by Angus Wilson
When they’d all laughed again, Muriel Bartley turned to Mr. Milton. “What’s this I hear, Mr. Milton, about your turning traitor?”
Chris Milton laughed so loudly in reply that some of his beer splashed from his shaking mug on to Mr. Bartley’s suit. Muriel Bartley sponged it down with the silk handkerchief she pulled out of her husband’s breast pocket. “Yes. Well, now the damage is repaired, we’re waiting for an answer.”
Lorna Milton took up her husband’s cause. “Don’t bully my man, Mrs. Bartley. We’ve thought it all over and we don’t agree with you.”
“Can I take it that that’s the official view of Melling Modern, Harold?” Muriel asked. Her eyes had narrowed to green slits of eye shadow.
“It certainly is not. I’m not surprised that Chris should get the wrong end of the stick, mind you. He hasn’t seen Carshall grow up as we have, Muriel.”
Mrs. Milton turned to her husband, “There you are Chris, what did I say? They’ve turned on the sob stuff.”
“To believe in a serious social experiment like New Towns,” Harold said. “Do you call that sob stuff? It seems to me clear thinking.” Sylvia could tell he was getting worked up, so she moved on with a jug of pineapple punch. But when she came back to his group five minutes later, they were still at it.
“We’ve driven you away, Mrs. Calvert,” Chris Milton greeted her. But Muriel Bartley was too engaged to care. “We’ve helped to make the place, we intend to see it keeps it’s character.”
“Hear, hear,” Harold cried.
“It’s the Ministry that decides, surely,” Lorna Milton said.
“Right,” Muriel answered, “but who makes up the Ministry’s mind? Public opinion. That’s democracy.”
“Some of us have put a lot of money into this place,” her husband added.
“Oh, I see,” Lorna Milton exploded with teasing laughter, “I thought it was an experiment in a new way of living.”
Muriel Bartley ignored her, she spoke chaffingly to Chris.
“Well, don’t start canvassing the kids. Teachers have an unfair advantage.”
“Is that an official threat?” Lorna demanded.
Sylvia couldn’t really tell whether the women were shaking with laughter or with temper. She felt she couldn’t walk away again. She said, “Arguing’s thirsty work. Who wants another drink?” But they didn’t respond. Luckily Ray, who seemed to be everywhere at once, was suddenly with them.
“Hullo, Muriel. Don’t you look gorgeous?”
Muriel Bartley ignored this. “Where do you stand over Good-child’s meadow, Ray?” she asked.
“I can’t remember, Lovey. Looking at you’s put it right out of my mind.”
“Ah! Mr. Tactful as usual. Well, you won’t get around me, Ray Calvert.” But he did. As Sylvia felt free to move on she heard him say, “Where did you get the jewellery? Off the Christmas tree?” and Muriel, delighted, answered, “Do you mind, Mr. Ray Calvert? I’ll hit back at you one of these days. You wait, you bully.”
Mrs. Milton said, “Ray, Chris and I want you to judge the prelims of the kids’ art show.” And Geoff Bartley said, “Now that’s a firm date to run out to the Old Mill Christmas Eve, Ray. . . .”
It seemed to Sylvia as she moved away that Ray gave her a slow wink. He’d certainly got them all sorted out.
Arthur was holding forth to a delighted audience. Sylvia kept away from him, partly out of embarrassment, partly because after all wives always spoil their husband’s form. But he hailed her. “What the hell’s that filthy stuff in that jug. This is Jack and Renee Cranston—my Missus. How about getting something proper to drink for Mrs. Cranston, Sylvie? I know Harold’s got a bottle of Scotch tucked away somewhere in his study.”
“No really, thanks, I’m ever so happy with this.”
“That’s what you say now, you wait for the morning after. Have it your own way. Mr. and Mrs. Cranston, Sylvie, are the robbers who took his last penny off an old man at bridge last Thursday.”
“Robbed you! I like that. I’d have to get up early to rob your husband, Mrs. Calvert.”
Mrs. Cranston was as bright as a little bird; her husband was big, redfaced and jovial. “Old man!” he said, “I should think! What do you feed him on, Mrs. Calvert? Meat?”
“We’re taking your husband in charge,” Mrs. Cranston said; then jerking Sylvia to one side by the elbow, she whispered confidentially, “You don’t have to worry about him finding friends here. We all love him. He’s just an age to get along with my dad that lives with us. Dad’ll come for him in the mornings and they can go down on the bus together to the British Legion or have a look in at the Crown. Dad likes a bet and a game of cards, too. They’ll make company for each other.”
Sylvia didn’t know quite how to take this, but Arthur said loudly,
“Well, as I was saying when my old woman interrupted me— this old girl at the estaminet, as they call them, got to know me well. I don’t say I parleyvoo like a native, but I can get along when I have to. . . .” Sylvia saw that his eye was fixed firmly away from hers, so she took that to be a signal to get along also.
Of course, it wasn’t as easy to get away as that. She was going along to the kitchen to see if there was any more risotto for two latecomers (latecomers are an eternal problem) when in the dining room a woman’s hand came out from the leafy darkness and grasped her arm. It gave her quite a start because they weren’t using the dining room. A voice said rather intensely, “Mrs. Calvert? It is Mrs. Calvert, isn’t it? I wonder if you’ve heard of me? Sally Bulmer.”
Looking down into the gloom Sylvia saw a big, handsome middle-aged woman seated on the low bench seat against the trellis partition. She was dressed in a black dress with a large black lace shawl round her shoulders and an artificial red rose pinned in her hair. Sylvia nearly said “Sandeman’s Port” but stopped herself in time.
“Oh yes—you’re Carshall’s Welfare Office. Harold’s often spoken of you.”
Miss Bulmer gasped and her great round dark eyes widened. “I can’t really believe that. Once or twice. But not often. But I’ll try to believe it because it will raise my morale. You see our Harold does such marvellous work for the community here that I sometimes feel the rest of us just give up. I know that sounds contradictory but it isn’t. Am I keeping you?” she asked, though Sylvia hadn’t even tried to move her arm away.
“I was getting some risotto for two latecomers. They don’t like soup.”
“Oh, take the nasty soup away, I won’t have any soup today. And we all know what happened to Augustus. If they really won’t take any soup, they’ll get thinner and thinner until they vanish. And then you won’t have to worry about them. No, but seriously, stay and talk to me. I’ve been so anxious for this talk. I looked for you at the Bartleys . .. .”
“I fell down,” Sylvia said.
“Oh, how right you were! But now we can talk. You see, you’re his mother. And he’s overworking. Someone’s going to tell you that sooner or later. So why not me? Of course, the children do their best, but the young have to be selfish. In fact, since she died. . . . Not that Beth didn’t have her faults, but still she was what he looked for when he got back in the evenings. And now he’ll have you. Oh, I think that’s so good. Well, we all do. Most of us, that is. I won’t disguise from you that there is the anti-Harold group, but they’re simply the jealous ones. And then . . . I know I’m keeping you but I believe you’ll feel it’s been worth while ... he isn’t getting the backing from his Number Two at the school that he should. The wife should never wear the trousers, don’t you think? Oh! I know you can’t do anything about all this. But just knowing it may help you to help him. Because this I can say,” and Miss Bulmer pushed her great face up into Sylvia’s, “he’ll never, never tell you it himself. Wild horses wouldn’t make him do it. And Carshall, as you may believe, is without wild horses.”
Sylvia didn’t know what to say. “Thank you very much. It’s very good of you to tell me.”
“Well
, not really,” Miss Bulmer blew smoke rings up from her mysterious darkness, “because, of course, there’s the other side. We don’t want our Harold running the school in one of his states. And his states are bad! That criticism I have to make. But what about this Look Back in Anger business? Of course he’ll do it superbly. But why, why on top of everything else? It’s bad enough all this over Goodchild’s Meadow! It’s a righteous cause. We all know that. But why our Harold? He’s got a hobby in the survey, let him keep to that.”
Miss Bulmer’s tones were those of challenge, and indeed, Sylvia felt ashamed of her ignorance of all these things in Harold’s life. She said uncomfortably, “We left school so early, you know, when I was a kid.”
Miss Bulmer looked at her as though she was mad; but luckily for Sylvia, Mark’s face appeared at the dining room door and Miss Bulmer pounced on him. “Hey you there, Mark!” she called, “Or should I say Jimmie Porter?” Mark looked at her contemptuously.
“I never know why you say any of the things you do,” he said.
“Of course you’ll be first rate in the part. If you deign to speak up so that we can hear you. But I suppose you’ll refuse to do it. No doubt you’ve got to march or lie down somewhere.”
Mark ignored her. He went into the kitchen and returned stuffing a sausage roll into his mouth. “Anyway, isn’t Look Back in Anger a bit square now, a bit for the mums?” He walked past her. She called after him, “I told Harold straight off, if you ask him to take part he’ll refuse.”
“I haven’t said I won’t.”
“But you will. The young never do what they’re asked. It wouldn’t be natural if they did.”
He turned on her, “What makes you ask a lot of daft questions if you know all the fatuous answers to them?”
Sylvia clicked her tongue in disapproval of his tone; but Miss Bulmer roared with laughter. “You’ve shocked your grandmother. Don’t worry, Mrs. Calvert, Mark and I always have this battle. Hip versus square. We like it, don’t we, Mark? The young love a fight. But don’t you stay to be embarrassed. Go and feed the latecomers with rice!”
Sylvia found herself dismissed.
“By the way, I hear great things of you at the Tech, Mark,” Miss Bulmer cried. “It looks as though our Jimmie Porter’s got his eye fixed on some room at the top.”
To Sylvia’s shocked surprise, Mark pushed his way past her out of the room without taking any notice of Miss Bulmer’s remark.
Back at the party, she saw that Judy and her friend were talking alone in a corner. Oh dear, wallflowers. A job half done was never worth doing! She’d set Judy free from the chore of entertaining, but she could do more for her only granddaughter than that. She felt really quite elated with how easy the party had proved after all her shyness at the start. Shyness at sixty-four! It just showed how silly she could be! She heard Harold’s voice in his study. He was holding forth to a group of younger people. “I’ve chosen it because I think Osborne’s hit off exactly the sort of old-fashioned, industrialised, unneighbourly jungle-world Midland town that the New Towns are going to replace. The very sordidness of it all may make Carshallites count their blessings a bit. They need to be reminded . . . .”
Sylvia saw at once that she would have to interrupt him or give up her mission. She touched his arm.
“What is it, Mother?”
“Something you can do for me, dear. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
He would have resisted her claim, if the group he had formed around him had not seized the chance to break up. She led him to the sitting room; Judy and her friend had disappeared.
“Well, really, Mother. What is all this about?”
Muriel Bartley called to them. “Come and talk horrors; what do you think of this awful Ibiza murder? No more Majorca for me, I can tell you. If only he’d killed the old girl and not the niece. Selfish old thing probably, with all that money, dragging the niece round from hotel to hotel. Well you must know the type better than we do, Mrs. Calvert. What do you think about it?”
Sylvia looked so much at a loss that Muriel Bartley went on: “Oh, you’re like Harold probably. Disapprove of reading murder cases. Even so you can’t have missed the Priest case, it is all across the front page of today’s Express.”
A black shadow fell momentarily across Sylvia’s happy mood. Was it something that Mrs. Bartley had said? Or was it her loud voice? Or was it her green eye shadow? At that moment she heard the voice of Judy’s friend in the hall. Once again she took Harold’s arm. “This way,” she said.
“You’re tiddly, Mother.” He preferred to laugh rather than to protest before Muriel Hartley. There in the hall Caroline Ogilvie was whispering goodbyes to Judy. “No, honestly, Judy I have enjoyed myself. It’s just that Mummy has a thing about my being late. Oh! And Saturday we’ll take Stingo and Punch out.”
“Harold. This is Judy’s best friend, Caroline. Caroline this is Judy’s father.” Judy glared at her grandmother.
Harold said, “You’re a little late, Mother. However, I’m sure there is something in this theory that we’re bound to be friends at sight, Caroline, since both Judy and my mother hold it so strongly. Perhaps you will come to supper one evening if such a meal isn’t too vulgar.”
Caroline blushed. Her reply was too softly spoken to be heard. She looked so gawky and uncomfortable that Sylvia in her buoyant mood felt suddenly as though Harold were once more a small boy who needed taking down a peg.
“Don’t you take any notice of the headmaster, Caroline. You come and have dinner with me. And he can have his old supper on his own.”
The girl blushed and stammered this time, but Judy burst in: “You mustn’t keep Simmonds waiting. Fancy, Caroline’s mother had Simmond’s cars to take her to parties long before the New Town was ever thought of.”
When the girls had disappeared through the front door, Harold asked, “Can I go back now, Mother?” He had a twinkle in his eye that reminded her of Arthur.
“Yes, but don’t be so naughty another time.” She laughed too. He made his escape while she waited for Judy. “You musn’t worry, dear. Your father was very naughty. But he knows it.”
Judy rushed past her. “Please don’t criticise Daddy,” she shouted back down the stairs.
Some time later Sylvia treated herself to a nice long talk with Mrs. Burrows while they washed up. After all, she’d done her full stint of entertaining, she had a right to relax now. Mrs. Burrows turned out to have a sister-in-law who worked in the Electrometrico canteen and some of the things she had to tell were really a revelation. At last Sylvia had to apologise for keeping her after eleven, but the woman said not to worry, she’d properly enjoyed their chat. After she had gone, Sylvia sat in the kitchen on her own with only the light from the dining room, the half darkness was quite soothing after the tiring evening. She smoked a cigarette and allowed her contentment, despite the little bother with Judy, to lap warmly over her tired body.
She came to from her dozing to see Ray with that Mr. Corney come into the dining room. They were both laughing. And then, “Oh! look what Carmen’s left behind, the gipsy’s warning.” Mr. Corney picked up Miss Bulmer’s black lace shawl and draping it round Ray’s shoulders capered round him in a little dance, “ ‘Imagine a tomboy dressed in lace, that’s Nancy with the laughing face,’“ he sang.
Sylvia remembered the number well. She laughed, and then, because she felt so pleased, she sang “ ‘She takes the winter and makes it summer. Summer could take some lessons from her. My Nancy with the laughing face.’“
The effect on the two men was immediate, they stood tensely still. “Who’s there?” Ray called, as though he were in Maigret, or something.
“Only Gran.”
“Oh! Are you all right, Gran?” His voice was still strained.
“Yes, why shouldn’t I be? I was laughing at your larks. Did my singing make me sound ill then?”
She switched on the kitchen light. Mr. Corney gave her a funny sideways look. “Ray tells me you’
ve been living at Eastsea,” he said, speaking very quickly, but with a sort of grand drawl, “I know it quite well really. At least I stayed there for a few weeks three summers ago. In lodgings with Mrs. Crutchley. I wonder if you know her.”
Sylvia didn’t, but this in no way checked the flow of his talk.
“She was a splendid old body and looked after me jolly well. We ate like fighting cocks. You ought to go there, Ray.”
“It sounds smashing, Wilf.”
Sylvia couldn’t understand it. “Well, I’d better take this back to that Miss Bulmer. She picked up the scarf. “ ‘The gipsy’s warning!’ “ She chuckled as she left the room.
Most of the guests had gone or were about to leave. Miss Bulmer was talking to Harold. “I managed Mark tonight,” she said. “Didn’t I, Mrs. Calvert? He’ll be Jimmie Porter because I said he wouldn’t. And now, what a marvellous opportunity to put the questionnaire to your Mother, Harold.”
He looked a bft surprised, but turned to Sylvia, “If you would, Mother. It might be rather interesting. It’s part of the survey Sally and I are conducting. A piece of amateur sociology to confound the professionals. You see we’re convinced ...”
“No, Harold. Explanations are quite out. And I’m not sure that a close relation should be present at the interview anyway. Mrs. Calvert,” she turned to Sylvia, “these are just a few questions that you may find it fun to answer. Now, first, how do you think of yourself? Don’t worry about class, age or job—just how do you think of yourself?”
“Mother’s in rather an intermediate position. As a result of the Butlinisation of the seaside ...”
“Now, Harold, keep quiet or go away. It’s so interesting. Just because of the close emotional relationship with her, you’ve immediately objectified. That’s according to our prediction. It’s a triumph for our system. But I’m afraid you’ve spoilt the question. Look, forget that question, Mrs. Calvert, and answer this one— what are you?”
Sylvia laughed, “I’m very fat.”
But neither Miss Bulmer nor Harold smiled. She tried again more seriously. “I was a manageress, but I’m nothing now.”