Late Call

by Angus Wilson

  Arthur was already seated in the saloon bar when she arrived; with him was old Mr. Tucker and another man, not so unlike them, but a bit younger and wearing a bowler. It was all men in the bar except for a mannish-looking lady with a suede hat who ate a plate of toad in the hole at a table by herself and seemed to be adding up bills. Sylvia chose a gin and it, as she always did, but it seemed to put Arthur out. “Bloody woman’s drink.” He brought it for her with a tongue sandwich. “Though why the hell I should give any woman a tongue sandwich I don’t know. As if they hadn’t long enough tongues since the days of Eve.”

  The man in the bowler didn’t have much to say to her. He and Arthur were too busy working out the afternoon’s winners.

  “Melachrino!” Mr. Benson said, “I rather fancy Melachrino, Arthur, for the three o’clock.”

  “Melachrino!” Arthur’s eyes narrowed with contempt, “I wouldn’t trust that spavinlegged bastard in a selling hurdle after his performance at Doncaster last week.”

  “He’s got Mick Robinson up,” Mr. Benson said.

  “He’ll need to have and all. Look at the handicap he’s carrying. Anyway Mickey Robinson’s finished as a jockey. What race has he won this season? I ask you that.”

  “He won the 3.30 on the second day at Aintree.”

  “Aintree! I don’t know why I bet on this bloody steeplechase stuff.”

  “Melachrino,” Mr. Tucker announced, “that’s a Turkish cigarette. Or used to be.”

  “Turkish cigarette!” Mr. Benson echoed contemptuously.

  “Turkish cigarette!” Arthur almost exploded with irritation into Mr. Tucker’s face. “I don’t know why they let you out, Stanley. You Turkish twit, all you need is a veil and a yashmak, and with your pot you could do a belly dance.”

  Mr. Tucker joined in wheezily but heartily at this joke.

  “Do you like horse racing, Mrs. Calvert?” he asked.

  “Oh, a little flutter on the Derby and the Grand National, yes. And you?”

  “Oh, I’m very fond of it. Yes. I like to win, you know.”

  “I hope I’m not keeping you from picking the winners.”

  “Oh no! Not at all. I’d like your opinion on what will win this race.” He spread out the racing edition before her and pointed at the 4.0 starters. She read down the list. Such a nice old man, she thought. “Well, Lad O’My Fancy sounds a good one.”

  Arthur was on to it at once. “Lad O’My Fancy. Sort of bloody choice a woman would make. Look at the form!” He jabbed the entry with his forefinger. “Three times out in the last month and never in the first three! Lad O’My Fanny!”

  Sylvia was relieved when the men had to go off to the bookie’s and she was able to get her bus back to Melling. Three days later she left for Town Centre again with quite a sense of familiar pleasure. No meeting with Arthur this time; just shopping, perhaps a cup of coffee, and then the bus home, but at her own pace and thinking her own thoughts.

  When she had made her purchases she had a quarter of an hour to wait for the bus, so she decided to walk down to the big church —St. Saviour’s was it?—not that she often went into churches, but it was quite famous as a modern church Beth had told her and you couldn’t help wanting to know what such a strange building was like inside. Yet despite the odd metal steeple more like a piece of children’s Meccano and the funny slots in the side of the building, it was rather plain inside—spacious and light enough, but more like a lecture hall with unpolished wooden chairs and little tie-on cushion seats covered in jade green American cloth. Apart from a long thin silver crucifix that stood on the altar steps, you’d hardly know it for a church—not that it was at all like chapel; it was just a big room with everything very simple and quiet, especially the thin slotted glass windows through which the sun poured with a lovely sky-blue light. She picked up a card and read the prayer that was printed on it—”help us to avoid the easy jibe, the grouchy mood, and the martyred smile. Help us to forget ourselves in doing what we can for others and in doing it cheerfully . . . .” It all seemed sensible enough; lots of people found a great deal of comfort in religion. Yet Sylvia wasn’t too sure that she was looking for comfort.

  She came out of the church later than she had intended, late enough to see the Melling bus leave without her. To make sure of the next one she determined not to stray from the Town Centre. She looked again into the basin of the fountain, there seemed to be more paper, someone had dropped a whole Daily Express and its soggy pages had separated and wreathed themselves clamily around the ice-cream cartons. She followed the bronze twists of the “Watcher” more closely—it was like a maze, once you’d seen how the twists went, you could do it with your eyes shut. She looked to see if she could find any title to explain the mural, and, sure, enough, tucked away in a chipped lower corner of the emerald mosaic there was some writing. She went up close to look at it. “E. Oicker”, it read.

  “I had no idea you were an art lover, Mrs. Calvert.” The loud voice was like a cheery gale. Sylvia turned guiltily round to see Mrs. Milton. She looked redder and sweatier in the face than ever; and no wonder, for under her zipped leather jacket she was wearing at least two heavy woollies. Sylvia noticed that she had a slight dark moustache, which you couldn’t like.

  “How do you find our Ernie’s work?” And when Sylvia looked blank. “It’s a Dicker. The Country Idyll. Chris loathes the thing. He calls it the Country Piddle. I’ve named it Dicker’s fiddle. There are so many good young craftsmen who needed the commission. But of course the Corporation went out for a name. Trust them! Don’t tell the Headmaster I said that. I’m in his. black books enough already over Goodchild’s meadow. Let me buy you a coffee.”

  “Thank you very much, but I think I should get my bus, Mrs, Milton.”

  “What, and have the Headmaster saying I couldn’t even do the honours of the town to his mother. No thank you. Which shall it be—the Ten Pin Hall or the Black Cat?”

  Sylvia chose the Black Cat, because she had been so fond of the Black Cat at Eastsea when she’d had the afternoon off. The Black Cat here was quite different—no dolls or handmade jewellery for sale; it was like a mixture of a coffee bar and an old-fashioned confectioner’s. There were only three tables crowded in between the bar and the busy shop front. The constant hum of customers asking for Eccles cakes and loaves and sponge fingers as well as the noise of the Espresso machine only roused Lorna Milton to louder gales. Her talk was like being blown along the sea front, Sylvia thought, and smiled.

  Politeness and curiosity united to help her out this time. “What exactly is this trouble about Goodchild’s meadow, Mrs. Milton?”

  “Oh no! Oh no! You’re not catching me. I’ve had one of the headmaster’s straight talks about that already. ‘No propaganda, Lorna, please.’ “ To Sylvia’s dismay, in imitation of Harold, she stroked her own moustache. Then discretion satisfied, “It’s a storm in a tea cup. The truth is that if our Harold could, he’d like to oppose the whole thing, but as they’re going to build these posh houses and he’s so keen on multi-status Carshall, he can’t very well take the usual ‘only over my dead body line’. What he and Muriel Bartley and all the other old stagers have got up to though is a sentimental campaign about the meadow. You’ve seen it, I suppose, by the way. . . . Well, I ask you! Of course, it looks nice with the cattle in summer. And the original idea was a good one. But ...” She stopped in mid-sentence and offered a plate of heavy cakes. Sylvia took a parkin, Lorna a bun with a lump of lemon curd on top. “This’ll stop my big mouth,” she laughed.

  Sylvia was quite bemused, “But what can Harold do?” she asked.

  Lorna laughed again, “You tell me. Oh, Mrs. Calvert, I oughtn’t to say it, but can’t you stop him? It’s such a waste of his time. He’s a wonderful headmaster. Well, no, that’s not true. But such a wonderful teacher! He knows more about teaching the backward than anyone in the country.”

  “He’s certainly done well with the textbooks.”

  “So he should. He’s got
a genius for it. And he wastes his time on these outside things! Oh, I know de mortuis and so on, but it’s her fault. She wanted to run everything. And she wasn’t content until she had pushed him into it all. And the poor kids too.”

  Sylvia crumbled her parkin nervously. “I think Harold and Beth had every reason to be proud of the way they’ve brought up the children. They’re wonderful.”

  “Oh, of course, they’re nice youngsters. And they’d be nicer still if they weren’t put on show. What about Look Back in Anger? I’m all for it. A spot of culture in Carshall. What do Chris and I run the art show for? We don’t expect results; we’re pleased if two or three come along. But this ‘all Calvert cast’ stuff. Produced by Mr. Harold Calvert, starring Miss Judy Calvert and Mr. Mark Calvert. And I’ve no doubt Ray’s sunny face will be seen somewhere, if it’s only over the top of a bouquet.” She looked at her watch, “Time for your bus.” When she’d paid the bill, “Well, this has been a red-letter day for me. I’ve put my big foot in it everywhere I could. Chris is going to like me for this.”

  “I’m sure you don’t have to worry with me. I don’t really understand . . .”

  “Look, Mrs. Calvert. I’m famous for saying the wrong thing, it’s just that . . . well, I get a bit upset. Old Chris works damned hard. And nobody seems to . ..”

  “Harold thinks the world of Mr. Milton. He’s told me more than once how he relies on him.”

  “And so he can,” Lorna’s tone was grim, but her brown eyes were those of a stroked nervous dog. “By the way I do all my shopping in the Town Centre. Craighill’s no good for anything but baked beans. So we must have another coffee natter soon. Next time we’ll talk about you.” She stretched out a fur-gloved paw and shook Sylvia’s hand like a friendly tame bear.

  Harold raised his eyebrows when he heard of his mother’s encounter. “I don’t wish to fuss you, Mother, but you want to be careful what you say to our Lorna. I don’t mean that she’s a mischief maker. But she’s rather embittered. She’s got it into her head that old Chris is headmaster material, and, of course, he isn’t. He’s a very good second in command, with careful guidance. But Lorna will never accept it. She’s for ever pushing poor old Chris. It’s pathetic.”

  For the next few days she had no need to shop. She made herself cosy up in her own room. Mark had repaired all the damaged furniture, and Ray had found some chaircover material which she’d run up while Arthur was ill. It was a sort of rough unbleached linen with stripes in ochre and dull red—an Arab design, Ray said. At first she hadn’t felt a bit happy about it; but there was no doubt at all that the colours toned in well with the mustard and white. Not that she’d have ever chosen such a combination as the foundation for her room—a pretty blue, delphinium or cornflower, more like, with perhaps a suggestion of mauve, a wisteria pattern or a lilac—but still when everyone is so kind you mustn’t ask for the heavens. After all they hadn’t had their own place since the big smash up with those debts of Arthur’s in 1929 when they’d had to sell “The Fuchias” Guest House in Paignton with its pretty verandah. So this was as much their own place as they had had in any of the hotels; or more so. Arthur was clearly happy enough with it. On such evenings as he was in, he made straight for his old armchair.

  She buried herself deep in A Winter Holiday. It was all to do with a red-haired girl at an office who’d been ill, after a broken engagement. She got an anonymous present of £250 with which to take a winter holiday abroad. At first she felt too numbed to use it. To her surprise, however, her employer, who was usually a grouchy sort of man, urged her to go, and even recommended a holiday hotel in Sicily. You could tell the author had been there because there were descriptions of the almond trees in blossom and of those Greek temples—”honey coloured against a deep blue sea”. Just as the heroine was feeling really strong again and getting a bit restless because there were very few visitors in Sicily at that time of the year—although the natives, it seemed, were very kind and lively and made her smile with all their talk—who should turn up but her boss? It was he who had sent the money, it seemed. Sylvia wished she hadn’t borrowed quite so light a novel. She made herself read on. The boss hadn’t intended to follow the heroine there at all; but he was so unhappy, his wife who had always been a bad lot was in a home for drunkards, and obviously he’d fallen in love with Yolande—that was the heroine’s name. And quite reverently without any attempt to press his love upon her, although she had guessed, he set himself to give her a wonderful time—motor trips to Mount Etna and wonderful fish lunches on terraces covered in morning glory. At last, “ ‘You’ve done all this for me,’ Yolande whispered. ‘You’ve brought me alive, darling, after a long dark winter sleep.’ ‘Like a little red squirrel,’ Rodney said. And he smiled to think how apt his comparison was. His own little precious rare red squirrel!” Sylvia shut the book. She reminded herself not to get any more of Martin Home’s. They had become too silly.

  She busied herself with moving the cushions around, but it was no good, she did not feel at home. She felt shut in, and, closing in upon her like the doors of a jail, came first the thought of Melling, with its crowds of children on bicycles and kidicars and tricycles, its ton-up boys and girls in jeans, its endless lively houseproud young couples producing more and more kids, what place had an old fat woman there drowned in Renee Cranston’s cheeky certainties? And then, like the clanging of the outer door, came Carshall with its prams and arcades, and queues of teenangers for the Mecca, and churches like halls, and ten pin she didn’t understand, and murals she could make nothing of—bang, this outer door clanged, blown shut in the gale of Lorna Milton’s buffeting words. It was unbearable to go about where strangers discussed and criticised your own flesh and blood; especially when those strangers knew all about the family and you did not. But of course they were not strangers; she was the stranger. Perhaps she had been forcing the pace. She decided to give the New Town a rest. She would go into Carshall Old Town to shop tomorrow—it would be more what she was used to and it would be somewhere new. She felt pleased at her decision—you never got old as long as you kept your curiosity alive.

  The clock said only four o’clock. She longed for the first member of the family to return. As if she had anything to grumble at! Now poor Miss Priest—for the photo in the Daily Express showed her clearly that it was her Miss Priest although of course she was an old lady now—really had troubles. Even the newspapers seemed to imply what Mrs. Bartley had said openly. It must be bitter for her to know people were wishing her brutally murdered instead of her niece just because she was old. She had been such a lively and sensitive woman. She almost decided to write to her; but you couldn’t really write to say you were glad someone hadn’t been murdered instead of her niece.

  She went downstairs and made a Victoria sandwich in order to fill in time, although, to tell the truth, Ray’s sponges were much lighter than hers. And it was yet only just after five. She looked out of the window into the fading light to where shadowily the fields lay hidden in that damp white mist which rose each evening from the clayey soil. There would be nothing moving now above that sodden yellowish earth, unless it were a few late roosting peewits or an early stirring owl, breaking the cold clammy air with their melancholy cries.

  The journey to Old Carshall next morning was tiring, involving two changes of buses, but she alighted in a charming market high street before a row of old-world houses with their black-and-white beams. By the village green stood a stone cross and they had preserved an old ducking stool where the poor old women used to be punished for gossiping. Unfortunately it turned out to be early closing day, so she had to shop immediately. Even then they didn’t have the packets of ravioli that Mark had asked for, so that she must shop in the New Town on her way home. The sun was shining quite brightly for February, and, after she’d had a pot of tea and a boiled egg, she decided to stroll around the old place for half an hour. She went into the church—it was all churches now, she thought, laughing—which was really ancient with a
lovely old organ painted blue and gold, and real stained glass windows, one of them very interesting to her because of the tommies and hospital nurses shown in it. When she came out again it was raining hard. A little ashamed, she went into the cinema with a queue of school kids. There was only one picture—about King Charles II, before the time of Nell Gwynne and all that, when he was running away from old Oliver Cromwell. He was hiding in the cellar of a famous castle which had been taken by a Roundhead colonel. The colonel’s daughter found him there, but she didn’t betray him; instead she helped him to escape by sending a dove with a message or something. It was quite difficult to follow—one of those very complicated pictures with nothing to them—and then every time a man was thrown from the walls or knocked off his horse, which was very often, the kids all cheered; and when anybody kissed, which wasn’t very often, the kids made a sucking sound. Sylvia came out before the end, but very quietly so as not to spoil the children’s pleasure.

  She went to the Crown for tea. It was a beautiful old Trust House. Sitting in the lounge before the great open fire admiring the beams and the horsebrasses, she ate her piece of shortbread with a real relaxed pleasure. For a moment she forgot everything, and fancied that she was having her weekly afternoon off. The manageress—one of those smart women with white hair but very young faces—came up and asked if she had all she wished.