by Angus Wilson
After closing time she had a drink with Terry and Mrs Lippiatt. Mrs Lippiatt said what was the good of having money, there was nothing to spend it on. Vi thought to herself what she would like was to have some money to spend, but aloud she said in her smart voice ‘Yes, isn’t it awful? With this government you have to be grateful for the air you breathe. Look at the things we can’t have – food, clothes, foreign travel.’ ‘Ah, yes, foreign travel’ said Mrs Lippiatt, though she knew damned well Vi had never been abroad. ‘It’s bad enough for you and me, Mrs Cawston, but think of this poor boy’ and she put her fat, beringed hand on Terry’s knee ‘he’s never been out of England. Never mind, darling, you shall have your trip to Nice the day we get a proper government back.’ Mr Pontresoli and Trevor joined them. Trevor was the real public schoolboy with his monocle and calling Mrs Lippiatt ‘my dear lady’, Vi could see that Terry was worried – he was frightened that Trevor was muscling in; but that was just Trevor’s natural way with women – he had perfect manners. Later in the evening he asked Vi who the hell the old trout was.
‘The Major’s got a good one about Attlee’ said Mr Pontresoli, in his thick, adenoidal Italian cockney, his series of blue stubbed chins wobbling as he spoke.
‘It’s impossible to be as funny about this government as they are themselves’ said Trevor. He had such a quiet sense of humour. ‘They’re a regular Fred Karno show.’ But they all begged to hear the story, so he gave it to them. ‘An empty taxi drove up to No. 10,’ he said ‘and Mr Attlee got out.’ Beautifully told it was, with his monocle taken out of his eye and polished just at the right moment.
‘Well Sir Stafford gives me the creeps’ said Terry. No one thought that very funny except Mrs Lippiatt and she roared.
‘Are you ready, young woman?’ Trevor said to Vi with mock severity ‘because I’m not waiting all night.’ As she was coming out of the ladies’, Vi met Mona and her girl friend. She stopped and talked to them for a minute although she knew Trevor would disapprove. It was true, of course, that that sort of thing was on the increase and Trevor said it was the ruin of England, but then he said that about so many things – Jews and foreigners, the Labour Government and the Ballet. Anyhow Mona’s crowd had been very kind to her in the old days when she was down to her last sausage, and when they’d found she wasn’t their sort there’d never been so much as a word to upset her.
‘For Christ’s sake, Kiddie’ said Trevor ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk to those Lizzies.’
On the stairs they met young Mr Solomons. Vi had to talk to him, whatever Trevor said. First of all he was important at the club, and then his smile always got her – nice and warm somehow like a cat purring, but that was what she felt about a lot of Jews. ‘She’s stood me up, Vi’ he said, his eyes round with pretended dismay ‘left me in the lurch. Ah! I ought to have stuck to nice girls like you.’ Vi couldn’t help laughing, but Trevor was wild with anger. He stood quite still for a moment in Denman Street under the electric sign which read ‘Passion Fruit Club’. ‘If I catch that lousy Yid hanging around you again, girlie,’ he said ‘I’ll knock his ruddy block off.’ All the way in the tube to Earls Court he was in a rage. Vi wanted to tell him that she was going to visit her nephew Norman tomorrow, but she feared his reception of the news. Trevor had talked big about helping Norman, when she told him the boy had won a scholarship at London University and was coming to live with them. But somehow her sister Ivy had got word that she wasn’t really married to Trevor and they’d sent the boy elsewhere. She and Trevor had taken him out to dinner once in the West End – a funny boy with tousled black hair and thick spectacles who never said a word, though he’d eaten a hearty enough meal and laughed fit to split at the Palladium. Trevor said he wasn’t all there and the less they saw of him the better, but Vi thought of him as her only relative in London and after all Ivy was her sister, even if she was so narrow.
‘I’m going to see Norman tomorrow’ Vi said timidly, as they crossed the Earls Court Road.
‘Good God’ cried Trevor ‘What on earth for, girlie?’
‘I’ve written once or twice to that Hampstead address and had no reply.’
‘Well, let the little swine stew in his own juice if he hasn’t the decency to answer’ said Trevor.
‘Blood’s blood after all’ countered Vi, and so they argued until they were back in their bed-sitting room. Vi put on a kimono and feathered mules, washed off her make-up and covered her face in cream until it shone with highlights. Then she sat plucking her eyebrows. Trevor put his trousers to press under the mattress, gave himself a whisky in the tooth-glass, refilled it with Milton and water and put in his dentures. Then he sat in his pants, suspenders, and socks squeezing blackheads from his nose in front of a mirror. All this time they kept on rowing. At last Vi cried out ‘All right, all right, Trevor Cawston, but I’m still going.’ ‘O.K.’ said Trevor ‘how’s about a nice little loving?’ So then they broke into the old routine.
When the time came to visit Norman, Vi was in quite a quandary about what to wear. She didn’t want the people he lived with to put her down as tarty – there’d probably been quite enough of that sort of talk already – on the other hand she wasn’t going to look a frump for anyone. She compromised with her black suit, white lace jabot and gold pocket seal, with coral nail varnish instead of scarlet.
The house when she got there wasn’t in Hampstead at all, but in Kilburn. Respectable, she decided, but a bit poor-looking.
‘Norman’s out at the demo.’ said Mrs Thursby ‘but he should be back any time now. You’ll come in and have a cup of tea, won’t you?’ Vi said she thought she would. She hadn’t quite understood where her nephew was, but if he was coming back soon, she might as well wait. The parlour into which she was ushered brought her home in Leicester back to her – all that plush, and the tassels and the china with crests on it got her down properly now. One thing they wouldn’t have had at home though and that was all those books, cases full of them, and stacks of newspapers and magazines piled on the floor, and then there was a typewriter – probably a studious home, she decided. She did wish the little dowdy, bright-eyed woman with the bobbed hair would sit down instead of hopping about like a bird. But Mrs Thursby had heard something about Vi, and she was at once nervous and hostile; she stood making little plucking gestures at her necklace and her sleeve ends and shooting staccato inquiries at Vi in a chirping voice that had an undertone of sarcasm.
‘Mrs … Mrs Cawston, is it?’
‘That’s right’ said Vi.
‘Oh yes. I wasn’t quite sure. It’s so difficult to know sometimes these days, isn’t it? with …’ and Mrs Thursby’s voice trailed away.
Vi felt she was being got at. But Mrs Thursby went on talking.
‘Oh! The man will be sorry you came when he was out.’ By calling Norman ‘The man’ she seemed to be claiming a greater relationship to him than that of a mere aunt. ‘He’s talked of you’ and she paused, then added drily ‘a certain amount. I won’t say a great deal, but then he’s not a great talker.’
‘Where did you say he was?’ asked Vi.
‘At Trafalgar Square’ said Mrs Thursby. ‘They’re rallying there to hear Pollitt or one of those people. My two went, they’re both C.P., and Norman’s gone with them. Though I’m glad to say he’s had the good sense not to join up completely, he’s just a fellow traveller as they call them.’
Vi was too bemused to say much, but she managed to ask for what purpose they were rallying.
‘To make trouble for the Government they put into power’ said Mrs Thursby drily. ‘It makes me very angry sometimes. It’s taken us forty years to get a real Labour Government and then just because they don’t move fast enough for these young people, it’s criticism, criticism all the time. But, there it is, I’ve always said the same, there’s no fool like a young fool’ and she closed her tight, little mouth with relish ‘they’ll come round in time. Hilda, that’s my girl, was just the same about the chapel, but now it seems they’ve
agreed to the worship of God. Very kind of them I’m sure. I expect you feel the same as I do, Mrs Cawston.’
Vi wasn’t quite sure exactly what Mrs Thursby did feel, but she was sure that she didn’t agree, so she said defiantly, ‘I’m conservative.’
‘Lena’ said Mrs Thursby in a dry, abrupt voice to a tall, middle-aged woman who was bringing in the tea-tray ‘We’ve got a Tory in the house. The first for many a day.’
‘Oh no!’ said Lena, and everything about her was charming and gemütlich from her foreign accent to her smile of welcome. ‘I am so pleased to meet you but it is terrible that you are a Tory.’
‘Miss Untermayer teaches the man German’ said Mrs Thursby. ‘Mrs Cawston is Norman’s aunt.’
‘Oh!’ cried Miss Untermayer, her gaunt features lit up with almost girlish pleasure ‘Then I congratulate you. You have a very clever nephew.’
Vi said she was sure she was pleased to hear that, but she didn’t quite like the sound of these rallies.
‘Oh! that’ said Miss Untermayer ‘He will grow out of that. All this processions and violence, it is for children. But Norman is a very spiritual boy, I am sure that he is a true pacifist.’
‘I’m sure I hope not’ said Vi who was getting really angry. ‘I’ve never had anything to do with conchies.’
‘Then you’ve missed contact with a very fine body of men’ said Mrs Thursby ‘Mr Thursby was an objector.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sure’ said Vi. ‘Major Cawston was right through the war.’
‘The important thing is that he came out the other side’ remarked Mrs Thursby drily.
‘There are so many kinds of bravery, so many kinds of courage. I think we must respect them all.’ Miss Untermayer’s years as a refugee had made her an adept at glossing over divisions of opinion. All the same she gave a sigh of relief when Norman’s voice was heard in the hall, at least the responsibility would not be on her any more.
‘Hilda and Jack have gone on to a meeting’ he shouted ‘I’d have gone too but I’ve got to get on with this essay.’
‘Your aunt’s come to see you’ shouted back Mrs Thursby.
Norman came into the room sideways like a crab, he was overcome with confusion at the sight of Vi and he stood, running his hands through his hair and blinking behind his spectacles.
‘You were such a long time answering my letters that I thought I’d better come down and see what sort of mischief you’d got into’ said Vi ‘and I have’ she added bitterly. ‘Demonstrations indeed. I’d like to know what your mother would say, Norman Hackett?’
Norman’s face was scarlet as he looked up, but he answered firmly. ‘I don’t think Mum would disapprove, not if she understood. And even if she did, it couldn’t make any difference.’
‘Not make any difference what your mother said. I’m ashamed of you, Norman, mixing up with a lot of Reds and Jews.’
‘That’s enough of that’ cried Mrs Thursby. ‘We’ll not have any talk against Jews in this house. No, not even from Rahab herself.’
Vi’s face flushed purple underneath her makeup. ‘You ought to be ashamed’ she cried ‘an old woman like you to let a boy of Norman’s age mix up with all this trash.’
‘You’ve no right to say that …’ began Norman, but Mrs Thursby interrupted him. ‘Oh let the woman say her say, Norman. I’ve had a windful of Tory talk before now and it hasn’t killed me. If Father and I have taught the man to stand up for his own class, we’re proud of it. And now, Mrs Cawston, if you’ve nothing more to say to Norman, I think you’d better go.’
Vi arrived at the Unicorn sharp at opening time that evening. She’d got over most of her indignation, after all Ivy didn’t think much about her, and if the boy wanted to go to pot, good riddance. She had a couple of gins and lime as she waited for Trevor.
Mr Pontresoli came across the saloon bar. ‘Hullo, Vi’ he said in his thick voice ‘Have you heard the news about Solomons? Dreadful, isn’t it?’
It really gave Vi quite a shock to hear that they’d charged young Mr Solomons – something to do with clothing coupons. She had felt quite guilty towards him after speaking out like that against the Jews, and now to hear of this, it made you wonder what sort of a government we had got. As Mr Pontresoli said ‘It’s getting to be the end of liberty, you mark my words.’
‘Trevor’ll have something to say about this, Mr Pontresoli’ Vi said, and then she remembered what Trevor said about the Jews, it was all too difficult, one could never tell. Mr Pontresoli offered her another gin, so she said yes. ‘I’ll tell you what’ said Mr Pontresoli ‘It’s going to make a difference to me financially. Solomons was one of my best backers at the club. It may mean cutting down a bit. We shan’t be needing two pianos.’
What with the gin – will you have another? said Mr Pontresoli, and yes said Vi – and the tiring day she’d had, Vi felt quite cast down as she thought of Terry out of a job. A nice boy like that. But then he’d got Mrs Lippiatt.
‘Poor Terry, Mr Pontresoli’ she said, her eyes filling with tears ‘We shall miss him at the club. Here’s wishing him more Mrs Lippiatts’ and she drained her glass. ‘This one’s on me, Mr Pontresoli’ she said, and Mr Pontresoli agreed.
‘We couldn’t afford to let Terry go’ said Mr Pontresoli ‘that’s certain. Mrs Lippiatt says he draws all the women, and she ought to know, she spends so much money.’
Vi worked all this out and it seemed to come round to her. This made her angry. ‘Why that’s nonsense, Mr Pontresoli’ she said, and she smiled broadmindedly ‘surely you know Terry’s a pansy.’
Mr Pontresoli’s fat, cheerful, face only winked. ‘That gets ’em all ways’ he said and walked out of the saloon bar.
Vi felt quite desperate. She couldn’t think where Trevor had got to. ‘Have you seen my husband Major Cawston, Gertie?’ she asked the barmaid. No one could say I haven’t got dignity when I want it, she thought. Gertie hadn’t seen Trevor, but Mona’s girl friend said she had, twenty minutes ago at the George and stinking. No job and Trevor stinking. It all made Vi feel very low. Life was hell anyhow, and with all those Reds, she’d go after Trevor and fetch Norman back. She was about to get down from the high stool, when she noticed that Mona’s girl friend’s eyes were red. ‘What’s the matter, dear?’ she asked.
‘Mona’s gone off with that Bretonne bitch’ said the girl. ‘Oh dear’ said Vi solemnly ‘That’s very bad.’ So they both had another drink to help them on. Vi was in battling mood. ‘Go out and fetch Mona back’ she cried. ‘You won’t get anywhere sitting still.’ ‘You do talk silly sometimes’ said the girl ‘What can I do against a Bretonne, they’re so passionate.’
The sadness of it all overcame Vi, it was all so true and so sad and so true – all those Bretonnes and Reds and passionates, and Trevor going off to demos, no, Norman going off to demos, and Mr Solomons in the hands of the Government, and her nephew in the hands of the Reds. Yes, that was the chief thing.
‘I must let my sister know that her son’s in trouble’ she said. ‘How can I tell her?’
‘Ring her up’ suggested Mona’s friend, but Vi told her Ivy had no phone. ‘Send a telegram, dear, that’s what I should do’ said Gertie. ‘You can use the phone at the back of the bar. Just dial TEL.’
It took Vi some time to get through to Telegrams, the telephone at the Unicorn seemed to be such a difficult one. I mustn’t let Ivy know that I’m in this condition, she thought, she was always the grand lady with Ivy, so holding herself erect and drawling slightly, she said ‘I want to send a telegram to my sister, please. The name is Hackett – 44 Guy-bourne Road, Leicester. Terribly worried.’ It sounded very Mayfair and she repeated it ‘Terribly worried. Norman in the Wrong Set. Vi.’ ‘I feel much better now, Gertie’ she said as she stumbled back to the bar. ‘I’ve done my duty.’
CRAZY CROWD
JENNIE leaned forward and touched him on the knee. ‘What are you thinking about, darling?’ she asked. ‘I was thinking about Tuesday’ Peter said. ‘
It was nice, wasn’t it?’ said Jennie, and for a moment the memory of being in bed with him filled her so completely that she lay back with her eyes closed and her lips slightly apart. This greatly excited Peter and he felt the presence of the old gentleman in the opposite corner of the carriage as an intolerable intrusion. A moment later she was staring at him, her large dark eyes with their long lashes dwelling on him with that sincere, courageous look that made him worship her so completely. ‘All the same, Peter, I wish you didn’t have to say Tuesday in that special voice.’ ‘What should I have said?’ he asked nervously ‘I should have thought you could have said “I was tninking how nice it was when we were in bed together” or something like that.’ Peter laughed ‘I see what you mean’ he said. ‘I wonder if you do.’ ‘I think so. You prefer to call a spade a spade.’ ‘No, I don’t’ said Jennie. ‘Spades have nothing to do with it’ she lit a cigarette with an abrupt, angry gesture. ‘There’s nothing shocking about it. No unpleasant facts to be faced. It’s just that I don’t like covering over something rather good and pleasant with all that stickiness, that hesitating and making it sacred with a special kind of hushed voice. I think that kind of thing clogs up the works.’ ‘Yes’ said Peter ‘Perhaps it does. But isn’t it just a convention? Does it mean any more?’ ‘I think so’ said Jennie ‘I think it does.’ She put on her amber-rimmed glasses and took out her Hugo’s Italian Course. Peter felt completely sick; he must make it all right with her now or there would be one of those angry silences that he could not bear. ‘I do understand what you mean’ he said ‘I just didn’t get it for a moment that was all.’ Jennie wrinkled up her nose at him and pressed his hand softly. ‘Never mind, silly’ she said and smiled, but she went back to her Italian grammar.