenever we meet, it’s never forced. It’s always good.”
“Yeah. Hey up, why don’t we really hang one on today. I mean, I feel like it. I don’t know about you. I need it.”
“Sho’ nuff. But what about between closing time and six o’clock?”
“I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll have another here, then we’ll have one in the Steam Packet where I used to play in the band, and then we’ll get a trolley-bus down to Harry’s and we can drink there across closing time. How’s that?”
“Terrific.”
I got up and bought the next round. The juke box was playing “Here Comes Summer,” a tune connected with Janet and me. I leant at the bar waiting for my order, drinking in the secondhand presence of Janet that the record conjured up. She wouldn’t go with anyone else. Couldn’t. I smiled. We’d be all right, I thought.
We drank our beer and walked along the dockside to the Steam Packet. We entered the long dark bar. Ivan, the drummer, was sitting on one of the high stools talking to the landlord.
“Victor!” he said. “What the hell are you doing? Where’ve you been? I thought you were in London or somewhere. For hell’s sake, have a drink.”
“No, I’m still at home. This is a mate of mine. Ron. Ron, Ivan. He drowns the rest of the band on drums.”