The Boarding-House

by William Trevor

  In silence Nurse Clock walked to the window, having taken small offence and wishing to display it. But the scene she saw in the street below cheered her enormously and held her entranced.

  Janice Rush, who had been Janice Brownlow, the belle of many a flannel dance, was middle-aged now, forty-four and a bit. Her face had lines, not many but clearly the precursors of many. The skin of her neck bore a goose-flesh look, though only when the light fell directly upon it. Her husband, Martin Henry Rush, had married her nineteen years ago, one hot day in August in the church of St Cyril, the church of a southwestern suburb. The Reverend Hamblin had conducted the service and a Mr Pryse, St Cyril’s official organist, had played Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring as she walked up the aisle on her father’s arm. Janice Rush thought constantly about the occasion: she had a thing about her wedding day.

  Studdy knew nothing of this. He saw a woman leave the driver’s seat of the car and approach the front of it. He saw her fiddling with the catch of the bonnet as though not quite sure how it operated.

  Disturbed by the arrival of Studdy’s letter and its consequent preying on her mind, Janice Rush thought about her wedding day as she stood by the prow of her car seeking to release a catch. It was a memory that had never ceased to comfort her: she liked to think of herself then, that day at the altar of St Cyril’s and later on the lawn of the hotel, because she saw the occasion as the ultimate blooming of her innocence and the end of her girlish optimism; she saw it decorated with the lupins that had just reached their greatest beauty in the flower-beds, and her happiest memory was one in which she stood against the lupins, at her mother’s request, while a bearded photographer captured the image from many angles. Later that day, when Janice and Martin Henry were in an aeroplane, the lupins began to wilt and by the following morning were well past their prime. For Janice the process was longer drawn-out; but she knew quite soon that she had lived until her wedding day and had then begun to die.

  On that day Janice had shaken hands in the sunshine on the hotel lawn; she had listened to the speeches and with the help of her spouse had cut into the wedding cake. On the hotel lawn she walked and talked and glanced about her. She had noted the colours and patterns of satins and silks. She saw and recognized women like sandcastles, simple monolith shapes with grey hair dyed blue or severely waved. She saw herself as one of these when the years took hold of her, and vowed, as she stood, that the years instead must wreck her, must pull the flesh from her bones and leave her like a rake. Better, she thought, to seem like a rake than to be built up into the sloop of a sandcastle.

  She released the catch of the bonnet and lifted the thing up, balancing it on a metal rod attached for that purpose. She peered at the machinery of the engine, not understanding anything of it, wondering what would happen now. She remembered, as often she did, that in church the Reverend Hamblin had looked tired and crumpled as he received their vows and she wondered if that had made a difference. She had thought at the time that his cheeks might have been shaven closer or might at least, to mark the moment, have received the razor at a later hour. She had counted rust marks on his surplice and had held that against him too. Janice Rush had never had a child, and for a long time now her marriage had been loveless.

  Studdy threw away his match and walked slowly across the road. His eyes were on the woman and the open engine; he did not notice the man sitting in the seat beside the driver’s seat.

  ‘In trouble, missus?’ Studdy said.

  ‘No, no.’ She looked at him quickly, feeling nervous. She began to tug at the metal rod that held the bonnet up.

  ‘Mrs Rush nee Brownlow, espoused to Martin Hen–’

  The man from the car stood beside Studdy. He bent his hand into a fist and struck him hard on the side of the jaw. Studdy shivered. He was knocked off his balance but remained on his feet. He felt one of his teeth move.

  The man, who was not Mrs Rush’s husband, hit Studdy again, on just the same spot. Then he lifted his other fist, the left one, and punched at Studdy’s nose. Mrs Rush dropped the bonnet of the car. She said ‘Don’t’ once, in a weak voice, and then she climbed behind the steering wheel. ‘Never try that again,’ another voice said, speaking to Studdy, but Studdy could hardly hear it. He was aware of pounding in his ears. He thought there must be blood all over his face: he thought his eyes must be covered in it. A stone seemed to have found its way into his mouth. Muzzily, he imagined that the man had hit him and then put a small stone in his mouth. He spat it out and did not look to see that it was the major part of a tooth.

  The engine of the Morris Minor gave a quick roar and the car sped away. Mrs Rush changed from second to third gear without glancing at the man beside her. She should have said thank you, because it was she who would have suffered. She said nothing at all. She felt heat soak through the flesh of her body, seeming as if it had been generated within her. She knew she had been weak and afraid: how much better it would have been to refuse to pay the man money and let him simply do his worst, The car crossed the Thames, moving east, heading for the centre of the city.

  For Studdy, bewildered on the pavement, the adventure was over; the Mrs Rush who had offered him a fifty-fifty chance of financial betterment, or so it had seemed, passed for ever from his life. All he had ever known about her was that she had once a week carried a tray of cooked food to Mrs Maylam and that the old woman had regularly complained of its quality. It was true that Studdy would have relished knowing more, a few more details of a practical nature, but beyond that he would never have cared much. It was Mr Bird, that tireless collector of people, who would have been moved by the condition of Janice Rush at forty-four.

  Studdy lay on the uncomfortable horsehair sofa in Mrs Maylam’s sitting-room.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ commanded Nurse Clock. ‘Shall I call a policeman?’

  He opened his mouth and then tried to speak, to prevent the police from coming, but Nurse Clock had put a pair of tweezers in his mouth and was feeling around. She took them out and Studdy said:

  ‘The fellow tried to put a stone down my throat.’

  ‘A stone? Are you sure? Did you swallow that stone, Mr Studdy?’

  Studdy said he had spat it out. ‘He’s been in a rough and tumble,’ said Mrs Maylam.

  ‘The nose is all in order. You’re lucky, Mr Studdy. A blow like that could have deformed you for life. Damage to the bone; I’ve seen it happen. You lost half a molar.’

  ‘A molar? Half a–’

  ‘Half a back tooth, Mr Studdy, right in the back, downstairs: you can feel with your fingers.’

  Studdy felt with his fingers and found the sharp edges where a piece of the tooth had come away.

  ‘Have the root out,’ advised Nurse Clock. ‘Don’t go hanging on to that thing. That tooth was cracked before the accident. A blow on the cheek could never break up a tooth.’

  Nurse Clock was dabbing about on Studdy’s face with a piece of cotton wool. She wiped away the dried blood beneath his nostrils.

  ‘Fighting like a mad thing,’ said Mrs Maylam.

  Studdy felt a heaving in his stomach. He asked Nurse Clock to cork up one of her bottles because the smell was upsetting him.

  ‘There now,’ said Nurse Clock.

  Already the shame of the whole undignified incident was beginning to bite into his soul. He tried to sit up. He saw Nurse Clock’s face beaming close to his. He felt her hand restraining him.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said Nurse Clock. ‘In broad daylight.’

  ‘They were after the wallet.’ He patted the area of his clothes where his wallet found a home. ‘I beat them off.’

  Nurse Clock, who had watched the whole incident from Mrs Maylam’s window, was surprised to hear this lie. She wondered why he should not say what had happened: that he had spoken to a woman in trouble with a motor-car and that another man had struck him.

  ‘Did they get nothing at all?’ she enquired, enjoying herself.

  Studdy reached into one of his trouser pockets and
brought out a handful of coins. He counted them. He said:

  ‘I’m short a sixpence. They had a tanner off me.’

  Nurse Clock soothed him. She said he must lie still for another few minutes as she feared unfortunate after-effects. ‘May I make a cup of tea, Mrs Maylam?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Studdy.

  Mrs Maylam said: ‘You can’t watch them,’ and Nurse Clock went into the kitchen to make tea.

  Of Studdy Mr Bird had written:

  S. J. Studdy (53) answered an advertisement in the Evening Standard in 1952. He came without baggage, though he has seemingly acquired baggage since. He is a species of petty criminal, with his hair-oil everywhere and his great red face. Yet how can one not extend the hand of pity towards him? Anyone can see that poor old Studdy never had a friend in his life.

  ‘A nice cup of tea,’ said Nurse Clock.

  Studdy took the cup from her hands and sipped at the scalding, buff-coloured beverage.

  ‘Now that Mr Studdy is here,’ said Nurse Clock, ‘we can talk about the old potato.’

  ‘Shocking,’ said Mrs Maylam. ‘Mr Studdy’s at death’s door.’

  He began to blow at the surface of the tea. He blew too hard and the tea spattered the skirt of Nurse Clock’s uniform. She saw it happening and looked at him sharply. She turned to Mrs Maylam and said:

  ‘Mrs Maylam, Mr Studdy came to realize the uselessness of that potato you wear. He says there’s no point to it at all. Mr Studdy’s made a mistake.’

  ‘What?’ asked Mrs Maylam.

  ‘There’s no possible point to the potato around your waist. So Mr Studdy was telling me. It’s a big mistake.’

  ‘The potato’s a cure. For me. Injections is a thing of the past, Nurse.’

  ‘Mr Studdy made an error. Mr Studdy, tell Mrs Maylam.’

  ‘Well, the fact is now–’

  ‘That potato is an aid to me, Mr Studdy. I’ll swear that to Christ.’

  Nurse Clock shook her head. She said: ‘No, Mrs Maylam dear.’

  ‘I haven’t felt better in the length of my life. These old bones are hopping me round like a two-year-old.’

  ‘Well, the fact is,’ explained Studdy, ‘that what Nurse says isn’t far wrong. I’m only afraid you’ll lie flat on the potato and it’ll stick into your flesh, maybe damage an organ. D’you know what I mean, missus?’

  ‘You told me bind the potato there, Mr Studdy. Your lips said the words. Fix a peeled potato on a length of string, you said it clear as day. I’m ninety next spring, Mr Studdy, remember that.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Studdy. ‘That very consideration. Will we take the potato away and have done with it? You might crack a rib with it. I wouldn’t like to be held responsible. Nurse says the Medical Council maybe will get after me, to do a thing like that, crack the ribs of an old lady. D’you follow me?’

  ‘I do not,’ said Mrs Maylam. ‘How could the potato crack a rib? That’s a lot of bloody mularkey, Mr Studdy.’

  ‘You hear these things,’ said Nurse Clock. ‘A woman in Kew died with a magnet in her bed, put there to rid her of the cramp.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Studdy, finishing his tea and swinging his two legs from the sofa to the floor. ‘Mrs Maylam, did you hear that? A woman with a magnet in the bed with her.’

  ‘Ho, ho,’ cried Mrs Maylam, laughing loudly at some private joke.

  ‘That potato is sour and bad,’ Nurse Clock said to Studdy. ‘She’s had it there a fortnight.’ She raised her voice. ‘It’s dirty having a potato on your body day and night.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of dirt if it’s a certain cure. If it’s dirt that’s worrying you, don’t waste your time with it. My stomach’s ingrained, as well you know. Am I embarrassing Mr Studdy?’

  The conversation continued. Studdy was interested in Nurse Clock’s story about the woman who had died with the magnet in her bed. He questioned the accuracy of this, seeking details. Mrs Maylam relapsed into a world of her own, not answering questions, refusing to discuss the matter of the potato further.

  ‘Workers’ Playtime,’ said Mrs Maylam after a time. ‘Put on that wireless, Mr Studdy, like a good old warrior.’

  Studdy rose from the sofa. His overcoat was unbuttoned and the belt hung loosely by his sides. He twisted the knobs on the wireless and in a moment the room was filled with the noise of applause and laughter. Mrs Maylam threw back her head and laughed heartily herself.

  9

  Major Eele had once been married. Ten years ago, when he was fifty-nine, he had met a woman called Mrs Andrews at a party given in a hotel in Amesbury. ‘Who is this sleeping soldier?’ he had heard a voice cry, for he had fallen asleep in an arm-chair, and then had felt a pressure on his head which turned out to be Mrs Andrews’ hand. The courtship was brief, and in retrospect a totally inexplicable turn of events. The marriage itself lasted only the extent of the honeymoon.

  ‘I have come again,’ said Mrs le Tor, and immediately Major Eele thought of Mrs Andrews. The two women spoke alike, he thought: they had the same intonation, the same way of placing their words in a certain order.

  ‘Mrs le Tor,’ said Major Eele, about to leave the house, en route for a West End film. Hot Hours. ‘I fear you are out of luck today. There is hardly anyone in the place just now. A bad time of day, the afternoon. Only Studdy and I are usually about, and Studdy is taking it easy. Surprisingly, he was involved in a brawl.’

  ‘Heavens!’ said Mrs le Tor, interested.

  ‘Ruffians, it seems, attacked the man in the full light of day, while Studdy was simply going about his business. In confidence, though, there is more to this than meets the eye.’

  Mrs le Tor was wearing her white gloves and a carefully ironed white blouse. On top she wore a coat and skirt of what the manufacturers called petal green. Her finger-nails were burnished and made to seem pink. They were long and pointed, like the finger-nails of Mrs Andrews, who had protested often lest he in passion should damage one. The Major smiled, wondering if Mrs le Tor would protest likewise. She said:

  ‘I do not think I met this Studdy. What an odd name! Is he the boots?’

  Major Eele giggled to himself, savouring this misconception and thinking how best to release it in the television lounge that evening, perhaps embroidering a bit. ‘Mrs le Tor thought Studdy was the bootman and Nurse Clock a tweeny.’ He laughed aloud.

  ‘Alas, Mrs le Tor, I must inform you that we have no boots here. Boots are tended to by the residents themselves. There is no molly-coddling in our boarding-house.’

  ‘Do you mean that all those people, men and women, polish and keep in trim their own footwear’

  ‘That is so, Mrs le Tor.’

  At this point it seemed as if the conversation would come to a halt unless it were at once rekindled. Smiles were exchanged. Major Eele, the time of his cinema performance harping on his mind, made a motion to descend the steps that led from the front door. Mrs le Tor fell into step with him.

  ‘Which way are you walking, Major Eele? It seems my journey has been a fruitless one.’

  The Major thought: She intends to accompany me. That will be awkward, sitting down beside the woman for Hot Hours.

  ‘I am walking to the West End,’ he said.

  ‘But Major dear, that is eight miles.’

  ‘I generally take a bus the last bit.’ He did not care for the way in which the woman had seen fit to address him. He remembered Mrs Andrews’ hand upon his head, how he had woken up to find it there, hearing her cry: ‘Who is this sleeping soldier?’

  ‘What a lovely day,’ remarked Mrs le Tor, and the Major thought that the time had come to be direct. He stopped abruptly, while she continued to walk on a pace or two. She turned to face him, her eyebrows raised.

  ‘Madam,’ said Major Eele, speaking with deliberate clarity, ‘I must inform you that I am not in the market.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs le Tor. ‘What market is that?’

  ‘I am not in the market for what you are offering th
is afternoon. I am on my way to an art film; my time is limited. Excuse me, madam, you are not my sort.’

  Mrs le Tor, who had been married twice and had in her lifetime suffered many a setback and many a fright, looked hard at the man who claimed to have been a military major. She wondered for a moment if this boarding-house might not be an asylum for the mentally deprived. She had received two letters, one with the offer of a donkey carved in bog-oak, the other incomprehensible. Now there was this man in a summer hat saying he was not her sort, exclaiming that he was not in the market.

  ‘There is some misunderstanding,’ said Mrs le Tor, feeling the words to be weak, unable to think of better words or words more suited to her bewilderment.

  ‘No misunderstanding,’ cried Major Eele, striding off. ‘Bye-bye, Mrs le Tor.’

  ‘Oh, no. Major, do not go. You have not explained. I think it is my due, an explanation, some little explanation–’

  ‘I would wish you to leave me, madam. I wish to be on my own. Try other houses this afternoon. There are many others in Jubilee Road. A warm day like this–’

  The situation now was that Mrs le Tor had laid her right hand on Major Eele’s arm and was restraining his forward movement. She interrupted his reference to the prevailing weather by ejaculating incomprehensibly.

  ‘Unhand me, madam,’ cried the Major, having always wished to use the expression. ‘Unhand me,’ he repeated. ‘Leave me be.’

  The sun was shining brightly. The sky, pale blue, was clear of clouds. That afternoon in London the swimming pools were crowded.

  Mrs le Tor, grasping the material of Major Eele’s jacket, spoke again. Her teeth flashed in the strong sunlight, glistening, close to his face. He heard her voice and saw the bright red lips open and close, keeping a kind of time with it. He did not know what she said.

  As he stood on the pavement, frightening pieces of his disastrous marriage surfaced and clogged together. Pictures invaded his mind, and he had not the power to prevent them.

  In a cinema that Mrs Andrews had taken him to a woman had objected to the fumes from his pipe. In Dickens and Jones he was asked again to put out his pipe and was abused by a woman whose stocking, she said, he had damaged with his foot. An altercation had arisen between them, and when Mrs Andrews had returned from the knitwear department the woman was loudly demanding money and people were looking at Major Eele. He, having forgotten the rule, was lighting his pipe again. ‘No smoking,’ cried an official person in black. ‘What has happened?’ asked Mrs Andrews, then Mrs Eele, but never seeming so to the Major, who thought of her still as Mrs Andrews, who had never used her Christian name, although she had told him that it was Grace. ‘What’s up?’ said Mrs Andrews, puzzled by the scene. ‘He kicked me,’ said the woman with the damaged stocking. ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs. Andrews. ‘My dear, give her ten shillings.’ But he was unwilling to give the woman ten shillings and indignant at being accused of kicking. ‘Settle this, please, on the street,’ said the official person, shooing them off in a bunch, as though the incident were a private disagreement that they had chosen to act out in the store. ‘The stockings cost sixteen and eleven,’ said the woman, and Mrs Andrews gave her a pound and did not ask for change. ‘Watch where you put your feet,’ she said to her husband as she marched him off. ‘I do so hate embarrassment.’