Talking to him, that was his main problem. On the Tuesday, for instance, come half past ten, he’d still uttered barely a word to the boy. If he kept this up, he knew that someone was bound to ask him the one question which he really didn’t want to hear, which was of course Are you alright this morning, Mr F? — so, just before the dinner-break, he forced himself to go and have a brief but proper conversation. Nothing that involved looking Beauty in the eye, you understand, just a couple of brief practical suggestions on trimming a musquash he’d seen him hesitating over. Even this simple task proved fraught, however. The phrases which had come so easily in the early days seemed to lodge themselves clumsily in his throat; he’d hear the sentences forming in his head (Go on then; touch it!) — but wasn’t at all sure that they’d come out right. Not now that everything had changed. It wasn’t the actual words so much that were the problem, he thought, as what voice he ought to use. If he was sterner than usual, the boy might ask if something was wrong; and if he was kind, too kind — well then he was sure to think there was.
Even if he didn’t say so…
All the time, he had the obscure sensation that he ought to be protecting himself — but he had no idea from what, or how.
When that Tuesday evening came, and the workroom finally emptied, its silence came as a sweet relief; not having to think about what he ought to say next was an almost physical pleasure. Glad to be the only person left in the building, he happily cut and sorted and stacked and tidied with no sound to accompany him except the occasional whisper of parting skin until well gone eight o’clock. But this brief respite from his confusing thoughts didn’t last, of course. After he’d swept up — he always enjoyed giving an empty room a good sweep, Mr F — he found himself standing by his bench, holding the knife the boy had been working with on the musquash — and they all came flooding back. He tried to think of ways he could have handled the afternoon differently — specifically, to think of what else he could or should have said, but whatever sentence he tried — and this is Mr F, remember, the man whose head was usually so full of voices — he just couldn’t hear himself get to the end of it. He’d set up the scene in his mind, the boy would turn to look at him, he’d open his mouth to speak — and all the sound would disappear, leaving only the boy’s face and eyes.
In the silence, he became very aware of the knife again, still lying there in his hand. He found himself wondering just how long after he’d put it down the metal of the brass handle would have retained the heat from the boy’s fingers. There was certainly none there now.
He put the knife away and turned the lights out one by one; this wasn’t getting him anywhere, he thought. Really he ought to go home, and just try again tomorrow.
He did — but (as he was finding) nothing in his new life was going to be that easy. Finding seventeen matching Russian foxes of an appropriate quality and price for Maureen’s coat, for instance, was proving harder than Mr Scheiner had first anticipated. Despite several phone-calls to close personal acquaintances, the first half a dozen strings of pelts, being all unused stock from the previous year, had failed to yield anything suitable at all. The abortive task of sorting them had taken two entire afternoons, and at the end of the second of them, the Thursday, Mr F, exasperated, had given Beauty the relatively simple task of clearing the bench and restoring some order to the workroom while he went downstairs to report on their failure to Mr Scheiner. However, the boy, somewhat over-zealous in his clearing away, had then proceeded to re-string skins belonging to two different dealers in the same bundle, and when Mr F got back upstairs, this error of the boy’s seemed suddenly to be some kind of last straw. Despite himself, he forgot to be speechless.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” he groaned, noticing the mistake at once, his voice thickening with frustration. “Have I been entirely wasting my time with you?”
The boy of course had no idea what Mr F was talking about, but he could see that it must have something to do with the fox-skins lying heaped on the table between them. He knew he’d rushed the job, but decided it was better to play genuinely taken aback than to admit to any possible mistake.
“I’m sorry, Mr F,” he said, “I thought I’d — ”
“Well you’re not here to bloody think, are you?”
Anger, it seemed, was lubricating Mr F’s throat; he was shaking. “You’re here to be told. If you’re not sure how to bloody do something, then bloody well ask. D’you know what — ” (here Mr F, as if surprised by his own sudden eloquence, looked right away from the boy, picked up his knife, and sliced through the string holding the offending bundles together with one short stroke) “ — it’s young men like you make my life a bloody misery. Think you know it all, don’t you?”
Beauty knew better than to say anything at this point; he’d learnt from dealing with his father that it was always better to keep shtum when they got like this.
“Go on then,” barked Mr F, with his back demonstratively still turned. “Clear off out of it and leave me to sort this mess, why don’t you.”
OK, thought Beauty, flicking his eyes to Mr F’s wristwatch. It was nearly half past five. Hanging up his white coat and collecting his jacket, he did as he was told — and it was only when the boy was gone and the room was suddenly quiet again that Mr F realised where the voice he’d just used had come from. Yes, he was sure of it; If you’re not sure how to bloody do something… He could remember his father shouting that at him, years ago. In the kitchen, probably. Or up the stairs. This discovery made him feel uneasy; after all, that hadn’t been — well, that wasn’t what he’d meant. He hadn’t meant to blame the boy, exactly — after all, he should really have supervised the sorting, not left him to it… He could hear himself apologising to the boy the next morning already; hear himself stumbling through some half-baked explanation in his own, ill-fitting voice. Making a mess of every sentence he tried.
He was dreading it already.
Jesus.
In fact, thought Mr F, there was only one thing about his new situation that was definitely an improvement, and that was the fact that his dream hadn’t bothered him for seven whole nights now.
When he got home that Friday night, Mr F decided it was time to take stock. He rolled up his sleeves, ran the hot water, and as he scrubbed his hands made a mental list of all the things he had seen Beauty do or say in the course of the last five days. The one he kept on coming back to was the moment in the office on the Monday with that red-head, when the boy’s eyes had been so black and close. What was it about the expression on his face which made him feel as if he’d never seen the boy before? That they weren’t colleagues, but… what? What was the word? Strangers. He still couldn’t put a name to it. And there was another moment, on the Wednesday, when he’d seen him laughing on the steps with one of the girls from downstairs during the afternoon tea-break. He wondered what had they been laughing about — about that young lady-friend of Mr Scheiner’s cousin’s, probably. If so, what was it about her that they found so funny — that they so obviously shared? He’d noticed that when the boy laughed, throwing his head back like that, he still managed to keep one eye on his audience, as if making sure that the effect was the right one (he must remember to get some more carbolic — this block was nearly finished). Then, when the girls had all gone back inside, just before he’d followed them up the steps, Beauty had stepped back out onto the street — he hadn’t known Mr F was watching him, obviously — and quickly squatted down on his haunches in front of one of the barred basement windows to see his reflection. He was obviously pleased with what he saw, because no major adjustments were required; he just ran his hands quickly through his hair. Then he stood up, tightened the knot of his tie, threw back his shoulders and took the steps up to the front door two at a time.
There; that’s better. All clean.
Mr F put down the nail-brush, and ran his wet hands though his own hair — and then carried on staring at himself, less than three feet away in the washbasin mirror. At the tw
o lines under his eyes, cut with a blunt knife. He wondered if Beauty had been checking himself for the girl’s benefit, or just for his own pleasure. And he thought about the way his brothers used to do that, last thing; run the palms of their hands over their shining, slicked-back hair, and then grin at themselves.
White shirts. Black hair. Eye to eye in the mirror.
He wiped away the steam with the palm of his hand, and looked again. His own hair was greying; he smoothed it back again anyway.
What did they know that he didn’t, these young men?
And why was he thinking about his brothers again — why, when he’d seen the boy crouching in his suit like that to see himself in the glass, hadn’t he been reminded of himself — of himself at sixteen? He supposed it was his skin — and the hair of course — very different. But most of all it was the expression in the eyes. He’d never looked at anyone like that. Not that he could remember, anyway.
Why was that?
Later that evening, after he’s drawn the curtains, turning his whole bedroom rosy, Mr F catches sight of himself in a mirror again. Full-length, this time. He wonders whether the boy is standing naked in his bedroom too, right at this very minute, thinking about Maureen. He can just imagine it. He tries to mimic the boy’s stance, to capture that moment when he pushed up the knot of his tie like that and threw his shoulders back. Behind him, he can see his single bed, with its carefully smoothed counterpane, and really for the very first time in his life Mr F thinks about the difference that thirty-three years can make to a body. He looks in his wardrobe mirror, and he measures out those years. He thinks, as he looks at himself, that he is old, and ugly, and confused.
three
If only he’d known it, Mr F had had good reason to shout at the boy like that. He wasn’t the only one whose mind wasn’t entirely on his work these days.
Late that Thursday afternoon, all Beauty had actually been thinking about was getting the job done as quickly as possible and getting himself downstairs. He needed to be sure of catching somebody down in the machine-room for a few minutes before she went home, you see, and it was twenty past five already — and that was why he mixed up the skins.
This somebody was the girl with whom Mr F had seen Beauty sharing a joke on the front steps the day before. She was just about the youngest of Mrs Kesselman’s machinists, seventeen if she was a day, and although she looked small and sweet (that was very much the fashion, that summer), she was the one who had first used Beauty’s nickname to his face — and he’d had his eye on her ever since. He couldn’t say exactly, but there was just something about her that he liked more than the others; there was always an edge to her laughter — and to the way he’d catch her looking at him. Because he was the boss’s nephew, and because Scheiner’s was such a noisy, cramped building, full of gossip and watching eyes (not to mention the fact that the girl was a shikse), he’d known from the start that he’d have to manage the whole thing without getting caught. But he was clever. Hearing her mention to one of the other girls which number bus she caught home to Poplar, he’d waited for a rainy night, and then gone and joined the crowds queuing at the bus-stops under Cannon Street. In the confusion and wet, it hadn’t been hard to squeeze into the seat next to her. She’d been surprised, but had soon caught on. Ever since then, he couldn’t quite believe how easy it had all been. They had to be careful about being seen together too much at work of course, but it was amazing what you could get away with if you tried. If ever they found themselves going up the front door steps together first thing in the morning, for instance, he could greet her with a broadly grinned Good morning, and she could reply with a tart And to you — and no one would think anything of it. Even the other machinists — who prided themselves on having the sharpest eyes in London when it came to men and their tricks — didn’t pick up anything untoward as they giggled their way past him on the steps; that was exactly the sort of half-familiar, half-rude jokiness that everyone seemed to expect to see being traded between the two youngest members of their respective workrooms. He was supposed to be a flirt, and she was supposed to give as good as she got; as all the newspapers agreed (not to mention Mrs Kesselman) that was how all young people behaved, these days. It was now seven weeks since that first conversation on the bus, and nearly four weeks since the first time he’d pushed her up against a wall two streets away from where she lived and kissed her (she’d liked it), and still no one in the building had the slightest idea.
So now you know why the boy had hesitated when Mr F had asked him if he had had a good weekend, and why he paused on the stairs when he heard the phrase No peace for the wicked. Both times, he couldn’t help but think about his girl — and couldn’t help but smile, either.
Talk about getting away with murder.
That Thursday evening, however, he was genuinely worried about being seen with her. Mrs Kesselman was the one person in the building he knew they had to be wary of, and loitering downstairs at any other time than his allotted breaks was always risky; however, he thought that if he could get downstairs on the dot, he’d be able to catch Christine while Mrs Kesselman was still finishing her end-of-day reckoning with Mr Scheiner in the office. He just needed a couple of minutes; he had to tell her he was sorry, but he wasn’t going to be able to make their usual five forty-five rendezvous in Aldgate tomorrow night — his mother was insisting he come home early. He’d already worked out exactly what he was going to say; how sorry he was, but it was a family thing — she knew what his mother was like on Friday nights. And so on. Maybe, he was going to say, he could make it up to her later in the weekend. When he’d thought of that phrase, the boy had grinned to himself.
He was in luck; Christine (that’s her name: Christine White) was the last girl out. The radio had been turned off, and the cloakroom next to the machine-room was empty. Soon as he spotted her, he was glad he’d made his approach so cautiously; it meant he could stand in the doorway and watch her tidying her hair and pulling on her coat without her knowing he was there. He liked that. Watching her. When he eventually coughed to let her know he was there, she jumped; he liked that, too. She only looked cross for a moment, however.
“What d’you want then?” she said, buttoning her coat up, briskly.
She knew from the look on his face what he was thinking — and she liked the fact that she’d been able to do that to him even with her back turned. Beauty said what he had to say — keeping his voice down, because they both knew that Mrs Kesselman was all ears — and tried out his line about hoping to make things up to her later. It seemed to go down fine. So, since they were alone, and the moment seemed propitious, he decided to push his luck. Speaking of later, he said, lowering his voice even further (and his eyes; he knew that was one of his best looks, looking down as if he was bit unsure of himself) and moving close to her, speaking of later, was she still on for Sunday? He hoped so (flicking the eyes back up again now, up through his locks of black hair, hooking her gaze with his), because he’d been thinking that maybe this weekend might be a good time for him to finally get round to —
At this point, when he actually said it, finally came out with it and actually said that word, the girl couldn’t help herself, and let out a thin, gasped shriek of laughter — and then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth to stop herself.
Mrs Kesselman, one floor up in the office, heard it — Number Four quickly fell quiet once five-thirty had struck, and the boy had been reckless, and had forgotten to close the cloakroom door. She didn’t go down to investigate, however. She recognised the sound of girls larking about together over a cloakroom cigarette after all these years — and besides, she had better things to do, like her accounts. Another ten minutes and she’d go and turn the culprits out — and tell them not to be late in tomorrow morning, thank you very much.
Downstairs, Beauty peeled Christine’s hand away from her mouth, moved in a bit closer still (kissing distance), and asked her well, what about it? He hadn’t planned any of this. But h
e’s always liked the sound of that word, and now that on the spur of the moment he’s come out and said it, actually said it to her, he thinks it rather suits him. She may look shocked, but her eyes are bright as buttons; and she’s left her mouth half open. So he carries on. He suggests that they move their Sunday afternoon rendezvous, reference to the possible purpose of which had made her shriek like that, to Victoria Park. He knows it’s only half an hour from her estate. Does she know it? Yes, she does. Great. And does she know about the shrubberies near the bandstand?
Although they are both almost whispering now, the two of them have completely forgotten about the danger of Mrs Kesselman. The whispers are because neither of them can quite believe their own daring.
Of course she’s heard about the shrubberies (and indeed, of course she has. The reputation of places like that are what both boys and girls talk about when they are alone in their separate packs. Or did you think it was only the boys?). The look on his face when he asks her that question (he runs his tongue involuntarily across his lower lip) makes her want to laugh or shriek again, as if she thought he was joking. But she knows he isn’t. Something nips her between the legs when she see the particular way he smiles back at her, so she pauses and looks down at the cloakroom floor for a moment — just a moment — before she looks back up and says, not smiling at all,
“What time on Sunday?”
Skin Lane Page 16