He shook his head impatiently. That had to be risked. Main thing was to get on with it. Against his real will—which wished, since they were his own wrists, to cut carefully and tenderly—he told himself to do it quickly, to hold both hands in front in the air and then—slash quickly. With the movement of drumsticks. Like a man with butterpats. Quickly. One-two. He stretched out his hands, turned the right wrist inwards, held his breath and waited.
Waited for what?
A word of command.
From whom?
For the first time he realized that word must come from himself and no one else: he was absolutely alone with his own will.
The steam rose lightly on the water’s surface, no more than a snaking of mist on the bath green. The snow pawed silently on the black window above. Movement everywhere—but no sound. He felt no longer alone, but in a crowd of movers making no sound but restlessly waiting. And supposed he would make no sound either, razor-blades made no sound. Suddenly he saw himself sliding down after it was done, a splashing of water, the dark blood clouding round him in the water. He grew greatly afraid.
Afraid of what? Because he had to make his own hands move to do it? Was he afraid of decision? No, not him! He looked closely at the skin on his wrist, soft and so tenderly his own. He saw how his finger-pads were soaked in the steamy air and ridged like fresh-waved white sand, like dead skin. Abruptly then a new thought came from nowhere, a thought suddenly from the world lost outside the bathroom. Something whispered to him that Hörnli was a Swiss. A Swiss would own Swiss francs. And Swiss francs were very valuable. And he saw instantly for the first time what precisely he wanted to see—that the Swiss francs rather than Hörnli were what Laure wanted. Not the young man’s potency but the potency of money! Only that…. He understood well what a hard currency meant. So what was he so troubled about? He was not preferred, this was something quite different…. With abounding relief he lowered a little his hands. He let out his tense breath. And lay there feeling for the first time the old pleasant warmth of the bath.
But a doubt was there. He held hard on to this new bright belief, but deeper in his brain a dark and troublesome doubt assembled like a cloud. He held hard, he concentrated on the idea of Swiss francs. His chin came out—and abruptly and proudly a new thought came. He decided to find out. He would go against all his principles—he would go out dancing with them, to a beer cellar with them, and by God he would go up in the ski-lift! Yes, and he’d even ski! He’d stay with them at all their games and find out!
Then—he saw himself up at the ski-station. He saw clearly. He watched as the minute passed and he saw what would happen pass like a bright film through the minute….
He saw himself up there by the hut, dressed for snow. He saw exactly how he was dressed, and how it was a bright and sunlit day, and how he was buckling on his skis among a merry crowd of people buckling on theirs. Much colour against the snow, much excitement: the air was crisp and the crowd of them were ready for the day’s sport. Laure and Hörnli were not yet there. He himself had gone up early. He wanted to be there ready for them. And he was cunning enough to know that he needed practice, he needed quite a time on the nursery slopes. He was out of practice by a good many years.
But people were moving off, the white slopes were a dapple of gnome colour—people as small as children, suddenly a child as big in perspective as a grown-up, all dressed the same it was difficult to make out … and he balanced himself up on his sticks and walked sliding easily off.
But as soon as a slope came he was down. He had difficulty getting up. One ski slid one way, the back of the other caught in the snow and remained sticking up helplessly. Yet he managed to struggle upright. Then off for a few metres … and down again. This time worse.
He struggled with all his strength. His hat fell off. A child of five swerved easily past him. He was dreadfully knotted. But, sweating now, he did finally force himself up. He went veering on. Knees together, feet wider and wider, all awkwardness, no figure of a man. And collapsed again. Voices shouted: ‘Achtung! Achtung!’ And through his snow-filled eyes he seemed to see voices swear as they swerved past him. He was just in the way. Painfully again he tried to get up. He got up. But he was facing the wrong way. Then to turn. Putting that one leg awkwardly up and round. But in mid-turn the other leg slid away—and once more he was down in a baffled mess. He was finished. He knew he would never get out of this, never get back to land. He was right back in the first days of learning, humiliated and tired and useless….
He sat up panting, a clown-figure tangled and snow-drenched. And just then he heard his name: ‘Ludwig!’ He listened and looked vaguely up back the slope and an echo came, a laughing echo: ‘Bobby! Bobby! Bobby!’
Up above he saw Laure and Hörnli pointing at him and waving and laughing. Then together, as they saw him looking at them, they prised on their sticks and came sweeping down the slope.
Together, as though they were linked, they passed where he was and smiled and called good-naturedly: ‘Ludwig—Enjoy yourself! Goodbye … goodbye …!’ And they were past.
He watched them, the pair, sure as a couple can be, ski-ing beautifully down the long white slope, then up another, over again and across the wide snowfield, always smaller, further, smaller—until together they passed away over the mountainside and were gone.
De Broda sat absolutely still in the hot water, a little razor-blade held in each hand like the parts of a child’s broken toy. And slowly two tears, two big single tears dropped from his eyes, dribbled over his cheeks, and fell down into the other water beneath.
Life, Death
O LIFE was jolly in the sunlight, splashing the cod around. Water playing on our slab, ferns as cool as green, the whitest tiles in town.
It was my happy job to set the fish for show. I’d take a turbot say for central, a heavy fellow white and round. Then red lobsters, I’d ring my lobsters round that turbot, all their noses in, to make the petals of a flower. Then I’d take a cut of haddock, place this yellow by the turbot’s head. I don’t know why I put that haddock at the head, more than at tail or sides. I don’t know what I did not half the time. But it always came out right. I’ve that eye for colour: and I’d parsley my lobsters, green to red.
Jim-at-the-Back would be out the back, sluicing his wood with water. Back in the dark with his gas-blue jet, getting out his gut-knives, sloshing on his footboard, thudding on his crates and whistling a song. A busy music Jim made, his hose made music—morning music that was, music of day to begin, bright as the rattling of our shutter when we hoisted her to let all light come flooding in. Like a curtain, our green shutter: and opening her a chorus.
Now I had my white coat and my blue apron, and now I’d jam my straw on pleased to greet the trade. But first I could finish off—now I’d got my central. Mackerel, trouts and my red-spotted plaicelings—those coloured fellows I would take next. Striped mackerels I’d make into a ring, and place a crab within. Two rings I’d make, one each side to balance. Then stars of rainbow trout, all wet colours of the rainbow dew. But my plaice—my good brown plaice with the bright red dabs, these I’d bend tail to head, tail to head so they’d make a round, and I’d set them plumb in middle below the big turbot, for a braver-marked fish would be hard to find.
And right down further—though this was not the least important—there’d be ordinaries … the herrings, the whiting, the cod. They’d go on trays. But I’d range them neatly as the rest: and in their middle place a tray of rich pink shrimps. But my long fish, you’ll say? My three H’s, rule of three and thumb, haddock and hake and halibut? My pike if you like? Yes, they’d all come in—they’d come in squaring up the rest, they’d come for squaring up. I’d put a lemon in a big pike’s mouth, lemon to teeth, and sometimes there’d be mullet like coral and bream as pink-brown babies. And soles with their faces all one side—a tearful sight.
Scallops? What with my scallops? Lump them in middle, a bunch of fresh-poached eggs? Make circles of them round
my soles? Line them up to write my name? Not I! That I never would! … No, I’d put one of them here and one of them there, and one more there and another here—so they’d be eyed all over the place. And if Jim-at-the-Back came front and queried, ‘Where’s your poached, my Charley-boy, my Barley?’—I’d wink and tell him: ‘Look for yourself, Jim.’ And he’d look, you know, he’d look for such a while before he’d see them! But after, he’d see them everywhere, he’d see nothing but these scallops. ‘You could knock me down,’ Jim’d say. I’d say, ‘That’s art, Jim.’
Yes, life was jolly—but I’m not getting to my point of this: which was her.
One day I’d no idea she stepped on earth: and the next she was there with her long brown eyes and her white small face to ask me for herring in my queue. That was the time I saw her first, and I’ve not forgotten it from that day nor ever will. Shy she whispered what she wanted—and I had to bend my head to hers to ask her what was that she’d said. I bent my head and she looked wide of eye and whispered it again: ‘Two herring, please.’ Wide of eye, a baby animal.
Her mouth was twice itself with red, she had a cap-thing on her head, she had trousers—but she still was a little animal, she grabbed her shop-bags hand together more like a squirrel: and when I’d given her her two she was off bent over it and in little steps quick gone.
Me I stood there jumboed. Out of my wits awhile I was. Me, with all the skirt I have each day, fat ones, thin ones, young ones, old ones, cheery ones that pass the time of day, crabby ones all price and poke-finger. And never a tremor goes through me till that time. I must’ve stood there seconds looking after her; I was seized, and I see I only saw my senses when a big brown voice came in my earhole: ‘Have you got all the day?’ But then I thought I had.
All day I thought of her, all day I’d do nothing right, all day I had her picture in my eye. What was my pride in our slab, I’d never sell a fish from its place without something cut me deep. But the day I first saw her—I sold helter-skelter where you please, mackerel from stars, trouts from their triangles, lobsters in fours from my flower of turbotpiece.
But the next day she was back. And the day after. And the day after that! And on the fourth day, when I handed her her herring, I stuttered two extra in her hand, sleighty my hand to hers, but bold as gold with a wink for her alone. She took the herring. She did not smile. Only over her face that was so small and white came a blush spreading rose as red, and on her neck too, for she had hung her shy head. Then she was off, no word.
Yet she knew and I knew. And I was happy that day with myself for being so bold: for I had dared give away fish with Milly dark like a crab in her cash behind, and I had dared speak a first word to my love, though this was but with wink and hand.
So I was happier than for all time past. In my straw in the sun, tiles around, my good slab iced, my slab with water-spray and fern: red buses passing huge out front, and people always passing too—all busy passing in the sun, and a smile from me with my straw cocked and my heart-a-wing. Even Milly got a smile, I could smile for dark Milly. She sat in her cash all day, dark like a spider-crab taking the flies of fish and given them again for pennies and silver: or like a foreign god she was, one with six arms, taking offerings in her fat hole and chinking wealth and prayer all day, or the night that was day for her. But I gave her a smile. And old Jim-at-the-Back thought I was crazed with my digs and my whistles. I heard him chuckle over his sluice of slice and gut out back.
You can be sure I slipped my love some extra every day. And now one day she gave me back a smile, one day when she summonsed up the heart. And though I’m an ordinary fellow, none too hang-back, none too bold—that day I leapt in, to her smile I leapt in and whispered: ‘Pictures?’ Again she blushed. ‘Come on!’ I said. She shook her head. ‘Right-ho, no fish!’ I said. And all the queue behind!
So then as a small wind might have passed across her came her nod. I slapped the fish in her hand. ‘Half-after-six?’ I asked. Once more the little wind. ‘Where?’ I asked. Then she said the word, the first but for herring I’d heard. ‘Gaumont,’ she whispered like a thief. And she hurried away.
Now my heart sang twice. Once for her and me, together now. And once for the word she said. For she said this word like Gawmont. She never said that Gomong. And I knew from this she had no lah-da, she was one with me, we would go well together she and I.
That night I brought caramels, and in the dark we sat with these. What went on the screen, don’t ask me. I have no recollection. With her in the dark, sunk small in her seat, arms not even on the arms, I could be only like some dynamo, some big hot engine pumping up beside her, I had fear my blood would be heard. After, we went to a fry-shop—for it seemed she was a girl for fish. Myself in the trade, I do not take to the cuts they give in those shops: but that night I ate with will, I did not know what I ate, and all I know was I knew now her name. And this was Lily.
Lil was alone, her mum and dad were far away. I was alone, I lived alone in my room. Two alone, we grew to know one another, we went out time and then again. Soon I held her hand, and soon I kissed her. Then we were betrothed.
I knew I must marry my Lil, and that was what Lil wanted too. I had few savings, though a few. I was never one for the beer, I could go days with nothing to want but my dinner and my bed. I liked a nice picture, a bus to the country. But that cost little: it was pop for me, no beer. So I could save. With me my only curse was caramels. Caramels were what I could scoff by the pound. Sometimes I went for nut-crunch—but that was but a mood, as people change their mind: and always I was back for caramels. Prices never worried me: I’d swop all else for caramels.
A simple taste, you’ll say. But a taste the same. And that’s where the money went. So though with others smokes and girls might sound a stronger vice, caramels were no less vice for me. Caramels were my sin. For each time I headed for the shop I had to think: ‘Half-pound? Pound? …’ And stop myself for money’s sake. Temptation lay as strong as liquor, caramels so sweet were poison for my purse.
But now I was with Lil I had to curb myself the more. Save I must, for us to marry. Save, save hard. Lil my sweet animal saved too—though she worked only as maid, though she had little enough.
Work harder! But none could work harder than I, nor with more joy. I loved my work and where I worked. No, this meant work of another kind—work harder meant that I must try for manager. I must leave my slab and go up one.
It’s from then I reckon the shade that fell on my path. Life that had been jolly no longer was. My slab I loved was no more good for me. I smiled more at my trade, but grieved the time it took to smile: I took with my slab a greater pain, but grieved the minutes spent. For all I thought was: ‘Oh for the day to be done, so one more day may dawn until I’m up for manager.’ I now had responsibilities who had none of these before. Sure as my Lil had come to lift my heart, so a burden came to shaden it. I lived no longer for my happy day, it was tomorrow I wanted.
And the weeks went by. I knew my time would come, there’s talk in the trade. But it took a time coming. Though those weeks were not without their up and down. One day, for instance, my dad came to town. And I set a special tea for him, and I asked Lil. Fish-tea, seeing Lil was asked, and I took back a fine roe to cook this a way I know. Dad met Lil, and dad was stern as dads can be. I thought: ‘Now we’re for it, now we’re off!’ and set myself to rub him up his right way. But—not a bit of that, I could have spared my tongue! For my Lil opens like a flower, all sudden she starts to chat and laugh and play the pretty goat. And soon she had my dad on the reins, she has him chatting and laughing and playing the goat there too! My Lil had upped and taken charge, it was only she rubbed my dad up his right way. Who’d have thought this of shy Lil? The mischief in them—that day she made me proud and happy as kings can be. ‘It’s the quiet ones,’ I said, but I don’t know now what I meant by that. For who was being quiet?
Then another day, for instance, I slipped my Lil her extra mackerel—it was mackerel now f
or her. And off she went. But no sooner was it afternoon when Lil was back, and back beside herself. ‘These fish are off!’ she comes straight out all over the shop, for all ears to hear. Jim-at-the-Back pops out his head, and I saw something move in dark Milly’s cash—it was Milly raised her head. Now Lil was regular those days and Milly knew each day what pence she spent. She spent for two fish, never four. But there she stood with four, all off, for all to see. ‘There more that’s off than fish,’ I thought, ‘there’s my girl Lil gone off her nut.’ And that was so, out of her mind she was, all else was out of her mind but that her fish was off. She was a girl standing on her rights, no less than that. ‘Goodbye Manager,’ I thought. ‘It’ll be Charley-at-the-Back and Jim-out-Front when this is done.’
For up went Milly’s window, and Milly starts in straight that Lil had only two fish and now how were there four to be off? You could see Milly thinking.
I prayed, then took a header in. ‘Lil,’ I said, ‘you’re wandering, girl. You never got those fish from here. Those ones must be fish your mistress bought.’ Now thank my stars Lil saw. ‘Why!’ she said, and ‘I declare!’ she said, and looking at those fish like strangers, ‘I beg pardon.’ And we all had a laugh. But it was a creepy laugh, that laugh. And from that time on I never slipped my Lil another extra fish. Too much lay at stake for that.
Thus we had our up and down. The weeks went by. And surely came the day when I went up for manager. Goodbye to my slab, it was the depot for me. I wore no straw but a dark suit collared, and I went up two quid a week. Now I could save indeed. Through the dark winter I checked the ones that checked the crates, and no caramel passed my lips but a few for Christmas. Through wet February I saved, and March, April too. Until a month in Spring my lovely Lil I naved, she wed me in the Spring. Nor was there ever tile so white as she upon her wedman’s day.
The Stories of William Sansom Page 32