Late Call

by Angus Wilson

  She could hear herself telling it all to give them time, especially to give herself time to get ready for whatever it was that had happened to Ray.

  Mark showed a letter to them both. “You’d better read this. He left it for me at the Forrester’s.”

  Sylvia, leaning over Harold’s shoulder read aloud: “Dear Bum-face. . . .”

  “That’s the name he always gave me. I called him . . . well, that doesn’t matter anyway. It was a secret.”

  Sylvia didn’t read aloud any more.

  “I’m off up to London. For good. A lorry bloke got pinched last week that was one of our lot at the transport cafe. He was done for nicking off the lorries. But they’ve been down at the cafe questioning everyone. Prowse had a word with me, ‘just a friendly word of fatherly advice’—two-faced old sod! I never had anything to do with this bloke. My chums aren’t the sort to shoot their mouths off. It was Wilf I was worried for. You know what he’s like. And now they’ve frightened him so much he’s stuffed his stupid head in the oven, silly bugger! If I stay here I shall hit one of the bastards and that’ll do no one any good, not even poor bloody Wilf. Anyway I see it all clearly now. I can’t live here—the greatest in Carshall, the lad they all love— and don’t suppose I don’t like it, not just being the greatest, but Carshall, the whole set-up far better than you. If I was normal, that is, but then I’m not. Geoffrey’s been telling me this for ages. It’s only London that’ll work for us. Anyhow the point is I’ve got to get out now. And that leaves you and Gran to hold the umbrella over Dad. And he needs it badly at the moment. As I told Gran he’ll never come in out of the rain himself. So I’ve sold you the pass. Anyway with the managing directorship a certain carrot in the future, you can afford to carry the load, boyo. Congratulations by the way. We ought to have celebrated. And don’t worry about me. I’m not in trouble yet. And with good luck in London I shan’t be. Geoffrey’s address will find me.”

  The address was in Bryanston Square. Sylvia, looking at Harold, guessed that much of Ray’s letter was as mysterious to him as to her.

  Mark, mistaking their incomprehension, said apologetically,

  “It all sounds a bit too hearty, doesn’t it? But he’s under great strain. He wouldn’t put all those things ... I mean about managing director and that stuff, he knows as well as I do that I’ve only made the first step. . . .”

  Harold brushed this aside.

  “Of course he’s under strain. He’s by no means sure that he’s not in trouble. He’s whistling to keep his spirits up. And if he is in trouble, doing a bunk gives the worst possible appearance.”

  “Poor Ray! Poor Mr. Corney!”

  “Yes, Mother, I’m sorry for that too. He wasn’t a bad little chap, but he was always a queer fish, you know. Lorry drivers! Nicking! Prowse may well have warned Ray. What a world to get into! All this stuff about the police, though, is a pity. I’m not blaming Ray, but he’s lost his sense of proportion. I’m going down to see Inspector Prowse myself this afternoon. We’re good friends and if Ray’s in trouble with the law, I shall soon get an idea of it. If not, he must come back at once. I don’t know who this Geoffrey is. . . .”

  “Geoffrey Lawshall—he’s a London friend of Ray’s, Dad. He’s in the rag trade too.”

  “Ah! . . . Well, he’s given very bad advice. This isn’t a London suburb or a cathedral town. If a community like Carshall can’t help a decent chap like Ray to make a more normal life for himself, then we’ve failed. We want him back and we want him with the family. I’ll have no narrow-minded censoriousness in this house. Oh, I don’t mean you, Mother, you’ve taken it very well. I’m going to have to work over-time with term coming on, this business of Ray’s and galvanising the Committee into life again.”

  Sylvia saw Mark flinch at the word “Committee”.

  “You’ll put Ray first, dear, won’t you?” And she looked across at Mark to give him hope. “I must go up and relieve Nurse Hepburn. If Dad hasn’t strangled her already.”

  But she needn’t have worried. Arthur’s voice was still very weak, yet in slow, halting tones he was busy chaffing the nurse.

  “Reeling down Sauchiehall Street every Saturday night and psalmsinging with the meenister next morning. Bloody hypocritical race! How do you expect any of them to get into the First Division?”

  “I don’t know anything about football.”

  “She doesna ken a muckle thing. ...”

  But the Scots accent was too much for him, he ended in a wracking fit of coughing.

  “Now, you’ll not say another word. That’ll teach you to speak against Scotland.”

  But even pain didn’t hold Arthur back on such an occasion.

  “Whatever its faults it produces very bonnie nurses. I’ll say that for the land of the heather.”

  “Och! You’re an awfu’ flatterer.”

  Nurse Hepburn seemed to grow more Scots under his charms.

  “Well, Mrs. Calvert, I must awa’ noo and get ma dinner. But I’ll be back again to keep you in order, Captain, aboot six o’clock. And now, Mrs. Calvert, if we could have a wee word ootside aboot the Captain’s medicine.”

  Once in the passage Nurse Hepburn assumed a mourning face, but Sylvia resisted her example.

  “Well, he seems in good spirits, Nurse.”

  “Aye. It’s a good thing. It’s best for them to go out that way.”

  “But Doctor Piggott thinks he’ll be well again in no time.”

  “Och! Then he will be. The doctor knows best.”

  “I think you should tell me what you think.”

  “I don’t think anything, Mrs. Calvert. I’m just the nurse. But. . . . Well, with these strokes, you can get quite well. But he’s an old chap, and never a strong one. All we must hope for is that he’ll not linger a long time after the second stroke. They tend to come in threes, you know.”

  “Yes, I did know that.”

  She came back into the bedroom full of a tenderness that frightened her. Before Nurse Hepburn’s declaration her belief that he would die had been her own secret. Now she felt for him as someone to be protected against the world’s knowledge. He lay with his eyes closed. She stood over him and stroked his cheek. He opened his eyes.

  “Yes, yes. I know. I’m a goner. But I don’t know why you’re looking so glum. When I’m down you’re up. And this time I’m going down for good.”

  He said it so much as a statement of fact that she couldn’t tell what bitterness there was in it. She went on automatically stroking his cheek for a few seconds, and then suddenly drew away her hand. Her tenderness seemed like an insult to him now. It’s you who’ve overdone the slush this time, my girl. She sat down to sort it all out.

  Although Arthur went off to sleep, she asked Mark to bring her a boiled egg up to their room. She would never now let Arthur wake up alone.

  “Dad’s gone off to see old Prowse. I don’t think he can harm Ray and he may do some good. Certainly it seems to have pulled him together.”

  “Yes, dear. He wants so much to be of use to you all. That’s the trouble. Oh, I know it’s silly. You’re grown men now. He’ll have to see it sooner or later.”

  They sat for a few minutes in silence.

  “Now that Dad’s out, and if you’re all right, I might go out myself. I arranged to meet Pris . . . and some others. It’s such a fine Saturday. And we’d thought ...”

  “Off you go at once.”

  But he’d hardly left when she heard the door-bell, and on going to the door, his voice.

  “Who is it, Mark?”

  He came upstairs and whispered. “It’s old Bulmer. She wants to talk to us. She’s in a state about Dad.”

  “Oh dear. I can’t leave Arthur now. . . .”

  “She seems so serious. I think we should see her.”

  “Very well, dear. But she’ll have to come up here and talk quietly so as not to wake your Granddad. Anyway, you go off, I can see her on my own.”

  “Of course not. Dad’s just as much my
job as yours.”

  Going back to Arthur, Sylvia thought, Why do we all have to be so much each other’s jobs?

  Certainly Sally Bulmer had made Harold hers. She disposed quickly of her respects to Arthur’s illness by tiptoeing up to his bed and peering at him, for all the world as though he were some rare butterfly that might take flight at the first creak of her heavy bones. Then still on tiptoe and smiling at Sylvia as though she were the proud owner of the rarity, she sat down and whispered.

  “He’s not done for.”

  Sylvia wondered how Miss Bulmer claimed to know this and what business it was of hers anyway.

  “Harold Calvert’s too useful to Carshall and too good a man to be downed by a lot of talk. He made a fool of himself last night, but more shame to those who let him do it. Yes, don’t look away, Mark, I mean you. By the way, I hear it’s to be room at the top after all. Congratulations. And the rest of his family. Oh, I don’t blame you alone. We all let him down. That fool of a woman Muriel Bartley’s been on the ‘phone to me already. ‘I ought to have let him speak from the platform. I thought I was acting for the best.’ Twaddle! I believe poor old G.B.S. is out of fashion, isn’t he, Mark? But he was wise in his generation—’Hell is paved with good intentions.’ Well, I gave her a piece of my mind that might have brought real green shadows to her eyes. And Lorna Milton! ‘I suppose our Harold will be running to a doctor now for sick leave, leaving the management of the school to Chris again.” If your man managed you for a bit, he’d show himself a man for once, I told her. But there’s still a lot of work to do stopping tongues.”

  “We’ve been kept very busy here.”

  “Oh, Lord, I know, Mark. Rabbits in your hutch. That’s why I’m here. To light a cracker or two under your tails.”

  She stared at Sylvia, but Sylvia stared back at her, only indicating Arthur as her natural priority with a slight gesture of her hand.

  “Troubles never come singly. You’re old enough to know that, woman, but it won’t do you any harm. Better for you than Wardress Webb.” She broke into a laugh, then put a finger to her lips to urge silence in the sick room. She took Sylvia’s hand.

  “Don’t take any notice of my barking. You’re doing a fine job. But we must stop the tongues wagging. That’s the first job.”

  “If only Ray were here. He knows everyone and gets around so much.”

  “Hm. Maybe it’s as well your brother isn’t here. If you’re writing to him, give my love, and tell him from me, if he can’t be good, to stop away. We’ve only just missed a nasty bust-up as it is, from what I can make out.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, comeity come! As if I haven’t dealt with Ray’s kind all my working days. I like them on the whole. But I’ve always said the same to them, ‘It’s a stupid law but it’s there. So if you can’t be good, be careful.’ Of course, they never are. Oh no, he’s better off in the big, bad city.”

  “Now Miss Bulmer, Mark doesn’t know what you mean and I’m sure I don’t. You talked about tongues wagging. . . .”

  Sally got up from her chair. She stood regally in front of them.

  “My dear people, in case you don’t know it, I am a social worker. We have our professional ethics, you know. We honour the confessional like a priest or doctor, and as carefully. Did you really suppose I should say anything outside these four walls?”

  When she had gone, Mark said, “Isn’t she awful?”

  “She’s been very good, Mark. Not many people, you know . . .”

  “Yes, of course. But I said, isn’t she awful?”

  Sylvia nodded, “I’m afraid she is. Awful.”

  Then they both burst out laughing.

  Indeed it was almost a jubilant evening. Arthur was well enough to take a little supper, and even Nurse Hepburn urged Sylvia to leave him alone at dinner time. Down in the dining-room Harold announced that Ray was in no danger from the law.

  “Prowse said very frankly that Ray had got into unwise company. He gave me quite a talking-to as Ray’s father. But he thinks Corney was the source of the trouble, and that in the right crowd of young people Ray should soon put the whole thing behind him.”

  “I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that, Dad.”

  “No, no. I realise that, Mark. I’m not an entire fool, but I wasn’t going to say anything that would put Ray in wrong with the police. No, I think he’s got seriously to consider having some decent up-to-date treatment. But first he must come home. I’ve drafted a friendly letter this evening urging him to come back at once.”

  The pencil draft took some deciphering, but they got the main drift of what he read to them.

  “I have seen Inspector Prowse and you have no reason to be afraid that you’re in trouble although it’s pretty clear to me that you’ve been very unwise. I only blame myself that you never felt able to come and tell me of your difficulties. If you had, what was probably only a passing phase in every adolescent’s life (I seem dimly to remember some ‘crush’ as we called them on a golden-haired, cherubic junior boy—now no doubt a hoary father of five—in my own school days) need never have assumed the exaggerated proportions in your life that it has now. Anyway, come home, I do beg you. Sexual choice is a small, often exaggerated part of life. The pleasures, ideals and memories that unite you to your family and to your friends here at Carshall are so much more important than this one barrier that now seems to loom so large in your life, your ever loving Dad.”

  Harold sat back. “I’ve done my best. I can’t do more.”

  It seemed easy now to Sylvia to put her hand on Harold’s shoulder and press it rather than to answer. She looked across at Mark. He too said nothing, but smiled at his father.

  “Well, if everybody’s satisfied, I’ll make a fair copy and post it this evening.”

  Harold went off to his study. Sylvia stayed to help Mark with the washing-up. He was too eager to communicate his own good news to comment on his father’s letter.

  “I went round to Alan Rodger’s before supper. I admit old Sally B. had me a bit rattled about Dad. But Alan says there’s as many approve of what Dad said as don’t. And as to his outburst, he’s looked on as an excitable, clever chap. Alan’s doing the report in The Mercury. He read it to me. It simply says, ‘Mr. Calvert, as one would expect, protested vigorously and eloquently against what he believed was a mistaken decision.’ So much for old Bulmer’s crackers. We’ve still got our tails. Mine’s a bit singed but . . .”

  Sylvia was still laughing at this when she answered Shirley Egan’s ‘phone call.

  “Yes, he’s a little better, thank you, Shirley. Yes, and Harold, too.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad. Timbo and Mandy send love.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  “Well, it’s good to hear you laughing, anyway. Let me know if we can do anything. And when shall we see you?”

  “Oh yes. Thank you.”

  Sylvia was still chuckling as she rang off. She only registered Shirley’s question later that night.

  The luminous dial of her watch told Sylvia that it was half past three when she woke next morning with an urgent need to go somewhere. The demands of her bladder were so irregular and frequent these days, but, there you are, that was one of the penalties of old age. Arthur, propped up by pillows, was in one of his deeper sleeps; his breathing sounding as it so often had for so many years of his life, like an agonised last gasp. She crept out of the room and left the door ajar, even so she feared she must have woken him, for, from the lavatory, she could hear him moving in the bed—a sound now rare, he usually lay so still. Then as she hurried back across the passage, there sounded a loud and heavy thud; and she entered the room to see him lying sprawled on the rug beside his divan bed. She went to lift him, but he lay so heavy and inert that she had to call Mark and Harold. Together they got him back into bed, but apart from his prolonged sharp breathing and the flicker of his eyes, his whole trunk was motionless. He had suffered his last, paralysing stroke.
>
  Some hours later, around eight, with doctor and nurse in attendance, he died. As Harold said more than once, “In the circumstances no one but a monster would have wanted the old man to live on.” Although this was not a thought that came often to Sylvia that day. She had known enough deaths—who hadn’t at sixty-five?—to go through the routine of undertakers, telegrams to Ray and Judy, choosing a wreath, answering phone calls and all else as though she had done it all before in some dream. By the afternoon only physical exhaustion warned her of the strain she was undergoing.

  “I shall just go and lie down for half an hour, Harold, dear.”

  “Of course, Mother. You’d better use Ray’s room for the time being.” She was puzzled. “Ray’s room? . . . Oh no, dear. I’ve always shared a room with Dad.”

  She looked at Arthur’s white face above the sheets. They had somehow smoothed out most of his wrinkles. After closing his eyes, Nurse Hepburn said that he looked peaceful, but to Sylvia he looked only dead.

  Kicking off her shoes, loosening her belt, she flopped down on her bed. Her gorge rose, so that for a moment she thought she would vomit, then awful retching, rending sobs welled up in her so that her fat body was shaken again and again. She tried deliberately p recall, to cling to, those few happy secret times they had known together; but a desperate grief closed in upon her, grief for all the years and years that had been nothing or worse than nothing, for tenderness dried up and tenderness drained away into indifference. For more than an hour she lay there, pressing her face close into the pillow, stifling her frantic crying that no one must hear, as wave followed wave and knocked her down again, punishing her for shyness, prudery, laziness, selfish bitterness, failures she couldn’t name.