by David Storey
‘What does he suggest?’
‘You’ll be getting a letter shortly.’
From the furthest distance came the moan of engines as the diggers and the tractors toiled in the chasmed recess of the opencast mine.
‘Even this,’ she went on, ‘is bad enough, but I’m prepared to accept it and make it work.’
‘It’ll only work,’ he said, ‘if I don’t have a home at all.’
‘Two or three rooms can be a home,’ she said.
‘I can’t afford two or three rooms,’ he said. He added, ‘A bed and breakfast at the best, or a room in someone’s flat.’
‘That needn’t be so bad,’ she said.
She still maintained her ‘wifely’ position: back straight, head erect, hands clasped, feet and knees together: the only concession to emotion that she allowed – and one, Attercliffe reflected, she probably couldn’t arrest – was a flushing of her cheeks and brow.
‘When you’ve a job you’ll feel better,’ he said.
‘I don’t think I could take a job,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘Any work that’s available to someone in my situation is either unskilled labour of a demeaning nature, invariably underpaid, or involves working in a subservient capacity to a man.’
‘What do you propose to do?’ he asked.
‘I propose to bring up the children. I don’t intend,’ she went on, ‘to allow the break-up of my marriage to reduce me to working as a skivvy.’
‘Why a skivvy?’
‘What the proverbial woman is compelled to do when she insists,’ she said, ‘on going out to work. I propose,’ she went on, ‘to work in the house and, in that respect,’ she concluded, ‘you have a duty to support me.’
‘How?’
‘By providing a suitable home.’ She glanced at him directly. ‘In respect of what I’ve been used to in the past two and a half years, Frank, it’s a considerable compromise on my part.’
‘In terms of what I’ve been used to, it’s a greater compromise on mine,’ he said.
‘We all have sacrifices to make,’ she announced. ‘I’ve made most of mine already.’
‘How?’
‘By being a wife. By being a mother. Even, if it comes to that, by being a mistress.’ She smiled. ‘Men,’ she continued, ‘despite the myth of female liberation, and largely, I might add, as a consequence of it, can go on doing precisely what they like – shaping the world, directing it, manipulating it, commenting upon it – work, art, science, philosophy, religion: it’s all the same. In no area,’ she concluded, ‘is it not dominated, exclusively, by a masculine interest.’
Leaning forward, she drew her cup of coffee to her: lifting it, she drank.
‘I’m accepting a realistic assessment of our situation which, necessarily,’ she waved her hand – thin-boned, white-skinned (the nails, like Elise’s, painted red) – ‘takes into account the world out there.’ The hand fluttered by her shoulder, paused, then descended to her lap where it was clasped inside the other. ‘Being a mother is something I’ve been cut out for. It’s a job I shall continue to do to the best of my ability.’
‘I can’t support you,’ Attercliffe said.
‘You’ll have to.’
‘I’ll look after two of the children, or even four, but I refuse,’ he continued, ‘to live in the circumstances I would have to live in if you insisted on living here.’
‘It’s all set out in my lawyer’s letter.’ Her gaze remained fixed on the wall behind his back.
The house, he had to admit, was unusually tidy; even the mound of clothes which, if neatly folded, was invariably waiting on the bookcase to be ironed had been removed: the fireplace glistened, the grate gleamed, the hearthrug bore only the imprint of his and Sheila’s feet in its freshly-vacuumed pile. A bowl of fruit – apples, oranges and bananas – stood on the sideboard.
The doorbell rang.
She said, ‘You’re not expecting anyone, are you?’
‘A purchaser,’ he said.
‘You never said.’
‘I told you I’d come over,’ Attercliffe said, ‘to make arrangements for someone to see it.’
She got up and, before anything else could happen, went out to the hall, rushed to the door and, beating on the glass, cried, ‘Go away!’
Attercliffe, having followed her out to the hall, turned to the kitchen and, opening the back door, set off down the drive: the agent, in a dark suit and a long-winged collar, was standing on the lawn at the front of the house; a woman in a two-piece suit and a feathered hat inquired, as the door was battered again from the other side, ‘Have we got the right address?’
‘There you are, Mr Attercliffe,’ the agent said.
‘My wife,’ Attercliffe said, ‘is disinclined at the moment to let us in, but if you don’t mind her opposition,’ he added to the woman, ‘I can show you round.’
‘If it won’t be too much trouble,’ she said as a two-fisted figure could be seen assaulting the door from the other side – the figure itself, amplified in some parts, attenuated in others – distorted by the irregular texture of the frosted panels – expanding and contracting to the accompaniment of engines moaning on the opencast mining-site.
‘If you’d like us to come back,’ the agent said, ‘another day.’
‘She has to get used to the house being looked at,’ Attercliffe said. He smiled at the woman – young, tall, slim-featured (judiciously made-up around the eyes, the cheeks and the mouth) – and added, ‘We can, if you like, go in by the kitchen.’
Leading the way, he reached the back door as Sheila – trapping his foot – endeavoured to close it: pressing the door open as she retreated, he indicated to Mrs Samson that she and the agent might step inside.
The agent stooped, leaned forward, and peered in; a tensing of his shoulders, then a perfunctory straightening, indicated that the way was clear and, turning, he smiled, stepped in and, gesturing to the space around him, announced, ‘The kitchen.’ He led the way to the hall, pausing in the door, glancing out – and pausing once again while Mrs Samson, still in the kitchen, perused the washer, the cooker, the fridge, the working-top, the cupboards and the sink – then, with a smile (surprisingly even teeth between lightly-painted lips), she followed him to the door of the living-room, stepped in, glanced to the window – took in the ‘executive’ fireplace, the three-piece suite, the bookcase, the dining-annexe, the sideboard, the bowl of fruit – and was about to return to the hall – the agent already poised on the stairs – when, from the landing, came a cry, ‘Not here! Not in this house! This house is my house and belongs to me!’
A shoe flew past the agent’s head.
It was followed by a second: it thudded against those panels of the door on which, only moments before, with a peculiar venom, Sheila had been beating.
‘This house,’ came the cry, ‘is not for sale!’
The agent tried the front door handle, found it locked, turned, then, with Mrs Samson, retreated first to the living-room then back inside the kitchen.
A second shoe in the mean time, together with a book, had landed in the hall; they were followed by a shoehorn, a mound of bedclothes, then, finally, by a brick – one used to prop up a plank of wood used as a bookcase by Catherine’s bed.
Attercliffe climbed the stairs in time to identify a second brick standing on the floor by Sheila’s feet and, as she stooped to pick it up, he brought her down with a tackle which, on the football field, might – seventeen or eighteen years before – have stood him in good stead.
The back door of the house had already closed and a cackling of voices came from outside followed, after a moment, by the sound of a car door slamming, then of a second, then of an engine starting and, finally, moments after that, by a screech of tyres.
‘I’m not having people looking at my house.’
Sheila, her skirt above her knees, her head pressed against the wall, her shoulders hunched, called, ‘This house is not for sale!’ a
nd when Attercliffe announced, getting up, ‘They’ve gone,’ she remained in very much the same position, flushed – her arms flung out – and, extending a hand to pull her up, he added, ‘I’ll have to arrange for people to come when you’re not here.’
‘I’ll always be here.’ She ignored his help.
‘That,’ he said, ‘we’ll arrange with your solicitor.’
‘Not even he can get me out.’
She got to her knees, panting, then, leaning to the banister, drew herself up.
She staggered, righted herself, then started downstairs.
He sat on the edge of the landing, his feet on the stairs, and watched her tidy up: bedclothes, pillows, shoes, shoehorn, brick; finally, in a neat pile, she carried them up, edged past him and, humming, moved around the bedrooms.
A thump, a bang, the sliding of a plank: she vanished into the bathroom.
As he arrived in the door she was gazing into the mirror, adjusting her hair.
‘You’ll have to come to terms with it,’ he said.
‘I already have done, Frank.’ She wiped the corners of her mouth with her finger, turned, came past him – re-entering her bedroom – and announced, ‘I don’t think that that will be a problem.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ll not allow them.’ She came back out and went downstairs: when, a short while later, Attercliffe followed her down, she was tidying the kitchen – clearing up what evidently had been cleared up several times already. Humming to herself, she added, ‘Don’t let me keep you.’
‘I thought you looked upset.’
‘I don’t think so, Frank.’ Before he could respond, she added, ‘That woman. Have you ever seen anything so ridiculous?’
‘I thought,’ Attercliffe said, ‘she looked quite pretty.’
‘A woman like that,’ she said, ‘is a godsend. Her husband must be happy. Knows she’ll be twittering around all day. She may even have a job herself. A corollary of his, but not as important. “The money comes in useful.” You can see it on her lips.’
‘I’ll see her on my own when she comes again.’
‘She won’t come again.’ Her arms stretched out on either side, she leaned against the sink. ‘Can you imagine what she’ll tell her husband as she grovels by his feet tonight? “She threw things at me.”’
‘I thought it was the agent,’ Attercliffe said.
‘Him as well. He won’t come back. Agent’s fee or not.’
She folded her arms, her head on one side.
‘You have to fight,’ she said, ‘for the things you want. I learnt that first of all from you, but I learnt it even more from Maurice. “Having got what you wanted, Sheila,” he told me, “you’ve to fight even harder to keep it.”’
‘What’s he got to keep?’ he asked.
‘Money. Prestige. Position. A Rolls. A Bentley. A Jaguar. A magnificent house. He makes more money in one month,’ she added, ‘than you could make in a lifetime.’
‘Is that why he tired of you?’ he asked.
‘I made demands which he couldn’t respond to. Just as he has his integrity so,’ she continued, ‘I have mine. On some things you can’t compromise. Doctor Morrison made it plain. I had to show integrity. I had to say that this is where I stand and, just as a man – any man, if he’s a man at all – is uncompromising with his values, so a woman has to be uncompromising in the things she will not accept within herself. Women may be slaves in everything but name, but from some things, Frank, they can’t withdraw. The moment they do,’ she went on, ‘they cease to exist. They cease to exist for men but, more importantly, they cease to exist for themselves.’
‘And your clinging to this house,’ he asked, ‘is where you’ve drawn the line?’
‘I am simply,’ she said, ‘making a statement. This far and no further. Beyond this point I refuse to go.’
As he turned to the door, she added, ‘It’s your duty, Frank, to keep me here. Just as it’s mine to be a mother to your children.’
‘You’ve left it too late,’ Attercliffe said. ‘By approximately two and a half years.’
‘We have to accommodate the world as best we can,’ she said. ‘Your obligation is to go out there and earn a living, mine is to supervise the children.’
She followed him out to the drive and, before he reached the car, she added, ‘I’m a realist. I always was. If I can’t change the world, I’ll make the best use of it I can.’ Glancing round as Attercliffe opened the car door, she announced, ‘Everyone will think you’re visiting me on purpose, when the children are at school,’ gesturing at the houses and giving him, as she did so, a ravaged grin.
Of course, I can appreciate there are domestic difficulties where Keith and Bryan are concerned. These may well have influenced their attitude to their work. Frequently, when parental problems get out of hand, the school becomes a convenient distraction from the more intractable situation prevailing at home. I can only remind you, if you are dissatisfied with the education your sons are receiving, you are free to remove them to another school. Yours sincerely, E. Mainwaring (Headmaster).
Dear Atty,
The last time we met was one murky winter’s afternoon in the second half of a match at Morristown when, amongst other things, you gave me a cauliflower left ear which, to the disgust of my wife, the Jenny Donnington that was, I haven’t been able to get rid of. Which is by the by except to say that it hasn’t stopped me reading your report on the education – so-called – provided by Walton Middle School (Mixed).
The recommendations put forward by my committee include: the setting-up of a homework timetable; the provision of facilities within the school for those children who are unable to do such work in any other place; the supervision and the marking of schoolwork and homework to become the direct responsibility of the Heads of Department and, through them, of the Headmaster and the Deputy Headmistress; and that this responsibility should involve a regular scrutiny of work done throughout the school in regard not only to its presentation but its content and its style; there should be a regular, supervised rostering of out-of-school activities.
Apart from coming up from positions where you were least expected – your main contribution to the game, as I recall – I can’t say, when I saw the signature on your letter, it caught me entirely by surprise. Nor could I say, were I to meet you at the back of Morristown mainstand one dark and windy night my first inclination wouldn’t be to give you a bloody thick ear – and hope, as I did nearly twenty years ago, to get away with it – yet, notwithstanding, I sign myself, yours fraternally, ‘The People’s Friend’, and present Chairperson of the Morristown Metropolitan District Council Education Committee.
20
He turned the key and found the back door bolted; the agent smiled: the tall, slim-featured woman (this time in a high-crowned hat with a bevelled brim, sweeping down above one eye) smiled as well. ‘We’ll go round to the front,’ Attercliffe said.
Their feet echoed in the drive; the morning sun lit up the fronts of the houses opposite. A curtain stirred: a figure was silhouetted against the reflected light of a mirror.
The front door, too, was bolted.
‘That’s odd,’ Attercliffe said when, a moment later, there was a distortion of the light behind the frosted glass: a key was turned and the door drawn back.
Sheila stood there, in a dressing-gown and slippers.
‘I thought you were out,’ Attercliffe said.
‘I was.’
‘I thought Elise and Cathy were taking you shopping.’
She smiled at the woman behind Attercliffe’s back; she smiled at the agent. ‘I didn’t feel well. I thought I’d come back. I’m just changing upstairs, as a matter of fact.’
She smiled more engagingly than ever.
‘Come in.’ She addressed the woman and then the agent. ‘You’ve come to look at the house.’
‘If it’s not inconvenient, Mrs Attercliffe.’ The agent had, with the woman, taken one pace backwards to the lawn and
, with this inquiry, took an additional step to one side.
‘Not at all.’ She held the front door wider.
Attercliffe entered. The woman, preceded by the agent, followed.
‘Is it all right?’ the woman inquired. ‘We can easily come back another time.’
‘Not at all,’ Sheila said again.
She closed the door behind them.
‘Go into the living-room. I’ll make some coffee.’
They stepped ahead of her and entered a living-room in which the principal upholstered chairs were covered in washing; in front of the fireplace the hearth-rug had been replaced by a blanket which was used, in frosty weather, to cover the engine of Attercliffe’s car.
‘I shan’t be a minute.’ Singing to herself, she went through to the kitchen where, after the rattling of innumerable pots and pans, a tap was turned and a kettle – or, presumably a kettle (it might have been a cauldron) – was filled.
‘You saw down here before,’ Attercliffe said. ‘Why don’t we look upstairs?’
‘I’d prefer to leave, if you don’t mind,’ the woman said, but already Sheila had re-emerged from the kitchen, passed, fleetingly, across the hall and the sound of the front door being locked was followed by her cry, ‘I shan’t be a minute!’
She passed by the living-room door once more and the clattering of pans resumed in the kitchen.
‘We might as well look upstairs,’ Attercliffe said. ‘The next time you come,’ he added, ‘I’ll guarantee to have her out.’ He gestured round. ‘All you have to do is remove, mentally, the impression she’s created. The house itself,’ he concluded, ‘is sound.’
They followed him to the stairs: he allowed the woman to precede him and observed she wasn’t wearing tights but stockings. They were halfway up the stairs, the agent, too, in front of him, smoothing down his hair, when Sheila, her head raised, her eyes bright, emerged once more from the kitchen. ‘It’s not very tidy,’ she announced. ‘But you’ll get,’ she declared, ‘a fair impression.’
The beds, in Catherine’s and Elise’s room, had been pulled back: the mattresses as well as the blankets, the sheets, the eiderdowns and the pillows, together with the contents from each of his daughters’ drawers and cupboards, had been flung across the floor.