‘How was Mr Syme?’ asked Louise. ‘Is he any better?’
He was disconcerted, and showed it. What a fool I am, he thought, jeopardising my peace of mind, my happiness. And then it occurred to him that he had not been happy for years.
He was saved from an outright lie by Hilda, who at that precise moment began to utter thin little screams. It was only an effort of will which prevented him from covering his ears to blot out the dreadful noise of her misery.
‘I am anxious to finalise things,’ said Mr Mahmood, unexpectedly pushy, the skin under his hopeful eyes the colour of plums.
‘There, there,’ Graham murmured, patting Hilda awkwardly on the shoulder. He took Mahmood by the elbow and escorted him from the room.
After a cup of tea and a biscuit Hilda recovered sufficiently to remember the children waiting for her at home. When she had gone Pamela said she didn’t know how Graham stood it.
‘Graham,’ cried Louise, exasperated.
‘I’m not at all sure that it doesn’t make her worse, pandering to her, letting her sit here and wail like a soul in torment.’
‘She is in torment,’ said Louise. She prowled about the room, arms crossed, hugging herself. At last she said, ‘I wish he wouldn’t do it. It’s so unfair. He shouldn’t promise people like Mahmood that he’ll help them. It’s damaging. It’s almost cruel.’
‘You’re unfair,’ Pamela accused her. ‘You can’t resist knocking him, can you?’ She knew she shouldn’t say such things aloud. Louise wasn’t a complete fool. All the same, she couldn’t bear Graham to be criticised. ‘It’s part of his job,’ she said, ‘helping people. Just as it’s your job to encourage him.’
‘Who does Graham know on the council?’ asked Louise. ‘He has no authority, no influence.’
‘He needs your support,’ Pamela shouted.
‘Dear God,’ said Louise, and fearing she might strike the girl she left the living room and marched in the dark about the tiny kitchen. It was unjust of Pamela to suggest that she wasn’t supportive. Who had succeeded in getting Syme into the Cottage Hospital when the social services had told Graham that the old man wasn’t a priority case? Who supervised Keith, made his lunch, thought up jobs for him to do, listened to his whining complaints about his parents, his excuses? And in the end it would be her who would be left to cope with Mahmood.
She knew exactly what would happen, because it had happened before. First, Mahmood would give up his rent book; then the phone calls would begin, calls which Graham would avoid. And then one afternoon, depend upon it, the poor deluded Mahmood would trot up the path, homeless, dispossessed, followed by a wife and numerous children.
Picturing the scene with frightful clarity, tears welled up in her eyes. She leaned against the sink and stared into the darkness. She saw Keith’s face pressed to the window, his nose grotesquely squashed against the glass. ‘Go home,’ she mouthed, and ran back into the living room and drew the curtains. Pamela was still sitting at the table.
‘Keith’s out there,’ Louise said. ‘Spying on us. He never leaves me alone.’
‘He doesn’t like anybody but you,’ said Pamela. ‘You can’t blame that on Graham. He did try to get him a job.’
It was true, thought Louise. He had tried. But then, who but Graham would think it was possible to find employment for a boy like Keith.
‘What did Keith do?’ asked Pamela.
Louise proceeded to tell her, though she omitted certain details, such as the blood on the floor, the smashed spectacles which had become embedded in the bridge of the nose. The man behind the counter of the corner shop had almost died. Not from the blow on the head but from the vomit in his windpipe. He had been drinking all day. And it was all for a packet of cigarettes.
‘Poor Keith,’ murmured Pamela. Her blue eyes were tender with misplaced sympathy.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Louise said. ‘You’re as bad as Graham. There are thousands of people with backgrounds every bit as deprived as his and yet they manage to live perfectly ordinary, decent lives. They’re the ones you should be sorry for.’
‘I wish I understood about violence,’ said Pamela. ‘I often feel angry, but never murderous. I wonder what stops most of us from harming each other?’
Louise didn’t reply. Nothing stops us, she thought. Nothing at all.
The following morning the hospital telephoned to say that Mr Syme had died in the night. When Pamela went through into the front room to see if Graham needed her to type letters, she was shocked at his appearance. He looked terrible, as if he had suffered a personal loss. He sat there, drawing little squiggles on the blotter on his desk. He told her to leave him alone.
Louise told Pamela not to worry, that he would be all right in a day or two. ‘He hardly knew him,’ protested Pamela.
‘What has that got to do with it?’ said Louise, and she smiled and went upstairs to make the beds.
Pamela waited until lunchtime. She knew that Graham had an appointment with the social services department, and she hid in the garage. When he saw her his expression altered. Before, he had looked sad, now he was irritated.
‘I must talk to you,’ she said. ‘There’s something I want to discuss.’ He said that he was too depressed, that the last thing he needed was a discussion. She had thought it all out, rehearsed the words of comfort, and now it was her turn to be annoyed. ‘I want to help you, dammit.’
‘I don’t need your help,’ he said, fitting the key into the lock of the car. She came towards him and he backed away down the garage, putting distance between them, as though she was contaminated with some virus.
‘I don’t mean any harm,’ she said. ‘We’re friends.’
‘We’re not friends, Pamela, and you know it.’
‘You’re always preaching about love,’ she accused.
‘Not this sort I’m not,’ he said.
‘Are you frightened of Louise? Is that what’s depressing you?’
‘I refuse to discuss Louise,’ he said. ‘You know nothing about it.’
She stood there, close to tears, and watched as he opened the car door and struggled inside. He wouldn’t look at her. On other occasions he had said that she mustn’t cry, that he couldn’t bear to see her unhappy. She was such a little scrap, he had said. Such a dear little scrap, why, his heart melted just hearing her voice.
She turned away from the car and walked down the garden, devising schemes, thinking up ways of gaining his attention. Perhaps she could draw a picture of that old man who had died, and leave it on Graham’s desk. She had once done a pencil sketch of the view from the back window and he had praised it. He had said that talent was a gift from God. But then, she didn’t know what the old man had looked like, and in any case she was no good at faces.
She went miserably indoors and found Keith in the living room with a plate of sandwiches on his knee. The television was on.
She watched as he pulled the cheese from the bread and gobbled at it. He wasn’t all that much younger than she was, thought Pamela. They were of the same generation. She could probably understand him far better than Louise. If she got to know him, gained his confidence, he might come to rely on her. Graham would be pleased.
She leaned forward and switched off the television.
‘What’s the bloody game?’ Keith said.
‘I thought we might have a chat.’
He was looking at her legs and hurriedly she smoothed her skirt down over her knees. ‘It’s silly,’ she said, ‘seeing each other every day and not really talking. Don’t you think? I’d like to know more about you.’
He seemed amused. ‘Find me interesting, do you?’ he asked.
‘I just wondered what sort of things you liked doing. What sort of hobbies.’ He laughed at her. ‘I’d like us to be friends,’ she persisted. ‘I’d like to know you, find out the sort of things that interest you.’ He stared at her, licking the crumbs from his mouth. ‘Don’t you want to know things about me?’ she asked.
H
e said pleasantly, ‘I do know things about you, as a matter of fact.’
She was surprised, and pleased. ‘Do you?’
‘I reckon I do. You’re an outgoing sort of girl. Full of life, a good sport.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘Sure I do. And you’re bright with it.’
She could feel herself blushing. She murmured some kind of denial.
Keith was enjoying himself. ‘Yes, you are,’ he insisted. ‘I can tell. Just because I bashed some old bloke on the bonce it doesn’t mean I’m thick.’
‘No,’ she said politely, less sure of herself. ‘No, of course not.’
‘And I can tell you like people. All sorts of people. Wanting to talk to me, for instance … that proves it.’
‘I do like people,’ she said eagerly. ‘You’re right. I really do.’ He waited a moment, and then he said. ‘Of course I’m right. And you like messing about in churches … with blokes.’ He thought she was going to faint. All the blood left her cheeks.
‘Now me,’ he said, I’m your opposite side of the coin. I don’t like people at all, or very few.’ He put down his plate and turned on the television again. It was a wildlife programme, something to do with smaller animals being hunted by larger ones. There was a distant shot of a dusty horizon and a herd of cow-like beasts. The commentary was promising. It is only a matter of time, the voice said, before the weakest member of the herd will fall behind the rest of the pack.
He was still watching television at seven o’clock that evening, though earlier he had hosed out the garage and disposed of a lump of concrete. Louise and he were watching Channel Four news when Graham came home. Louise said she would make him an omelette, but he told her not to bother. He wasn’t hungry, and he had a headache. Besides, there wouldn’t be time. Mrs Crombie was coming.
Keith got up and made for the door. It was obvious old Graham was in a bad mood.
‘Turn the television off, will you,’ Graham said.
Keith returned and did as he was told. He was just going out of the door when Graham shouted, ‘Pick up the tray, please. Louise isn’t your servant.’
Humiliated, Keith picked up the tray and dropped it on to the table. ‘No,’ he said, ‘she isn’t, you bastard. But don’t you get a kick out of thinking she’s yours.’
He slammed the door behind him with such violence that the photograph on the wall slipped sideways on its cord. Louise righted it, and stepped back to see if it was straight.
‘Shall I tell him not to come here any more?’ Graham said. She didn’t reply. ‘I don’t appear to exert much influence on him, do I?’
Still she remained silent. He stood beside the table and fiddled aimlessly with the papers. Suddenly he hit the surface with his fist, scattering the cutlery on the tray. A fork bounced to the carpet. ‘What do I ever achieve?’ he said. ‘I might be invisible for all the effect I have.’
Louise bent and picked up the fork. Graham turned and clung to her. ‘I don’t influence anyone, do I? All I have is good intentions.’ He moaned. ‘I couldn’t even manage to say goodbye to old Syme before he died.’
Louise stood passively in his arms, her hands at her sides. ‘You meant to, dear,’ she said. ‘You meant to.’ She let him ramble on. It was always better to let him wallow in his self-pity.
‘When I think of the ideas I had,’ he was saying, ‘the plans. Do you remember John telling me I’d be a bishop before I was thirty?’ She didn’t remember, although she had heard it from him often enough. It was time to put her arms round him, to pat his back as though comforting a child. She was looking over his shoulder at the picture on the wall. ‘Oh, God,’ he said, ‘this ugly house, that ugly church, these wretched people.’ And he let out a groan of terrible, indulgent despair.
‘That’s enough,’ said Louise. She disengaged herself from his arms and busied herself with the knives and forks. ‘I detest self-pity,’ she told him. ‘And so did John.’
He said she was quite right, as always. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and murmured that he didn’t know what he would do without her. She must tell him what to do about Keith. There had been a moment back there, God forgive him, when he had wanted to strike him.
Louise said it was all a question of time, of having confidence. Keith would never amount to much but they must be patient. She took the tray to the door. Graham was already humming to himself, his self-esteem restored. ‘Perhaps you should have struck him,’ she said. ‘It’s one of the few gestures he understands.’ Graham looked shocked. Taking pity on him, she said, ‘No, of course you shouldn’t. The remorse would have outweighed the satisfaction.’
An unusually large number of parishioners arrived that evening to ask Graham for his advice. Sidney came, and Mrs Crombie brought a friend. There was even a young boy, the sort with a punk haircut, who said he was thinking of getting married. Mercifully, Hilda was absent. Louise was glad for Graham: it would make him feel worthwhile, having so many people who depended on him.
She was going into the kitchen to put the kettle on for the third time when she noticed Pamela crouching on the stairs. ‘Can’t you find anywhere else to sit?’ she asked.
‘I prefer it here,’ said Pamela. ‘Any objections?’
Graham was showing Sidney out when Louise came back into the hall with the teapot. She heard Pamela say, ‘If you don’t let me talk to you I just might smash a few windows.’ She pretended not to have heard and called out from the living room that Mrs Crombie was next if Graham was ready.
‘Keith saw us in the church,’ said Pamela.
‘For God’s sake,’ hissed Graham. ‘Lower your voice.’ He called out, ‘I’m ready when you are, Mrs Crombie.’
‘He made me give him ten pounds,’ shouted Pamela. Louise was helping Mrs Crombie up the hall. The old woman was leaning on her, breathing like a horse. ‘How nice to see you,’ said Graham, and taking her arm he almost pushed her into the front room and closed the door behind them.
Pamela was shaking. She wasn’t sure how much Louise had overheard. She couldn’t think which was worse, Keith knowing, or Louise. Trying not to whimper, she went into the living room. Louise smiled at her. She was talking to a young boy with pink hair. He was fingering the silver snuff box that stood on the mantelpiece.
‘It’s pretty, isn’t it?’ said Louise. ‘It belonged to my father. Mr Sinclair keeps his stamps in it.’ She took it from him and slipped, it into the pocket of her cardigan. Then she poured Pamela a cup of tea, still smiling. She didn’t hear, thought Pamela. All the same, her hands continued to shake, and her cup rattled in its saucer.
Later, when Mrs Crombie and her friend had gone, and the punk boy was in the front room with Graham, Louise began to talk about Hilda. She said that she was relieved that she hadn’t come, but also worried. It wasn’t like her to miss her tea and biscuits and the opportunity of a weep in public. She hoped she was safe.
‘Is she a battered wife?’ asked Pamela. Sometimes the woman’s arms had been covered in bruises.
‘Not in the way you mean,’ said Louise. ‘Her husband walked off with a younger woman. She’s just very depressed.’
This is a dangerous conversation, thought Pamela, and in spite of it she said, ‘I don’t see the point of people hanging on to each other against their will.’
‘No,’ said Louise. ‘I don’t expect you do.’
‘I mean if someone falls in love with someone else, then it’s useless trying to pretend that nothing’s happened. I mean, once love has gone, it’s absurd to think that it can be resurrected. I think people should be more honest with each other. It’s better for everyone in the end.’ Suddenly Pamela was weeping, and shouting through her tears. ‘Oh, I know you don’t agree, Louise. You’re all for duty and self-control.’
‘You’re right,’ Louise said gently. ‘I do believe in duty. I was brought up that way. I can’t claim any credit for it.’
‘Well, it’s bloody hard on other people I can tell you,’ Pamela said wi
ldly. ‘It’s stifling. We all have to creep round feeling inferior. Your disapproval is killing … killing –’ In the hall the chimes rang as Graham showed the punk boy out of the door. ‘You’ve ruined bloody Graham,’ Pamela shouted. She waited for Graham to come into the room. She wanted it over and done with, everything out in the open. And then he was standing there, his face bleak, his frightened eyes staring at her. ‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked inadequately.
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Pamela. ‘He can’t even think for himself any more. He’s just all twisted up about whether you’ll approve.’ Then she was running for the open door, pushing Graham aside with her arm. He staggered and fell against the wall, jerking the picture from its nail.
The next morning Pamela apologised to Graham. ‘I don’t know what came over me,’ she said, when Louise had gone out shopping. ‘I must have been mad. It was just that I was so worried about Keith seeing us in the church together like that.’
‘There was nothing to see,’ he said dismissively. ‘I shall ask him to give you the money back.’
‘I may have been mistaken,’ she admitted. ‘I think he only borrowed it. Please don’t mention it to him. I shall feel terrible.’
She was nothing but a trouble-maker, he thought. He told her about the picture falling off the wall and said that he would take it into town to have the frame mended and the glass replaced as soon as he had the time. She begged him to let her see to it. And pay for it. After all, it had been her fault, pushing him like that. But first she would type his letters ready for the post.
Keith turned up early for once, though he spent over an hour in the kitchen making himself rounds of toast. Louise was in the garden, building a rockery. He rapped on the window and waved at her, but she turned away instantly, as if she was sick of the sight of him.
When he had eaten he filled a bucket with warm water and went round to the front of the house to clean the windows. Graham was rummaging in the drawers of his desk, a frown on his face. There was a neat pile of addressed envelopes on the window-sill. Presently he snatched them up and left the room.
Collected Stories Page 15