by John Metcalf
“Oh, look at you!” he said.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
She curtsied to left and right.
“Jeanne by Jeanne,” she said, “and gowns by Madam Compton-Smythe.”
“And many happy returns!” said Peter.
“I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m bloody hungry.”
“I think I feel puky,” he said.
“Eating’s just what you need. And a nice glass of milk.”
She switched on the main light and draped the silk gown about her shoulders. As he got out of bed, she said. “You can’t go wandering round the house bollock-naked. It’s rude.”
She rummaged through the drawers in the dressing table and tossed him a pair of yellow silk pyjamas. On the breast pocket was a large black “s” superimposed on a smaller “c”.
“Won’t he find out?”
“He’s got hundreds of pairs.”
“Posh, eh?” said Peter.
The trousers were too long and flopped over his feet.
“Posh isn’t the word,” said Jeanne. “When I answer the phone—honestly—I have to say, ‘The Compton-Smythe residence.’ And Anna isn’t allowed in the front garden because it wouldn’t be suitable.”
As they went down the stairs, she said in a loud, fluting voice, “Oh, Mrs. Abercrombie! The ashtrays.”
They sat in the fluorescent kitchen eating ham sandwiches. The counter was crowded with empty bottles, littered with bottle caps and the dry crusts from the sandwiches she had made for the party.
“Smells funny in here,” said Peter.
“Sort of sour,” she said.
He got up and looked along the counter. He stared into a carved walnut salad bowl near the refrigerator.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” he said.
“What?”
“No. Don’t look. Some dirty bastard puked in a salad bowl. Filled it.”
“Oh, leave it,” she said. “We can clear up tomorrow.”
“When are they coming back?”
“Sunday afternoon.”
“What if they come back earlier?”
“Well, even if they come back tomorrow there isn’t a train before three-thirty. I checked. Don’t worry about it.”
He put the bowl in the sink and turned the hot tap on.
“Did you bring the cigarettes?” she said.
“No.”
“See if there’s any left in the drawing room.”
He went along the passage and groped for the light switch in the hall. He went across into the drawing room.
“Holy shit!”
“What’s the matter?” she called.
“Look at it!”
Her slippers slapped across the hall.
“Just look at it!”
Glasses and mugs everywhere. Bottles. The rug heaped back towards the window. The hearth and fireplace littered with cigarette ends; the mantelpiece, a deep charred groove, ash, sticky yellow.
“It’s only mess,” said Jeanne. “No need to worry about it.”
The shards of a smashed plate on the floor by the radiogram. The tablecloth pinkstained with wine, curling sandwiches, wilting celery hanging out of a cut-glass jug. An egg sandwich with a cigarette stuck in it.
“I’m sure I saw a packet in here somewhere,” she said.
“What about this chair?”
He pointed to the long, splintering crack, the sprung inlay.
“A blue packet,” she said.
He bent over the piano and blew cigarette ash away from between the keys. He watched her as she lifted cushions and moved plates and bottles; his fingertips explored a raw wound in the patina of the dark wood of the piano lid.
“You won’t be able to fix this,” he said.
“What?”
“This.”
“In the morning,” she said. “Ah! I knew I’d seen some.”
“It’s spoiled,” he said.
He stirred the heaped carpet so that one end flopped down. Trodden into it was a sardine sandwich.
“What’s that humming noise?” she said.
“What?”
“Oh, we left the radiogram on.”
He knelt and started picking bits of greasy sardine from the pile of the carpet. The music made him jump.
“Turn it down, for God’s sake!”
Violins. A large orchestra. Waltz music.
She was lounging on the settee, her arm along the back tapping the rhythm. She rearranged the folds of the silk gown over her knees.
“I’d better get some hot water,” said Peter.
“How romantic of you,” she said.
“What?”
“On my birthday, too.”
He stood up and looked at her. She raised her eyebrows. He wiped the grease and gritty fibres from his hands with a paper napkin. Bowing low, he said, “May I have the honour of the last waltz?”
She stood and bobbed a curtsy; they moved together. They danced through the medley of waltzes on the LP. Peter stumbled once or twice on Compton-Smythe’s flapping pyjama legs, and Jeanne’s swirling robe caught and pulled over the jug of celery. Holding each other lightly, formally, they danced without talking, silently about and about the square of cleared floor. They danced, turning and lilting, danced until, with a loud click, the record ended.
Still holding each other, they stood for a moment listening to the silence before letting their arms fall.
Jeanne walked over and switched off the radiogram. Light gleamed off the facets of the celery jug; the spilled water was soaking down the tablecloth. He stood looking down at the dark patch on the carpet.
“Well,” she said, pulling the sash of her robe tight, “I suppose we’d better go to bed.”
He nodded.
“I’m going to sleep downstairs,” she said. “Because of Anna.”
“All right,” he said. He went out into the hall and switched off the light.
“Goodnight, Jeanne.”
“Goodnight.”
He started up the wide staircase.
“Goodnight,” she called again.
A voice was shouting in Peter’s sleep.
“Come on! More!”
He turned over and dragged the blankets up over the hump of his shoulders.
“Left hand down a bit!” shouted the voice.
Underneath the voice, there was a deep throbbing sound.
“Come on!”
He sat up, looking towards the curtains. It was morning. The throbbing was an engine coming closer, wheels crunching the gravel. He scrambled out of bed and ran to the window, lifting aside the curtains. A furniture van, directed by Frederick, was backing up to the front door.
“Come on!”
Just scraping past the low wall of the ornamental lily pond.
“Yes! You’re all right!”
With a grating crash and jangling of chains, the lowered ramp struck one of the stone pillars of the porch.
Peter hurried across into the bathroom and got dressed. His mouth tasted foul. Dr. Blackly’s Renowned and Efficacious Tooth Powder had hardened into an unworkable lump.
As he went down the stairs, he saw Jeanne and Mr. Arkle and a small man in blue overalls and a bowler hat.
“You should try heat rays,” she was saying.
Looking up, she said, “Oh, good morning, Peter.”
“Morning.”
“I don’t believe you’ve met Henry, have you?”
“How do you do?” said Peter, nodding.
Henry raised the brim of his bowler.
“It’s turned out a nice day,” said Mr. Arkle.
“You’ve got a very nice place here,” said Henry loudly.
“He works more down the shop now,” said Mr. Arkl
e. “More on the restoring side.”
“Very nice,” said Henry. “Spacious.”
Mr. Arkle tapped the bib of Henry’s overalls. Henry groped inside and brought out a large black hearing aid. He twiddled with the knobs on the side until it whined and crackled. He twisted the pink plastic bulb into his ear and looked at Mr. Arkle expectantly.
“Him,” bellowed Mr. Arkle, “him there—Mr. Hendricks—he was the one as was with me when I said it.”
“Said what?”
“About Frederick!”
“What about Frederick?”
“Go on! You remember! Strong as an ox! Eh? Eh?”
Henry smiled and looked round at their faces.
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” said Jeanne.
“They should write ‘em down in a book—the things he says,” said Henry.
“I takes him around now and then just for the ride,” said Mr. Arkle. “He enjoys getting out a bit, going in houses.”
“Bill’s a proper card, all right,” said Henry.
They all looked at him.
“Poor old bugger,” said Mr. Arkle.
“Yes, he is,” said Henry.
“Who?” bellowed Mr. Arkle.
“That Frederick. Often rude to me, he is. Rude young bugger. Hair like a girl’s.”
“Well,” said Peter, “if you’ll. . . .”
“Needs a taste of the stick,” said Henry.
“If you’ll excuse me,” said Peter, “I think I’ll get some coffee.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Arkle. “Don’t let us disturb you. We’ll be taking a look around.”
“Across his bare behind,” said Henry.
Peter stood waiting in the kitchen. The refrigerator was making odd clicking noises. They were still in the hall, talking. He heard her laugh.
Get started, lads! Carpets and mirrors.
Her footsteps sounded down the passage.
“Well?” he said. “What sort of a game do you think you’re playing?”
“I’m not playing games,” she said.
“You knew,” he said. “Last night.”
“There’s some coffee already made,” she said.
“You’d planned this.”
“Obviously,” she said. “Sit down and I’ll put some toast in.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?”
“What difference does it make? Dark or light toast?”
“Well, Jesus Christ! You might have said.”
She put the coffee in front of him.
“I mean, it’s not as if I’m a stranger, exactly. Why didn’t you?”
“Well, you know now, don’t you?”
“Thank you very much,” he said.
“I didn’t want to spoil our evening, Peter. I’m going away.”
Move it over to the side!
No! Your side! Your side!
“Why would it have spoiled it?”
“Because I’m going away.”
“All right. You’re going away. I still don’t see. . . .”
“As far away as I can get.”
“What do you mean?”
“And I’m not coming back.”
He spooned sugar into his coffee and stirred it. The toaster made twinging noises and the toast clanged up.
“You’ve planned this for weeks,” he said.
“Marmalade?” she said.
He stared across the table at her.
“Just like that, eh?” he said.
“I think there’s some of that lime sort you like,” she said. She got up and looked in one of the cupboards above the counter.
Hey! Mrs. C!
Are you finished in this big bedroom?
“Did you leave anything there?” she said.
“No.”
“Yes, you carry on!” she shouted from the doorway.
“Just like that!” Peter said again.
She put the jar in front of him.
“For weeks,” he said. “You’ve known for weeks.”
She sat down again.
“Jesus Christ!” he said.
“Oh, don’t be childish, Peter.”
“I wasn’t aware that I was.”
Footsteps pounded on the stairs. In the bedroom overhead, dragged furniture was rumbling and screeching on the bare boards. Peter looked up again and stared at her.
“Jeanne —”
She dropped her cigarette end into a half-finished bowl of cornflakes.
“What?”
“No. Nothing.”
He buttered the slice of toast.
“Swim! Swim!” said Anna’s voice. “Swim! Swim!”
She came through the door. “Swim!” she shouted.
“Hello, sweetheart,” said Peter.
“Where are your shoes?” said Jeanne.
“I don’t know. I’ve got a fish. Look.”
She held out a large brass dolphin.
“Isn’t that nice!” said Peter. “Where did you get it?”
“George gave it me. Off the front door.”
Making a humming noise, she pushed the brass dolphin round the table, round the marmalade pot, round Peter’s plate and the toaster.
“We’re going on holiday,” she said.
“Peter and I are talking,” said Jeanne. “Go and see what Mr. Arkle’s doing.”
The dolphin made a wide curve and landed on the counter. Still humming, she pushed it along the counter and went out of the door.
Peter spread marmalade on the toast and then cut the slice in half.
Frederick! Bring the little trolley in!
And some rope!
He licked butter off his fingers.
“I did come back,” she said.
The refrigerator started its clicking sounds again.
“Don’t you realize how long they’d send me up for?” she said.
He filled his coffee cup again.
“How do you think they found me before?”
The trolley wheels rattled on the tiles in the hall. He reached over for the sugar.
“They’ve got old photographs. They’ve got a description. They’ll be doing the rounds—grocers, laundries, employment agencies, doctors—maybe they even phone people who advertise for housekeepers. How long do you think I’ve got here?”
He looked at her as he took the second slice of toast from the toaster.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” she said, and getting up, slammed her chair back against the table.
Mrs. C!
Can we have a word with you?
“Coming!” she shouted from the doorway.
Peter spread marmalade on the second slice of toast.
“This isn’t the best time for having tantrums,” she said.
He did not turn round.
“You’ve known for weeks,” he said.
Mrs. C!
“You knew this even when we went to the cottage.”
She did not reply.
George and Frederick were trundling something through the hall.
Now! Get it under!
One end of the piano crashed onto the tiles; the strings vibrated.
“Didn’t you, Jeanne? Even at the cottage?”
The reflection of his hand. Rose’s Lime Marmalade. The reflection of his hand in the chrome toaster, distorted by the curving side.
“I’m very fond of you, Peter.”
He pulled his fingers in towards his palm so that his knuckles rose like pink lumpy mountains in the shiny chrome. He heard her move from the lino in the kitchen doorway onto the loud tiles in the passage leading to the hall.
“But I’m not ironing five years of shirts for you.”
When he had finished the toast and c
offee, he put the cup and plate in the sink. The walnut salad bowl was still there. He turned away and stood gazing out over the garden, over the white-painted herb boxes, over the rusted lawn roller, the compost heap, the bundles of canes, towards the wall of holly trees.
The shouts, the bump-bumping down the stairs aroused him. He turned from the window and looked around the kitchen. He looked at the table and along the littered counter. A frying pan on the stove, congealed fat and the lace of a fried egg. He looked down at the cigarette end floating in the cornflakes bowl.
He went over to the sink, fitted in the plug, and turned on the hot tap. He squirted in liquid soap and swished the water about with the mop. He washed the salad bowl, the plates and cups, the cutlery. He swept the counter down, clearing away the hardened crusts from the sandwiches, the bottles. He let water out and scoured the sink.
Upstairs, someone was hammering something. He read the laundry instructions on a packet of Tide. He switched on the radio. The noise grated on him. He switched it off. He wandered out into the hall.
The hall was empty. The three carved chairs, the piecrust table were gone. Only the grandfather clock still stood against the wall. Two red tiles in the middle of the hall were broken.
Footsteps boomed on the hollow stairs. He turned and looked up. Frederick was struggling with a Jacobean dower chest which had stood on the landing. The front of the chest was carved in a design of interlocking circles. As it went past, he saw the pink sticker, the blue-and-red snakes on Frederick’s arm.
Standing in the open doorway, he looked into the drawing room. The carpet, the piano, the radiogram, the table, the settee and armchairs were gone.
Bottles, paper, bits of sandwiches, celery, and dust-covered olives littered the bare boards. In the middle of the room, the chair with the broken back.
He wandered back down the passage and into the kitchen again. He opened one of the cupboards above the counter. Pyrex dishes. A cast-iron casserole. A chipped gravy boat. He clicked the cupboard shut. Fixed to the wall at the end of the counter was a large can opener. He spun the handle. The electric kettle had dried coffee grounds sticking to it. As he reached for the sponge to wipe it clean, footsteps sounded down the tiles.
Henry appeared in the doorway and stood there, nodding.
“This is a nice room,” he said. “What with the window, it’s nice and bright, eh?”
He made his way over to the table and lowered himself into a chair. A sigh escaped him as he sat back.
“Making a cup of tea, are you?” he said. “That’d be nice. A cup of tea’d go down nicely.”