Present Times

by David Storey

  They waited by the corner, Lorna stepping out, dashing back, quivering, clutching his leg, stepping out again – only to cry out as, laughing, the two boys came around the corner, calling, amidst their laughter, ‘We saw you!’

  They went to a café adjacent to the quay; they ordered a meal, gazing out at the harbour, at the strands of cloud above the bay – at the back of the car, inconspicuous amongst the backs of several others, parked against the harbour wall. ‘Shall we go back?’ Keith said. ‘There’s nothing to do.’

  ‘It’ll soon brighten,’ Attercliffe said.

  A column of cloud drifted in to the land, approaching the headland, absorbing it, passing on.

  ‘It’s cold.’

  ‘We’ll run about and get warm.’

  ‘We have run about,’ Bryan said.

  ‘We can run about again.’

  ‘I wish we hadn’t come,’ Keith said and Lorna, preoccupied with eating, glanced from his face to Bryan’s then back again.

  Attercliffe said, ‘You can go back on the train if you like.’

  Their faces brightened.

  ‘You’ll know the way home from the other end.’

  Already they were standing up.

  ‘Can’t you hurry, Lorna?’ Keith said, gazing at her plate.

  ‘I have,’ she said, eating more slowly.

  ‘It’s safer,’ Attercliffe said, ‘if she stays with me.’

  The boys stepped back from the table. ‘Come in the car,’ Keith said, ‘when you’ve finished. We can walk up to the station and meet you there.’

  ‘They are only obligations, and what you are obligated to,’ Catherine said, ‘is something that no one else can see.’

  The floor, in addition to having been swept, was covered here and there with rugs. Other material hung from the walls: curtains of varying lengths were suspended from the windows.

  ‘Your relationship with your parents, otherwise, means nothing at all,’ Attercliffe suggested.

  Sitting on the floor, her back straight, her hands dipped in her lap, her feet bare – a skirted alcove formed by her cross-legged thighs – she said, ‘It means as much as you want it to.’

  Music reverberated through the building: it throbbed from the room above their heads.

  It was growing dark: in a room in one of the houses opposite, level with their own, several men, their coats discarded, their heads stooped, their shoulders hunched, were playing cards at a table.

  ‘You’ve been brought up to assume it does mean something,’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘Things change,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t mean I have to go on with it. Furthermore, things can be changed. That, for me, is the most important thing of all.’

  ‘You don’t have to disown the past,’ he said.

  ‘I might go back to acknowledge it,’ she said. ‘But not to propagate its values. This is my progress.’ She added, ‘The rest I can do without.’

  The floor shook; feet trampled overhead: dust filtered from the ceiling.

  ‘I dread families.’ She gazed at her feet. ‘I can’t see anything in them. Nothing in Mum, nothing in you, nothing in Elise, nothing in Bryan, nothing in Keith. Nothing in Lorna. Flesh and blood.’ She shuddered. ‘It makes you creep.’

  The sound of singing came from the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve finished with Benjie.’

  She raised her head.

  ‘What was his reaction?’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘He made a beeline,’ she said, ‘for someone else.’

  Rising from the box where, having eaten the food she’d offered him, he’d been seated, he went over to the window.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind, not about his predicament, but,’ she added, ‘about his significance as far as I’m concerned.’

  A car drew up in the street below; a van was already parked outside the shop: plastic cones had been set along the pavement.

  There was the sound of breaking glass: the music wavered, stopped – and was superseded by the sound of someone shouting. A moment after that the door was flung open and Gary, or a figure not unlike him – long-coated, feather-hatted – called, ‘It’s the fuzz,’ and, closing the door behind him, ran swiftly off upstairs.

  Catherine, still sitting on the floor, glanced up. She said, ‘Do you want to be taken in?’

  ‘What for?’

  She shrugged. ‘Hash. Stolen property. Evidence,’ she went on, ‘of prostitution.’

  ‘In here?’

  She said, ‘Honestly,’ and added, ‘Hardly, Dad.’

  The door opened; a peak-hatted, uniformed figure came inside: he was followed by Selina.

  ‘You live in here?’ the figure inquired.

  ‘My friend and I do.’ Selina, a teacloth in one hand, a plate in the other, added, ‘We’ve just had dinner. I’m washing up.’

  ‘All Selly likes doing is cooking.’ Catherine laughed as a second, peak-hatted, uniformed figure stepped inside and asked of Attercliffe, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m visiting,’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My daughter. And this,’ he went on, ‘is my daughter’s friend.’

  A torch lit up the unmade beds; it lit up the boxes and a makeshift desk, a set of drawers and a cupboard.

  ‘Any means of identification?’ the second policeman said.

  Attercliffe got out his wallet and as Catherine said, ‘Don’t show him it unless he’s got a warrant, Dad,’ he got out his driving-licence and added, ‘I have my car outside.’

  ‘Name?’ The second policeman glanced at Catherine.

  ‘Jones,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Attercliffe,’ Attercliffe said. ‘The same as mine.’

  ‘Your name?’

  A torch was turned on Selina.

  ‘Selina,’ Selina said.

  ‘Selina what?’

  ‘Jones, as well,’ she said.

  The driving-licence was opened.

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Walton Lane.’

  ‘Number?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Played for the City?’ the first policeman said.

  ‘At one time.’

  The torch was flashed on to Catherine’s face, then Selina’s, then back to Catherine’s, then, returning the driving licence, the policeman said, ‘Don’t leave the building,’ and, preceded by the first uniformed figure, went upstairs.

  ‘Why are you so co-operative?’ Catherine stood up. ‘So obliging.’

  ‘Why are you so cantankerous?’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘It has its place.’ She gestured to the door. ‘They were aggressive, and without any cause.’

  ‘There are some things worth being unco-operative about. This,’ Attercliffe said, ‘wasn’t one of them.’

  ‘I’d have thought,’ she said, ‘it was.’ She crossed to the window, leaned out, and called, ‘Leave those people alone,’ and added, ‘Why don’t we go down and stop them?’

  There were shouts from the street, the revving of an engine, and shouts from the windows of the house next door.

  Attercliffe watched his daughter Catherine’s face gripped by a frenzy not unlike the one which, from time to time, had overwhelmed her mother.

  She ran to the door, padded across the landing and, a moment later, her voice was raised, not in the street, but in the room above their heads.

  ‘Are you going up?’ he asked Selina.

  After glancing out of the window she sat down by her bed; from beside the pillow she picked up a packet of cigarettes, took one out, struck a match, ducked her head to the flame, blew out the match and said, ‘They’ll be up in a minute,’ and added, ‘No sooner said than done,’ when, a moment later, illuminated by the beam of a torch, a dog, secured on a lead, appeared inside the door and, restrained by a uniformed figure, proceeded to her bed.

  It thrust its nose at the blankets.

  It smelled around the walls; it smelled inside the cupboard.

  It returned to Selina’s bed.

&nb
sp; ‘Do you mind?’ its handler said.

  Selina, dusting down her skirt, stood up.

  The dog pursued its course to Catherine’s bed, returned to the walls, the cupboard, thrust its muzzle – as the policeman opened them – inside the drawers, and – straining on the lead – went out, once more, to the landing.

  A second, uniformed figure came inside, followed, in the beam of a second torch, by a uniformed woman.

  A light was flashed on Attercliffe’s face. ‘Do you mind,’ the policeman said, ‘turning out your pockets?’

  Selina, already, had raised her arms.

  Attercliffe emptied his overcoat pockets; he emptied those of his jacket; he turned out those in his trousers: he allowed the policeman to feel his chest, to run his hands beneath his arms, along his sides and down his legs.

  ‘Is there any legality in this?’ he said.

  Turning to the uniformed woman, gaunt, dark-eyed, the policeman asked, ‘Anything there?’, adding, ‘Don’t leave the room,’ as he and the woman departed.

  Selina sat down once more by the bed.

  ‘You don’t seem as disturbed by it as Catherine,’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘It doesn’t bother me.’ She added, ‘If you live like this you must expect the harassment.’

  Attercliffe sat down on one of the boxes.

  There was a padding of feet at the door: Catherine, her pigtails loose, her hair dishevelled, stepped inside.

  ‘They have a job to do. I have mine. The two,’ Selina continued, ‘are not in conflict.’

  ‘Have they looked in here, Selly?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ Selina said.

  ‘Did Dad say anything?’

  ‘He asked,’ Selina said, ‘but wasn’t answered.’

  ‘They’ve taken eight away.’

  ‘Only eight.’ Selina smiled.

  ‘And are searching the house from top to bottom.’

  Sounds to that effect came from the floor above their heads.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have a light in here?’ Attercliffe asked.

  Selina struck a match; from beside the bed she picked up a lamp: a yellowish glare lit up the room.

  Catherine, having gone to the window, turned, came back, and sat on a box.

  ‘Do you want a fag?’ Selina asked.

  ‘No thanks,’ she said.

  ‘Have you started smoking?’ Attercliffe asked.

  ‘Now and again.’

  ‘On top of taking drugs.’

  ‘What drugs?’

  ‘Whatever the police came here to find.’

  Feet clambered up the stairs; feet clattered across the ceiling: a car started up in the road outside.

  ‘Hash is no more potent,’ Catherine said, ‘than alcohol or tobacco.’

  From below came a murmur of voices: feet shuffled on the pavement.

  In the house opposite the men playing cards were standing at the window.

  ‘Will you go on living here?’ Attercliffe asked.

  ‘As long as I can.’

  ‘How much longer is that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  The light from the lamp glistened in her eyes and he realised, in her rage, she must have been crying.

  ‘Why don’t you come and stay with me?’ he asked.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I can give you a home.’

  ‘With a family.’ She added, ‘I’d have to share with that.’

  ‘Are Elise,’ he said, ‘and the boys, so bad?’

  ‘Not bad. But there,’ she said, ‘I’m only a part. Here,’ she went on, ‘I’m everything.’

  Music broke out from the room below.

  Looking at a watch on her wrist, she added, ‘I’d like to go to bed.’

  ‘I’m surprised you can sleep,’ Attercliffe said, ‘with all that racket.’

  ‘I never notice it,’ she said.

  ‘Aren’t you going to the party?’ Selina asked.

  ‘I might.’

  Attercliffe got up from the box and went to the door.

  ‘Can you lock this door?’ he asked.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To stop intruders.’

  ‘There aren’t any intruders,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Can anyone come inside?’

  ‘We’re the only ones who sleep in here,’ she said, and when he paused, she added, ‘You have a peculiar sense of virtue, Dad.’

  She came out to the landing, after he had called, ‘Good night,’ to Selina, and said, ‘Despite what you say, you can’t help trying to persuade me to leave. The more you do,’ she added, ‘the more determined I am on staying.’

  She remained on the landing as he descended the stairs, and it was this image of her standing there, at the head of the stairs, that Attercliffe took with him to the street, for, in looking up, finally, as he got in the car, he saw her once again – at the window – caught by the lamp – slim-featured, dark-eyed, wild-haired – and when he waved she smiled, glancing down, her hand raised briefly in acknowledgment.

  25

  It was a girl Elise had brought or, rather, as the figure in the light-coloured coat and a headscarf turned, a woman – one young enough, nevertheless, to be a friend, and excited, Attercliffe thought, as was Elise herself, by the pressing-up of the crowds to the door: it was only as he stepped towards them – avoiding one incoming group and then another – that he recognised his wife.

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind,’ Sheila said, and when Attercliffe said, ‘Not at all,’ she announced, ‘It’s more an evening for you, after all.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t care for me,’ he said.

  ‘There’s a first time, Frank, for everything,’ she said, and added, ‘It is, after all, a part of our past.’

  ‘You’re not going to argue about it?’ Elise inquired.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ Attercliffe said and, taking his wife’s and his daughter’s arms, he guided them inside.

  ‘I’ve never seen so many naked men. Not simultaneously,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t mind seeing so much of it?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at my age, Frank,’ she said.

  ‘Particularly,’ he went on, ‘since you see so little at present.’

  ‘Just because I’m at home doesn’t mean,’ she nodded at Doctor Morrison across the bar, ‘I’m not extremely busy. I merely remarked,’ she nodded at Butterworth and his wife, ‘on the quantity, not the quality.’ Aware of Towers, propped at the end of the bar, she added, ‘How did he come to put it on?’

  ‘It was his own initiative entirely,’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘How did you come to write it?’

  Attercliffe said, ‘At Freddie’s suggestion. He didn’t mention it again, however, until just before he died.’

  ‘He never liked you,’ Sheila said.

  ‘I thought he did.’

  ‘He was envious of you,’ she said, ‘as a player. He was even more envious of you,’ she added, ‘as a man.’

  ‘He got me a job on the Post,’ he said.

  ‘After he lost you one on television.’

  ‘It was he,’ Attercliffe said, ‘who took me on.’

  ‘He got you a job, saw you were about to succeed, and dragged you down to his level.’ She was thrust against his arm, her glass spilling and, wiping down his sleeve, she added, ‘It was why I went to Maurice. With him, at least, there was never any question.’

  Attercliffe glanced across the bar, saw the face of Fredericks’s nephew – saw, in a peculiar way, the face of Fredericks – not unlike, in a curious way, the face of Towers, or even, he reflected, that of Felix Mason, or – the thought for an instant made him smile – that of Pickersgill himself – and, glancing back at his wife, he said, ‘Why did you never tell me?’

  ‘The man sitting next to me was writing for the northern edition of a national paper and described it as the best new play he’d seen in months.’

  She leaned forward in her chair, her knees and her ankles draw
n together, her elbows on her thighs, her hands clutched around her glass of wine.

  Elise had gone to bed; there had been the murmur of her radio overhead, a call from one of the boys, then, when Sheila had gone to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of wine, declaring, ‘I bought this to celebrate,’ the house had grown silent but for themselves.

  Her forearms, like her knees and ankles, drawn together, she said, ‘You must be feeling pleased.’

  She had, in the past few weeks, lost weight – having, when she first went off with Pickersgill, put on a great deal: a leaner version of her original self confronted Attercliffe across the hearth.

  She set down the glass by her feet. ‘I wasn’t going to go, as you know, then Elise said it had been her intention all along to ask me.’ She turned her look to the window with its undrawn curtains and the darkness of the road outside. ‘“As your eldest daughter and your first child I thought I should.” That girl has got her head screwed on.’

  She leant back in the chair and crossed her legs: her gaze went up to the ceiling, to the over-painted plaster, to the striation of cracks she hadn’t filled in. ‘What will you do now?’ she asked.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘as I was before.’

  A faint creaking came from overhead as one of the children stirred.

  A car went past in the road; from a further distance came the sound of trucks on the line that ran across the river.

  From the region of the castle came the hooting of an owl.

  It was the first time he’d noticed anything at the back of the flat – the gardens he’d noticed, and the configuration of the houses, identical to the one he was in; but, above the roofs, he recognised for the first time the profile of the valley – the line of the hills, the woodland, the hedged incision which marked the cutting in which a railway line ran off to the south.

  ‘What,’ Wilkins said, ‘have you learnt from the past few months?’

  ‘More than I might, at one time, have imagined,’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘Whatever the success of the play at least it’s given you that. On the other hand, if,’ Wilkins said, ‘you look at the reality, as opposed to the fantasy which absorbs the majority of people’s lives, you can only come to the one conclusion. Having destroyed the world in theory, the practice can’t be far behind. Nevertheless, I get your point – specifically with your children. Even with your wife. Bleak, but – how should I describe it?’