The Collected Stories

by William Trevor

  The old, tired thoughts began all over again. He couldn’t see himself clearly; he couldn’t see how his pattern was cut or what he was meant to do, or had ever been meant to do. He began to worry and he hated himself for it; because he didn’t want to worry, because the thoughts were forced upon him.

  ‘A pregnant woman,’ Ransome was going on, ‘will buy anything. Apples off a tree, old boy. Two days out and by God, you’ll know you never had it so good.’

  Powers nodded.

  ‘Two pints,’ Ransome said to the barmaid.

  If he worked on the public transport he’d be a cog in a big machine, getting people to work in the morning, taking them home at night. Otherwise they’d have to walk. He’d seen them during a transport strike, walking from Regent Street to Wimbledon. You couldn’t do that more than once a week.

  ‘Will I be all right?’

  ‘Old boy?’

  ‘Will I fit the bill?’

  ‘Haven’t I said so? Haven’t I been plaguing you to come in for years? I mean what I say, old boy.’

  It occurred to him that Ransome, far from being kind, was deliberately being cruel. Ransome was pointing the moral. They had walked out of the RAF together on the same day. They had gone their separate ways, he to teach learner drivers, Ransome to set up in business. And now Ransome was going to employ him. For years, all those Sunday mornings in the pub, Ransome’s persuasive talk had been designed to needle him. He had been Ransome’s superior in the RAF.

  ‘Drink to it.’

  He raised his tankard to meet Ransome’s.

  ‘Get a nice new suit,’ suggested Ransome, smiling. ‘Spick and span, with a polish on the shoes. They’ll love you, old boy.’

  He sat in the Austin, thinking about the last three hours. The pints of beer had darkened the hue of his face. He could feel them in his stomach, thick and comforting – a moat against Roche who was talking in his mind. He saw his flat mouth open and close, and the words lay between them, above Roche’s tidy desk, eaves droppings for the typing girl. So that was that: Powers must nod and understand, and go away and never return, must be forgotten by Roche, and by the typist whose breasts he had so much desired. Already he was a man of another trade, a good-hearted man who talked to the pregnant woman about what was to come, taking an interest and selling a requisite.

  The sun was hot on his face as he sat in the Austin. His skin relaxed, that part of him happy in the heat. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the tiny moment. The sun touched his hands on the steering wheel and warmed them too. Beer in his stomach, sun on his skin: he had felt such cosseting before. He had lain in bed, stretched and at peace, warmly covered. The warmth of his wife had welcomed him and given him another version of simple sensuality. Blearily, an awareness stirred in J. P. Powers. He did not think in so many words that the excuse for his life lay in moments like these: only in what he received, since he contributed nothing. He did not think it because it was absurd when it was put like that, clarified and clinical. The feeling hammered at his brain but no tendril stretched out to fashion it into thought. A cloud obscured the shaft of sunlight and the feeling evaporated, giving way to an afternoon depression. He switched on the ignition and drove the Austin for the last time, past Cave Crescent and Mortimer Road, out on to Putney Hill and into the stream of traffic.

  The Day We Got Drunk on Cake

  Garbed in a crushed tweed suit, fingering the ragged end of a tie that might have already done a year’s service about his waist, Swann de Lisle uttered a convivial obscenity in the four hundred cubic feet of air they euphemistically called my office. I had not seen him for some years: he is the kind of person who is often, for no reason one can deduce, out of the country. In passing, one may assume that his lengthy absences are due in some way to the element of disaster that features so commandingly in his make-up.

  I should have known when I saw him standing there that I must instantly be on my guard. In my prevailing condition of emotional delicacy I could not hope to cope with whatever entertainment Swann had in mind for me. For, to give him his due, Swann never came empty-handed. Swann was a great one for getting the best out of life; and he offered one, invariably, a generous part of his well-laid plans. This time, he explained, he was offering me an attractive afternoon. In turn, I explained that I did not feel like an attractive afternoon, that I was too busy to gild the hours in the manner he was suggesting. But Swann was sitting down, well entrenched; and in the end he talked me into it.

  I wrote a note and put it on my typewriter: Tuesday p.m. Am under surgeon’s knife. Then I made a telephone call.

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘Hullo, Mike.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Very well, Mike. How are you?’

  ‘Very well, too. Just thought I’d ring –’

  ‘Thank you, Mike.’

  ‘We must meet again soon.’

  ‘Yes, we must.’

  ‘I’d invite you to lunch only an old and valued friend has just transpired.’

  ‘That’s nice for you.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Thanks for ringing, Mike.’

  ‘Goodbye, Lucy.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mike.’

  Swann was drawing designs on the varnish of my desk with a straightened-out paper-clip.

  ‘That wasn’t your wife,’ he said.

  ‘Wife? Far from it.’

  ‘You haven’t married or anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I’ve got a couple in a hostelry. They tell me they know you.’ We sauntered out into the September sun to meet them.

  I have always wanted to invent pert shorthand typists with good figures and pretty lips whose heads may easily be turned by the crisp jingle of money, jolly girls who have done the stint at Pitman’s and do not believe in anticipating marriage. It might quite easily have been such companions with whom we found ourselves wasting away that afternoon. As it happened, it was Margo and Jo, a smart pair who drew pictures for the glossy magazines.

  ‘When I was eleven,’ Jo told me, ‘I wrote this children’s book and drew all the pictures. Somebody published it, and that of course made me unpopular with everyone.’

  ‘You must have been hugely clever.’

  ‘No, honestly. It was terribly bad, as you can imagine. Just chance that it got published.’

  ‘Words,’ said Margo, ‘mean a lot to Jo. She has a real sense.’

  ‘She’s bonkers,’ said Swann.

  ‘For God’s sake, Swann,’ said Margo.

  Jo and Swann moved together. Swann was bored and he began to tell Jo a joke. Margo said, specifically to me: ‘Jo is the most talented person I’ve ever met.’ I nodded, not caring one way or the other. The bar was full of uniformed men: dark grey suits, waistcoats, white shirts, striped ties of some club or school.

  ‘Have a drink, Margo?’

  Margo said that was a good idea and I squeezed through to the wet counter and floated a ten-shilling note on a pool of beer. When I returned to her Margo said:

  ‘Tell me straight, what do you think of Nigel?’

  Nigel? Playing for time I sipped my beer, wondering why I drank the stuff since I disliked it so much. I said:

  ‘Oh, I like Nigel.’

  ‘Do you really?’

  ‘Well, he’s all right. I mean –’

  ‘Sometimes, Mike, I think Nigel is the most awful bore.’

  I remembered. Nigel was plump and talkative. Nigel would tell you anything you might ever wish to know. When Nigel got going there was, in truth, no stopping Nigel. Nigel was Margo’s husband.

  I drank some more beer. It was cold and tasteless. I said nothing.

  ‘Nigel and I had a barney last night.’

  ‘Oh God!’

  Margo told me about the barney. I listened dejectedly. Then I bought some more drink, and this time I changed mine to whisky. Someone had once told me that Jo had a husband too. Both marriages were considered to be heading for the rocks.

  Su
ddenly Margo stopped about Nigel. She leered at me and said something I didn’t catch. From the next few sentences, I realized she was telling me I’d make a good husband.

  ‘I suppose I would,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not in love with you or anything,’ Margo said, swaying.

  ‘Of course not.’

  After the pub we went off to have some lunch. All the way in the taxi I thought about Lucy.

  We went to an Italian place in Soho that was too expensive and not particularly good. Swann told us the history of his life and ate only series of cassatas. I found a telephone on the stairs and rang up Lucy.

  ‘Hullo, Lucy. What are you doing?’

  ‘What d’you mean, what am I doing? I’m standing here talking to you on the telephone.’

  ‘I’m getting drunk with people in Soho.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice for you.’

  ‘Is it? Wish you were here.’

  Lucy would be bored by this. ‘I’ve been reading Adam Bede,’ she said.

  ‘A good story.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you had lunch?’

  ‘I couldn’t find anything. I had some chocolate.’

  ‘I telephoned to see how you were.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘I wanted to hear your voice.’

  ‘Oh come off it. It’s just a voice.’

  ‘Shall I tell you about it?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Shall we meet some time?’

  ‘I’m sure we shall.’

  ‘I’ll ring you when I’m sober.’

  ‘Do that. I must get back to Adam Bede.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  I replaced the receiver and stood there looking down the steep stairs. Then I descended them.

  ‘What on earth shall we do now?’ Swann said. ‘It’s four o’clock.’

  ‘I want to talk to Mike,’ Margo announced. ‘Nobody’s to listen.’

  I sat beside her and she began to speak in a limping whisper. ‘I want your advice about Nigel, Mike.’

  ‘Honestly, I scarcely know him.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Look, I think there’s something the matter with Nigel.’

  I asked her to be specific. Instead she turned her assertion into a question. ‘Mike, do you think there’s something wrong with Nigel?’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘Be frank now.’

  ‘I tell you, I don’t know him. For all I know he may have an artificial stomach.’

  ‘Nigel hasn’t an artificial stomach, actually.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I don’t know why you should think that about him. He doesn’t even have trouble with his stomach.’

  ‘Well, then, what’s the matter with the man?’

  ‘I think he’s probably mental.’

  ‘Well, for God’s sake get him attended to, Margo.’

  ‘You think I should?’

  ‘Certainly I do. Unless you like his being mental.’

  Margo giggled. She said:

  ‘He’s taken to doing such odd things. I mean, I don’t know where this is going to stop.’

  ‘Odd things like what?’

  ‘Like bringing home elderly women. He comes in with these women, explaining that he has been attending some meeting with them and has brought them back for coffee. It’s quite alarming – Nigel with four or five old ladies trailing behind him. They stay for ages. I’ve no idea where he gets them from. I think he imagines he’s being kind.’

  ‘What does Nigel say?’

  ‘He says they haven’t finished their meeting. They just sit around writing little notes. Nobody says anything.’

  ‘I think it’s all very interesting. I’m sure there’s some quite simple explanation. I don’t think you’ve really investigated the matter, Margo.’

  ‘Let’s leave this place,’ Swann said.

  We went to another place, called the Blue Goat. It was one of those clubs where you can drink in the afternoon without having to watch striptease. Margo tried to go on about Nigel, but I said firmly that I didn’t want to hear anything more about Nigel. I talked to Jo.

  ‘Jo,’ I said, ‘do you know a girl called Lucy Anstruth?’

  ‘Small, plump, balding a little?’

  ‘No. Lucy is a very beautiful person.’

  ‘Not the same girl.’

  ‘Tall, fair, very blue eyes. Moves like a cat.’

  ‘Don’t know her.’

  ‘She says unexpected things. She’s half Swedish or something.’

  ‘Mike, would you guess I was half Welsh?’

  ‘No. I want to ask you about Lucy –’

  ‘But I don’t know her.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do about Lucy.’

  ‘You sound like Margo. Margo doesn’t know what to do about Nigel. Nobody knows what to do about anyone else. God! May I have some more vodka?’

  ‘Yes. As I say –’

  ‘I want a triple vodka.’

  I ordered the vodka. Beside us, Swann and Margo were sitting in preoccupied silence; they weren’t even listening to what we were saying. Margo caught my eye and opened her mouth to speak. I turned my back and handed Jo her drink.

  ‘Something’s the matter with Margo’s husband,’ Jo said. ‘Poor Margo’s terribly worried.’

  ‘Yes, I know all about it. Margo has been telling me.’

  ‘I like Nigel, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps you can help him straighten himself out. We were talking about something else. I was telling you –’

  ‘Seems Nigel brings women home.’

  ‘Yes I know, Jo.’

  ‘Bit rough on Margo.’

  Margo heard this. She shouted: ‘What’s rough on Margo?’ and then the conversation became general. I went away to telephone Lucy.

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘Hullo. Is that Mike?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hullo, Mike.’

  ‘Hullo, Lucy.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m feeling funny. But Lucy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m not trying to be funny. I’m not being amusing.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In the Blue Goat.’

  ‘Wherever’s that?’

  ‘It’s lined with leopard skin. Jo and Margo and Swann are here too.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Just other people.’

  ‘Nice of you to ring, Mike.’

  ‘Margo’s husband Nigel brings women home. I wondered perhaps if you had a word of advice I could give her. She’s worried about the women. They come in groups.’

  ‘Oh, Mike, I don’t know about things like that. I wouldn’t know what to do. Honestly.’

  ‘Sorry, Lucy; I just thought you might.’

  ‘The doorbell’s ringing. Goodbye, Mike. If I were you I’d go home.’

  Swann said he wanted tea. We left the Blue Goat and walked in dazzling sunshine towards Floris.

  Margo began again about Nigel.

  Swann said he knew a man who would do Nigel a world of good. He couldn’t remember the treatment this man offered, but he said it was highly thought of.

  I went away to telephone Lucy.

  ‘Lucy?’

  A man’s voice answered. I said: ‘May I speak to Lucy? Is that the right number?’

  The man didn’t reply and in a moment Lucy came on. ‘Is that Mike again?’

  ‘Hullo, Lucy. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mike.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Mike, you telephoned me at four fifteen. Do you know what time it is now?’

  ‘What time is it now?’

  ‘Four thirty-five.’

  ‘Am I being a nuisance, is that it?’

  ‘No, no. Just, is there anything I can do for you? I mean, do you want something and feel unable to express yourself?’

  ‘I’m bored. I’m with these people. Luc
y.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who’s that in your flat?’

  ‘A friend called Frank. You don’t know him.’

  ‘What’s he doing there?’

  ‘What d’you mean, what’s he doing?’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘Look, I’ll ask him. Frank, what are you doing?’

  ‘What’s he say?’

  ‘He says he’s making a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’m having tea too. In Floris. I wish you were here.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mike.’

  ‘Don’t go, Lucy.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mike.’

  ‘Goodbye, Lucy.’

  When I got back to the others I found them laughing in an uproarious manner. Swann said the cake they were eating was making them drunk. ‘Smell it,’ he said. It smelt of rum. I tasted some: it tasted of rum too. We all ate a lot of the cake, laughing at the thought of getting drunk on cake. We ordered some more, and told the waitress it was delicious. When the enthusiasm had melted a bit Swann said:

  ‘Mike, we want your advice about Margo’s husband.’

  ‘I’ve told Margo –’

  ‘No, Mike – seriously now. You know about these things.’

  ‘Why do you think I know about these things? I do not know about these things.’

  ‘All right, Mike, I’ll tell you. Margo’s husband Nigel keeps turning up with groups of old females. Margo’s worried in case the thing develops a bit – you know, tramps, grocers, one-legged soldiers. What d’you think she should do?’

  ‘I don’t know what Margo should do. Margo, I don’t know what you should do. Except perhaps ask Nigel what he’s up to. In the meantime, have some more cake.’

  ‘Now there’s an idea,’ Swann shouted excitedly. ‘Margo love, why don’t you ask old Nigel what he’s up to?’

  Jo hacked affectionately at my face with her great spiked fingers. I guessed it was an expression of admiration rather than attack because she smiled as she did so.

  ‘But all Nigel says,’ Margo said, ‘is that they haven’t finished their meeting.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Swann, ‘but you don’t press him. You don’t say: “What meeting?” You don’t indicate that you are in the dark as to the nub of their business. Nigel may well imagine that you accept the whole state of affairs without question and expect little else of married life. When you were at the Gents,’ Swann said to me, ‘Margo confessed she was worried.’