by David Storey
‘I don’t know who to sympathise with more.’ She gestured round. ‘Them or us.’
‘Do you see us united against a common enemy?’ Attercliffe asked.
She laughed. ‘I do sense a compatibility between you and Dougie.’
‘Dougie has as much respect for me,’ Attercliffe said, ‘as you might have for a critic.’
‘More.’ She shook her head. ‘He sees you as a light to follow.’
They didn’t stay long; no sooner on her appearance had Phyllis been told of Walters’s departure – calling, ‘That’s his look-out’; vanishing across the bar – than Heather suggested that the two of them might leave. To get to the door took several minutes, Towers appearing by Attercliffe’s side and declaring, ‘There’s so much we have to talk about.’
‘Another time.’
‘I’ll hold you to that. Once I get my teeth into a thing I never let go.’
‘What’s happened to your eye?’ Attercliffe asked.
‘It helps to give me focus, particularly,’ he added, ‘in trying times.’ Securing Attercliffe’s arm as far as the door, he called, ‘Don’t let Heather subvert you.’
A night wind blew through the leafless trees in the centre of the square; the front of the theatre was dark: chains could be seen securing metal bars inside the glass doors of the foyer.
She put her arm in his.
‘Who looks after your children?’
‘The eldest two look after themselves. The other three,’ Attercliffe told her, ‘live with my wife.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘With Pickersgill.’
‘He once came to a party.’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Phyl told me.’
From the square an alleyway led to the main thoroughfare of the town; a second turning brought them into the side-street and from there to the door of the flats.
‘It’s still early,’ she said. ‘Do your children not mind what time you get in?’
‘I prefer to get in earlier than later,’ Attercliffe said.
‘Do you want to come up?’
She took out a key, unlocked the door, waited for him to enter then, the door closing behind them, led the way upstairs.
‘You’re a circumspect person, Frank, despite your past. I suppose, at times, with so many children, it must play a significant part.’
‘That,’ he said, ‘or the lack of it.’
They had reached the flat door; a key was inserted: she led the way in, took off her coat, offered him a drink, disappeared to the kitchen, returned, sat down and, raising her glass, having given him his, said, ‘The professor and the flower-girl.’
She wore a brown frock, secured with a belt and trimmed at the neck and the sleeves with lace.
‘Phyllis had a triumph.’
‘She had.’
‘These things come and go.’
‘Like flowers.’
‘It’s the spirit alone,’ she said, ‘that counts.’
It was a child, as she had suggested, rather than a woman who was facing him across the hearth – aloof, detached – like one of his daughters, looking for an opportunity not so much to criticise, or even comment, let alone condemn, as to indicate to him her youth.
‘Good ending to the play.’ She smiled.
‘It was.’
‘When the woman they were all waiting for doesn’t turn up.’
‘The last scene in particular.’
‘The family at breakfast when the youngest daughter’s boyfriend walks in and is welcomed like a son, unlike,’ she added, ‘the departing offspring. Perhaps,’ she went on, ‘you shouldn’t have come up either.’
‘It raises the kind of expectations,’ Attercliffe said, ‘that at my time of life I can’t fulfil.’
The tousled hair fell back from her brow; she pushed it up, laughed, put down her glass, and said, ‘I’ve never seen anyone look so frightened. Nor anyone,’ she added, ‘who looked so sad.’
‘If I’m preoccupied elsewhere it affects the attention,’ Attercliffe said, ‘I’m giving you. And if I’m preoccupied with you,’ he added, ‘it affects the attention I’m giving to someone else. The idea of limitless freedom, either here or somewhere else, isn’t one I understand. Everyone’s life is circumscribed.’
‘Coming up here,’ she said, ‘has not been a great success.’
‘I’m glad I came,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t care,’ she said, ‘to be your daughter.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’d feel an ominous sense of obligation.’
‘My actual daughters,’ Attercliffe said, ‘feel none at all.’
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘they have more spirit than I have.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘About the same.’
She came with him to the landing when he left, and although she remained there until he’d disappeared, she didn’t come to the window when he reached the street and he had the feeling, once the flat door was closed, she had forgotten all about him.
9
A scamper of feet came from the front of the house and a figure darted over the garden wall and, at a pace much faster than Attercliffe could run, set off along the pavement.
When Attercliffe unlocked the door a crescendo of music came from overhead. A light went on in the kitchen.
‘Cathy?’
‘Who is it?’
Catherine, her hair dishevelled, came out from the kitchen; her face was flushed, her hands wet: around her waist was fastened an apron.
‘I’m washing up.’
‘Who went out just now?’
‘Just now?’
‘A minute ago.’
The wild-eyed look beneath the dishevelled hair reminded Attercliffe of his wife – the moment when, gathering her possessions around her, she had announced, in the manner of someone who had announced it once already, that the time had come for her to leave.
‘That’d be Benjie.’
‘Has he stolen something?’
‘Why should he have stolen something?’
‘He ran off down the road.’
‘He heard you arrive.’ She turned back to the kitchen.
The tap was running: the washing-up had scarcely begun; he could hear Elise at the top of the stairs, the banister creak, then her footsteps as she descended.
He closed the kitchen door and asked, ‘Why should he run off?’
‘He’s frightened.’
‘Why should he be frightened?’
‘He knows your attitude.’
‘I’m not against him,’ he said. ‘I’m only against his criminal record and the inadvertent effect it’ll have on you.’
‘We’ve been through this before.’ She stooped to the sink.
‘Did you cook him a meal?’
‘That’s right.’
Her gaze – her back turned to him – was directed, when not at the sink, at her own reflection in the kitchen window.
‘What does he know of my attitudes?’ Attercliffe asked. ‘He hasn’t even met me.’
‘I’ve told him,’ she said.
‘What have you told him?’
‘That you’re prejudiced.’
‘I’d like him to form his own opinion,’ Attercliffe said.
‘He already has.’
‘How?’
‘He’s seen how we live. He says you’re orientated towards money, material possessions, and living a comfortable life.’
‘Is that his vocabulary,’ he asked, ‘or yours?’
‘He’s not illiterate,’ she said.
‘Still,’ Attercliffe said, ‘he’s not at school.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Any examination results?’
‘Examinations are to do with white conditioning.’
‘Jesus.’
‘And that’s another element,’ she said, ‘of white propaganda.’
‘What is?’
‘Christ.’
Turning, she press
ed past him, dried her hands, removed her apron, opened the kitchen door, and went upstairs.
‘Can’t we talk about it?’ Attercliffe asked.
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ she said. ‘You don’t want him here. You’ve made your attitude perfectly clear.’
There was a murmur of voices at the head of the stairs.
He went through to the living-room, looked in, came out, took off his overcoat, hung it in the hall, found he had the theatre programme in his pocket, and took it upstairs.
In the tiny back bedroom he placed the programme on the desk, came back out, tapped on Cathy’s door, heard her and Elise’s voices pause, then, when Elise said, ‘Yes?’ he opened the door to find Catherine lying on her bed and Elise sitting sideways to her on the only chair.
‘Has someone been in my desk?’
‘I have.’ Catherine raised her head.
‘Why?’
‘I was showing Benjie round.’
‘Why my desk?’
‘I wanted,’ she lowered her head, ‘to show him that we had nothing to hide.’
‘Why should he think we had something to hide?’
‘Because of prejudice,’ she said.
‘In my desk?’
‘Your desk had nothing to do with it.’
‘Then why show him it?’
‘I was showing him,’ she said, ‘some of your cuttings. He’s interested,’ she continued, ‘in football. Though,’ she concluded, ‘not your kind.’
‘Perhaps he wants to be one.’
‘Not really.’
‘What would he like to be?’
‘A pop-star.’
Elise leaned forward, her hands on her knees: music thundered from the door of her room.
‘I thought he despised affluence.’
‘Not really.’
‘Then why despise it here?’
‘He despises,’ she said, ‘our way of life.’
‘If he’s so sure of his convictions, why did he run off?’ he asked.
‘He knew you wouldn’t like him.’
Elise stood up; she yawned: her mouth opened to a perspective of metal-capped back teeth.
‘How did it go?’ she asked.
‘It went all right,’ he said, and added, ‘Is his attitude to you as belligerent as it is to me?’
‘Not really.’ Elise yawned again, her arms outstretched, and added, ‘I’m off to bed.’
‘Did he come in here?’
‘Of course he came in here.’ Catherine, too, got up.
‘Isn’t it possible for us to talk about this situation, without one of us,’ he asked her, ‘running off?’
Elise, hearing this inquiry, paused in the door.
Catherine said, ‘I’m not running off.’
‘You keep running away from me,’ Attercliffe said, ‘whenever I’d like to talk.’
‘We’ve been through this before,’ she said. ‘You don’t like him coming. I do.’ She pushed past Elise and went through to her sister’s bedroom, closing the door.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Elise asked.
‘No thanks.’
‘Why are you so upset?’
‘I don’t like Cathy’s furtiveness, or the furtiveness,’ he said, ‘of Benjie.’
‘It’s because of your attitude.’ Elise remained on the landing, disinclined – now her sister had gone there – to go to her room.
‘If you had a child would you be content to see it go off with a criminal?’ Attercliffe asked.
‘I might have one,’ she said, ‘as a matter of fact.’
‘You’re only seventeen.’
‘A woman matures,’ she said, ‘from the age of thirteen, or even younger, nowadays.’
‘Who’s the father?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘You mean, there’s a choice.’
‘There is a choice.’ Lightly, glancing round, she ran her hand along the banister.
‘Retrospectively,’ Attercliffe said, ‘there is a choice, or,’ he went on, ‘there will be?’
‘There will be.’
‘Are you coming off the pill?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Have you talked about it to Sheila?’
‘It’s my concern, not hers.’
‘She ought to be informed. Just as you’re informing me,’ he said. ‘Otherwise,’ he added, ‘she’ll think you’ve done it behind her back.’
She flushed: a white tinge showed at each of her temples.
‘How are you to support this child?’ he asked.
‘The state takes care of it,’ she said, and added, ‘Lots of people my age have a child.’
Her eyes were mascaraed, her lips were reddened, her hair was ruffled up: she had made an effort – she was wearing jeans and a blouse, the front unbuttoned – in order to impress upon Benjie, Attercliffe suspected, that there were more experienced women about the house.
‘Does it mean you give up your education?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘You’ll take a child to college.’
‘It’s just something,’ she said, ‘I thought I might do.’
She turned to the room; the door opened: music thundered out, burying what sounded like an inquiry from Cathy.
Two figures in jeans and sweaters and a third, tinier figure in brown overalls and jumper ran up the drive, banged on the door, tried the handle, found it open, and came inside.
From the door of the car Sheila appeared; she carried a hold-all: without glancing at the house she approached the door, opened it, stepped inside, carried the hold-all to the foot of the stairs, set it down, then, having glimpsed Attercliffe at the living-room window, and hearing Lorna demanding to be lifted, came in and said, ‘I’ll pick them up on Sunday.’
‘Right,’ Attercliffe said.
‘How’s your head?’
‘It’s in pretty good shape.’
‘I hear you banged it.’
‘I did.’
‘A bit juvenile at your age. Brawling in a pub.’
‘He was twice my size.’
‘Gavin is slighter and slimmer, and half your age.’
‘He felt thicker and fatter, and twice as old.’
He had already picked up the overalled and jumpered scrap of a child – thin-armed, thin-faced, dark-eyed, dark-haired – while, from overhead, came the sound of the two boys rushing round the room they shared (Cathy’s: she moved into Elise’s whenever the boys came back, Lorna sleeping in his ‘study’); now, as she poked her finger in his eye and asked, ‘Is there anything to eat?’ he turned to the door and said, ‘I’ll see you Sunday.’
‘You haven’t forgotten our conversation?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘The plans,’ she said, ‘are under way.’
She kissed Lorna’s cheek, said, ‘Be a good girl,’ called, ‘See you Sunday, boys,’ and was already out of the door before she added, ‘The girls are out, I know. They rang me this morning.’
‘Tell you much,’ he asked, ‘about themselves?’
‘It was more my news,’ she said, ‘I was telling them.’
‘About returning.’
‘That’s right.’
She set off down the drive and, seeing her go, Lorna called, ‘Mummy?’ but Sheila either didn’t hear or chose to ignore her and only when she was behind the wheel and the car door closed did she wave, without looking, and drive away.
Footsteps sounded on the stair as first the fair-haired Keith came down, then Bryan.
‘Anything to eat, Dad?’
They went through to the kitchen; they sat at the tiny table, next to the sink, Lorna, now she had had some food provided, sitting on Attercliffe’s knee, her arm around his neck, her head buried in his shoulder.
‘I thought you were hungry, Lorna,’ he said.
‘I’m not.’
Her head was shaken.
‘Maurice shouted at her,’ Bryan said. The smaller of the two boys – lean-featured,
dark-eyed, dark-haired – his figure contrasted strangely with that of his more gravely-featured, fair-haired, younger brother.
‘What did he shout at her for?’
‘She wet the floor.’
‘Not again?’
Keith, wearily, glanced at the back of his sister’s head.
The tiny figure wriggled closer.
‘That’s no need to shout,’ Attercliffe said.
‘He was telling Mum that Gavin beat you up.’
‘Who’s Gavin?’
‘Mummy’s friend.’ Keith laughed.
His brother flushed.
‘He’s younger than me,’ Attercliffe said.
‘And stronger.’
‘Only half as strong,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t look it.’
Lorna looked from her brother to her father, then to the bruise behind Attercliffe’s ear: she touched it with her finger.
Attercliffe cried out.
She laughed.
‘I’m sure he has to shout,’ he said, ‘to make himself heard.’
‘We hardly make a sound,’ Keith said.
‘How about Lorna?’
Her small, slight arm was flung around his neck; she buried her face once more in his shoulder. ‘I never say anything,’ she said.
‘Can’t you beat up Gavin and Maurice?’ Bryan asked. As the older brother something of his concern was reflected in his dark-eyed look, his slender features suffused with colour, his cheeks gaunt, his mouth firm-set.
‘Why should I beat them up?’ Attercliffe eased the weight against his neck and felt the damp of Lorna’s tears run down inside his collar.
‘Gavin hit you.’
‘Only,’ Attercliffe said, ‘in self-defence. I’m too old for fisticuffs,’ he added.
‘We’ll be coming back home, in any case,’ Keith said.
‘Who says?’
‘Mum. She has to sort out the legal side.’
‘What legal side?’
‘She rings up her solicitor.’
‘What about?’
‘Coming back here.’
‘I want to come back,’ Lorna moaned by Attercliffe’s ear: her body vibrated.
‘You can always come back here,’ he said, and added, ‘As often as you like.’
‘I’d like to come back as well,’ Bryan said. ‘But there’s never any room.’
‘At Maurice’s,’ Keith said, ‘we have a bedroom each.’
‘I don’t like it on my own, Dad,’ Lorna said.
‘She’s always coming into my room,’ Bryan said.