‘I will not ask you to help,’ he called to Malcolm. ‘I will not point out that your unreasonable behaviour is the cause of all this upheaval.’ He swore as the table, wedged in the narrow passage, crushed his fingers against the jamb of the door.
‘Stop muttering,’ shouted Malcolm. ‘If you’ve got anything to say, say it to my face.’
The table, once settled on flagstones, sloped only partially at one end. Covered with a tablecloth, a vase of roses placed in the centre, the effect was charming. ‘I think it’s better than indoors,’ said Margaret. ‘I really do.’
‘I could have a heart attack,’ said Richard. ‘We both could – and that boy would trample over us to change channels.’
‘Sssh!’ said Margaret. ‘Don’t upset yourself.’
Dora and Charles arrived promptly at twelve-thirty. The moment they stepped out of the car the sun went behind a cloud.
‘It’s a little informal,’ called Margaret gaily, ‘but we thought you’d prefer to sit outside.’
‘Rather,’ said Charles, gazing at the row of bins behind the upright chairs. Richard kissed Dora and Margaret kissed Charles; the merest brush of lips against stubble and powder. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t shaved,’ said Richard.
‘Good God,’ cried Charles, who had performed this ritual at seven-thirty. ‘Who the hell shaves on Sunday?’
They went into the front room and had a drop of sherry, standing in a group at the window and eyeing the table outside as if it were a new car that had just been delivered.
‘Lovely roses,’ said Charles.
‘Home-grown?’ asked Dora. They had to shout to be heard above the noise of the television.
‘No,’ said Margaret. ‘We do have roses in the backyard, but the slightest hint of wind and they fall apart.’
‘I know the feeling,’ said Dora, who could be very dry on occasion.
They all laughed, particularly Dora.
‘Belt up,’ said Malcolm.
They trooped in and out, carrying the salad bowl and the condiments, the glasses for the wine.
‘This is fun,’ said Charles, stumbling over a geranium pot and kicking a milk bottle down the steps. He insisted on fetching the dustpan and brush. Malcolm was eating an orange and spitting pips at the skirting board.
‘You’re doing “O” levels, I suppose,’ said Charles. ‘Or is it “A”s?’
‘You what?’ said Malcolm.
‘Any idea what you want to do?’ asked Charles, leaning on the handle of the brush.
‘Nope,’ said Malcolm.
‘Plenty of time,’ said Charles. He went outside and confided to Richard. ‘Nice boy you’ve got there. Quiet but deep.’
‘Possibly,’ said Richard uneasily.
It was an enjoyable lunch. Margaret was a good cook and Richard refilled the glasses even before they were empty. It was quite secluded behind the hedge, until closing time. Then a stream of satisfied customers from the pub round the corner began to straggle past the house.
‘What’s so good about this area of London,’ said Richard, after hastily dispatching a caught-short Irishman who had lurched through the privet unbuttoning his flies, ‘is that it’s not sickeningly middle-class.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Charles, listening to the splattering of water on the pavement behind his chair.
Margaret was lacking spoons for the pudding. ‘Please, Charles,’ she appealed, touching him briefly on the shoulder.
He ran inside the house glad to be of service. He looked in the drawers and on the draining board.
After a moment Margaret too came indoors. There was no sign of Malcolm. ‘Have you found them?’ she shouted.
‘Stop it,’ said Charles.
‘They’re right in front of your eyes,’ she bellowed.
‘For God’s sake,’ he whispered. ‘They’ll see us.’
He backed away down the room. It was infuriating, he thought, the knack women had of behaving wantonly at the wrong moments. Had they been alone in some private place, depend upon it, Margaret would have been full of excuses and evasions. In all the twelve years he had known her, there had never been a private place. He had wanted there to be, but he hadn’t liked to plan it. God knows, life was sordid enough as it was. He didn’t know how old Richard stood it – his wife giving off signals the way she did. The amount of lipstick Margaret wore, the tints in her hair, the way everything wobbled when she moved. Dora was utterly different. You could tell just by looking at her that she wasn’t continually thinking about men.
‘Where’s Malcolm?’ asked Margaret.
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. He found he was being manoeuvred between a wall cupboard and the cooker. He had never known her so determined. He glanced desperately at the window. All he could see was the back of his wife’s head. ‘All right, you little bitch,’ he said hoarsely. The word excited him dreadfully. It was so offensive. He never called Dora a bitch, not unless they were arguing. ‘You’ve asked for it,’ he said. Eyes closed and breathing heavily, he held out his arms. Margaret, looking over her shoulder, was in time to see Richard rising from his chair. He waved. She fled soundlessly from the room.
Dora quite enjoyed being in the front yard. It was handy being so near the dustbins. When the weather was good they often lunched on the lawn in Tunbridge Wells, but there the grass was like a carpet to Charles and he grew livid if so much as a crumb fell to the ground.
‘Where’s Malcolm gone?’ asked Margaret. Richard told her he was in the basement, probably listening to records. Actually he had seen Malcolm sloping off down the street a quarter of an hour before, but he didn’t want to worry her. Lately, Malcolm had taken to going out for hours at a stretch and coming home in an elated condition. They both knew it was due to pot-smoking, or worse. In a sense it was a relief to them that he had at last found something which interested him.
‘Do you know,’ said Charles. ‘I do wonder if we’re doing the right thing, burying the children down in the country.’
‘Oh, come on,’ scoffed Margaret. ‘All that space and fresh air … not to mention their ponies.’
‘I know exactly what he means,’ said Dora. ‘They’re very protected. When I think of Malcolm at Sarah’s age, he was streets ahead of her.’
‘Was he?’ said Richard.
‘Well, he was so assured,’ Dora explained. ‘Handing round the wine, joining in the conversation. I always remember that time we came for dinner with Bernard and Elsa, and Malcolm hid under the table.’
‘I remember that,’ said Charles thoughtfully. ‘He crapped.’ There was a moment’s startled silence. ‘It was your word,’ Charles said hastily, looking at Richard. ‘I remember clearly. I said to you, I think Malcolm’s had a little accident, and you said to me, Oh dear, he’s done a crap. I thought it was marvellous of you. I really did.’
‘Really he did,’ said Dora.
‘I wonder what happened to Elsa,’ said Margaret. When they had finished their coffee, Richard fetched a tray and began to gather the dishes together. It had grown chilly.
‘Leave those,’ said Margaret, shivering.
Dora put on her old cardigan. It hung shapelessly from her neck to her thigh. Peering through the hedge she caught sight of the camellia in next door’s garden. ‘Isn’t it a beauty,’ she enthused, waving her woolly arms in excitement.
‘I’ll show it to you,’ offered Richard. ‘They won’t mind you taking a dekko. They’re a nice couple. He’s something of a character. He wears Osh-Coshes.’
‘Charles,’ said Dora. ‘Please ring Mrs Antrim. Just to check if the kiddies are all right.’
Obediently Charles went into the house. He was followed by Margaret.
The telephone was on a shelf outside the bathroom door. He couldn’t remember the code number. ‘Doesn’t he remember his little codey-wodey number?’ said Margaret, who had been drinking quite heavily.
‘Be careful,’ he protested. ‘The front door’s open.’
‘They’ve gone next do
or to look at the flowers,’ she said.
‘They might pop back at any moment.’
‘Well, come in here then.’ And with brute force she pushed him from the phone towards the bathroom.
It was quite flattering in a way, the urgent manner in which she propelled him through the door. He wished her teeth would stop chattering; she was making the devil of a noise. Feeling a bit of an ass, he sat on the edge of the bath while she stood over him and rumpled his hair.
‘Steady on,’ he said. ‘I haven’t a comb on me.’
‘Kiss me,’ she urged. ‘Kiss me.’
‘Look here,’ he said, wrenching her fingers out of his ears. ‘This is neither the time nor the place. I can’t relax in this kind of situation.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ she said, and shoved him quite viciously so that he lost his balance and lay half in and half out of the bath. At that instant she thought she heard someone coming up the hall.
‘Christ,’ she moaned, dropping to one knee and peering through the keyhole. There was no one there. ‘Listen,’ she told Charles, who was struggling to get out of the bath. ‘If they come back, I’ll go and you stay here. You can come out later.’
‘What if Richard wants to use the lavatory?’ he asked worriedly. Margaret said if that happened, he must nip down the steps into the yard and hide in the basement until the coast was clear.
‘But what about Malcolm?’ asked Charles. ‘Malcolm’s down there.’ Margaret assured him Malcolm would be in the front room of the basement. Even if he did see Charles it wouldn’t make much difference – Malcolm hardly said one articulate word from one week to the next.
‘If you’re sure,’ breathed Charles. Half-heartedly he embraced her. He didn’t quite know how far he should go. He felt a bit out of his depth. ‘Are we … is it … should we?’ he murmured.
‘Play it by ear,’ Margaret said mysteriously.
Charles was just unbuttoning his blazer when they both heard footsteps outside. In a flash Margaret was through the bathroom door and closing it behind her. He heard her calling. ‘Cooee, I’m here.’ Panic-stricken, he undid the bolt of the back door and crept on to the small veranda. Beneath him lay the yard, overgrown with weeds and littered with rose petals. A rambler, diseased and moulting, clung ferociously to the brick wall. Trembling, he descended the steps and inched his way towards the basement door. He stepped into Richard’s study, gloomy as the black hole of Calcutta and bare of furniture save for a desk and a chair. Margaret had been right. Malcolm was in the front room playing records. Charles recognised some of the tunes from Chorus Line. He wasn’t over-fond of modern music but he couldn’t help being impressed by the kind of enjoyment Malcolm seemed to be experiencing. There were distinct sighs and moans coming from beyond the wall. He eased himself into Richard’s chair and waited for Margaret to send some sort of signal. The amount of paperwork Richard brought home was staggering. No wonder poor old Margaret behaved badly. Of course she didn’t have any hobbies or attend evening classes. She wasn’t like Dora, who was out several nights a week at French circles and history groups. He supposed things were different in the country. For some reason he felt terribly sleepy – probably nerves at being in such an absurd situation. He began to shake with weak and silent laughter and, when it was over, fell into a peaceful doze.
He was awakened by a shower of spoons clattering on to the flagstones outside the window. The record in the next room had been turned off. Cautiously he advanced into the yard and peered upwards. Someone was standing at the kitchen window. Adopting what he hoped was a casual stride, he walked to the back wall and inspected the rambling rose. ‘Green-fly,’ he shouted knowledgeably, looking up at the window. ‘Riddled with green-fly.’ It was Margaret’s face at the window. She beckoned him to come upstairs.
When he came down the hall, Richard was standing at the front door with Dora. He turned and looked at Charles with disgust.
‘I’ve been pottering about in the garden,’ stammered Charles. He thought he might faint.
‘Isn’t it sickening,’ said Richard. ‘Someone’s pinched the table.’
Charles stood on the top step and looked distressed. ‘Where are the dishes?’ he said, at last. ‘And the glasses?’
‘Gone,’ cried Margaret shrilly. ‘Every damn thing.’ She put the kettle on to boil while Richard phoned the police. When Richard came back, Charles offered to jump in the car and drive in all directions. ‘They can’t have got far,’ he said.
‘He’s already driven round the block umpteen times,’ snapped Margaret.
Just as the tea was being poured out Malcolm strolled in and helped himself to the cup intended for Dora. He leaned against the draining board, stirring his tea with the end of a biro.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Margaret. ‘You’ve been out for hours.’
‘The park,’ said Malcolm.
‘Use a spoon,’ ordered Richard. Shrugging his shoulders, Malcolm ferreted in the kitchen drawer. ‘There ain’t no spoons,’ he said. His father ran up and down stairs, looking to see if his camera had gone or his cufflinks, or the silver snuff box left him by his uncle.
Charles and Dora couldn’t stay for the arrival of the police. Charles said he hoped they’d understand but he didn’t want to risk running into heavy traffic. Driving home to Tunbridge Wells, he told Dora he thought it had been a bit silly of Margaret to put the table in the front yard. ‘I’m the last person in the world,’ he said, ‘to laugh at other people’s misfortunes, particularly Richard’s, but it struck me as affected, you know. Damned affected. I was right up against a dust-bin. Come to think of it, it was bloody insulting.’
‘Why?’ asked Dora.
‘Well, I think she was probably poking fun at us. You know, lunch on the lawn … that sort of thing.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Dora. ‘She’s just starved of sunshine.’
Charles felt awful. It was sheer worry that made him speak so spitefully of his friends. As soon as Malcolm had mentioned he had spent the afternoon in the park, he had realised how mistaken he himself had been about the noises in the basement. While he had sat at Richard’s desk, the thieves had obviously been in the next room. He felt almost an accomplice. And those damned spoons lying in the yard – the police would think the thieves had dropped them. He could never tell Richard about it. Richard would be bound to ask what the hell he’d been doing in the basement. Even if it didn’t occur to him for one moment that he’d been after old Margaret, he’d still think it odd of him to have been snooping around his desk. Nor, thought Charles sadly, could he confide in old Dora.
She was leaning trustingly against his shoulder, tired after her pleasant day, humming the theme song from Chorus Line.
PERHAPS YOU SHOULD TALK TO SOMEONE
We don’t talk much in my family, according to my mother. We did when I was younger, she said, but after a bit it sort of died out. Evolution, I suppose. It’s one of my mother’s things, talking. She never stops going on about the importance of being articulate and communicating, but when you listen to her, it’s just words. I mean, she’s articulate all right but what she communicates isn’t especially mind-blowing. Mostly it’s pretty feeble, like being reminded to hang up clothes or put things away. When it’s not like that she’s pointing out how it’s socially immoral to buy magazines with the money she gives me for tube fares. I might mention she uses the family allowance to buy cigarettes. Also, being progressive, my mother and father pretend to have this creepy belief in trust and privacy. Sad really. There’s not much to discuss if they’re not prepared to spy on you. Everyone I know with parents like mine, they all have to do the same. Keep quiet, I mean. What else can they do? ‘I trust you … I respect your privacy … I would never dream of reading your diary.’ They just allow you to get on with what you intended to do in the first place, but you tend to get this dreary guilt problem building up over nothing at all. It isn’t as if many of us have got anything to be private about.
Actually my mother does re
ad my diary, otherwise how did she find out I was having sex with William Hornby? As a matter of fact I’m not bothered about her violating my privacy. I mean, my mother doesn’t have a thing to do after she’s done the cooking and finished stuffing the clothes into the washing machine. I don’t mind her having an interest. Anyway, I don’t write the truth in my diary; most of it’s made up. If you ask me, it’s her that can’t communicate. She’s so screwed up about this trust thing that she’s been rendered practically speechless except for muttering about tidiness and such like. She’d like to tell me to work harder at school but she knows it’s a losing battle. After all, it was she who insisted that I should be educated by the State. She realises now that it was a crummy idea but she can’t go back on her principles. My father says the same, but really it’s because they can’t afford it, and even if they could I’m so thick now that they couldn’t get me in anywhere else. It’s too late. It’s not such a serious problem. I’m not alone. None of my friends have been taught anything either.
My mother really worries about not being able to talk to me. This summer she sent me away for a week to stay with an Aunt, just to get me away from William Hornby. She didn’t say so, of course, but I knew that was the reason. Also, she’s got a friend living in London called Moona who’s divorced with one child by her ex-husband and another one by nobody in particular. That’s probably a little too progressive for my mother, but she’s known Moona for years and she’s got this totally erroneous idea that I get on well with her. Actually, I don’t mind Moona. She’s pretty harmless. She sends postcards at Christmas of male statues without figleaves, and those ones of fat ladies in bathing costumes when she goes on holiday. She always writes a message about foreign parts. I’ve collected them all and put them in a box somewhere. Anyway, my mother said she’d write to Moona and I could go and see her when I was staying with my Aunt. ‘You’ve always liked Moona,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could talk to Moona.’ I didn’t mind either way. Everywhere’s a bit deadly. You have to take yourself with you wherever you go. I suppose I could have told her that I thought William Hornby was a bit of a creep after all, and saved her the train fare, but what was the use? I couldn’t summon up the energy.
Collected Stories Page 5