England's Lane

by Joseph Connolly

  I remember just gazing at her.

  “Do you really think that’s true …?”

  “Of course it’s true. It’s obviously true. Naturally, though, you have to watch out you don’t have too many gin-and-Its. And there’ll always be the odd bastard who’ll just force himself on you … but if that happens, you simply get out fast. Kick him, if you have the time. Shouldn’t have been there in the first place, of course …”

  I laughed. I did see what she meant, I honestly did—but still I simply laughed, just as I did at all of her terribly bold and increasingly unsettling pronouncements. It was more her intensity as she expressed herself, I think, that provoked the laughter in me—it was that more than anything. But as I left the Italian restaurant and accompanied Jonathan to his car (the Chianti, it had gone straight to my head—the car, a Riley, it smelt of both leather and safety) I knew that he desired me. Desire …! Just thinking the word had made me go shivery. I knew too that I could deflect any such suggestion with barely more than a glance—not even that, just the lack of a smile and the lowering of eyelids—and I further knew that I harbored within me no such intention. I saw then that Eunice was right: it was I who possessed the power (I was charged, and quite giddy) and it seemed so very certain that I was about to wield it. Simply by doing what he wanted … and not because he wanted it, but because I needed it now, and with a force so sudden and utterly strange that it nearly frightened me. I needed for the first time ever unquestionably to be me, to allow myself that—and it was Jonathan whom I had selected to affect this transformation.

  We found ourselves in a little wedge-shaped room behind the shop that I had not even known existed. Not a room at all, not really—more a sort of partitioned section of what once had been a bit of the yard. There was a large oak roll-top desk, two glass-shaded brass lamps, a swivel chair on castors and covered in very dark green leather—almost black, deep in the well of it, faded and rubbed to bright apple on the arms. Gray mottled box files stacked very neatly, and the sort of chaise longue that your maiden aunt might well have been proud of—though this was a fairly caved-in sort of an affair, tufts of yellowed horsehair breeching the slack and blousy buttoned chintz. Jonathan Barton smiled his smile and made a gesture toward it—so very elaborate was the ushering supplication in his arms that he might have been gushingly presenting a debutante at court.

  “Hardly much …” he said quite quietly, “though possibly more comfortable than at first it might appear. May I offer you something in the way of a digestif, dear Milly? A liqueur of some sort, conceivably …?”

  Milly laughed quite shortly as she sat at the edge of the chaise longue, her fingers probing to the left and right of her.

  “You have liqueurs …? Oh dear, Jonathan …”

  “I find it always rather assists one to know that a selection of life’s little comforts is never too distant. A drop of Benedictine, possibly …?”

  “I don’t know what it is. But yes—thank you, Jonathan. That would be lovely.”

  “It is created by monks,” he said, pouring it steadily into two small cut-glass tumblers. “The best liqueurs do seem to be. I expect it helps to keep the poor blighters warm—less cold, anyway—during all those black and solitary nights they have elected to endure.”

  “An extraordinary existence …” said Milly, quite idly. “Mm. It’s strong, isn’t it? Very strong. It doesn’t burn you, though. The warmth … it very gradually spreads. I like it. I like it very much indeed.”

  “I myself,” said Jonathan—inquiring with his eyes whether he might join her on the chaise; when she smiled, he sat down gingerly. “I myself, I feel … would not be perfectly suited to the life monastic.”

  “Few are, I imagine.”

  And yes, she was thinking—you least of all. And why, I wonder, am I not consumed by trepidation …? Why do I feel so far from in pieces? Why do I not stutter, while stumbling clumsily toward the door and stammering out a tumble of such ridiculous excuses …? Because I have not been lured here: I am not the innocent victim. On the contrary: I see myself as the happy volunteer who knows quite well that easily she can deal with whatever is to come. For am I not a capable woman …?

  “Lovely luncheon, Jonathan …”

  “A humble repast. A bite. So glad you cared for it.” Something then seemed to occur to him. He turned around to face her. “Milly, my dear …”

  She set down her glass on to a gunmetal filing cabinet. Then she leaned across to him and as those eyes of his were glinting, eased his head down and toward her. The flood of heat from those full red lips that she had tried so hard, and all through the afternoon, not to ogle, nor even to glance at—the prick of his perfumed mustache—these were so exactly what she had imagined and then longed for them to be that she felt no flutter, no immediate convulsion, but merely a languid relaxation: this easing into, at last, contentment. Her clothes he dealt with as if he had been scrupulously rehearsing each so delicate a stage of the intricate procedure until his performance was both deft and immaculate. Milly was muted by the shock of barely remembered sensation, and then a series of small amazements at every new release from the constraint of her tightly elasticated and clipped together underthings, at each fresh deluge of touch from two so soft and yet insistent hands (and through closed eyelids, she saw their looming redness). She gasped only in the giving of a long-awaited welcome as she felt herself quite suddenly and completely full of him, her face tugged aside into an ever-widening smile that was happily and wildly beyond all control. She clutched his face. Slid fingers into his brilliantined hair and hugged him to her as he buried his face into the side of her neck—she gloried in his guttural and stunted roaring as they both quite briefly were quivering, and then so gorgeously subsided. And although no sound escaped her, she was singing within. Then there came a silent sigh.

  Nothing, no part of her had been the same, following that charged though really very brief encounter. Immediately after, she had put herself together quite quickly … and as she looked at her face in the oval mirror of her enameled compact, she giggled as she flicked her eyes sideways and said that she looked quite utterly ghastly. Though never had she been so thrilled by her color, this wholly irrepressible sheen upon her bursting cheeks, the bright white points of dazzle in her eyes. Jonathan had given her the brooch—the gift he had had for her—as she continued to smile quite helplessly. A gleaming-faceted amethyst lozenge set in plain beveled gold—and he pricked his finger as he attempted to release the pin. Milly kissed the rising globule of blood—would have sucked at it quite avidly. Despite his protestation, she blotted the blood from the pad of that finger on the stark white cuff of her frock, and eyed its careful seeping. The provocation of such passion did not astound her. That frock she now kept in her special box, her box of small and special things. She had new clothes quite regularly now—not from Jonathan: she bought them for herself, and more than ever she had in her life. She could not help but think that Eunice would approve—of every part of it, actually. A tallyman would call at the back of the ironmonger’s at as discreet an hour as Milly could arrange, and she would choose from all sorts of very lovely things (he knew her size, he had her measure)—and of course all this on the never-never. How else could she have managed? This winking joker with his two big scuffed and brown fiberboard suitcases would tell her she had made a very wise choice indeed: in this she’d look a proper picture. And Up West, in the Bond Street fashion houses, they were selling this very article, madam—on my mother’s life, I tell you no lie—for twenty guineas, not a penny less: to you, though—three-and-a-tanner down, thirty bob all told.

  And Jonathan … every time she appeared in something new, he behaved as if he were struck by a vision from on high: his compliments were ample and various, and she cherished every one. Jim … he did not notice. Ever. Whatever she had on. The amethyst brooch she now wore daily—Paul had said oh, what a beautiful color. Jim had yet to spot it. And of course he knows nothing. Nor did he observe when just l
ast evening, when she had been knitting, close to the fire, she had suddenly caught her breath and resisted the impulse to double right over, her stiffened fingers seeking out the source of the pain deep within her, needing to delve, and soothe it away. And now … alone in the box room, as the night crept on, it attacked her again. The spasm, it never lasted long, but the surprise and intensity were always quite shocking. And as once more it passed so slowly away, she blinked up at the shadows barely there on the ceiling, and she set to frankly wondering whether or not this was one of those stories that was destined to have a happy ending. In books they do, often they do. Though not, of course, always.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Best Interests

  Stan Miller was carefully placing each of his feet quite flatly on the treads of the stepladder, having just fetched down from the topmost shelf the large glass jar of chocolate raisin fudge. Only last spring, it was—or was it the spring before? Do you know, time … it passes that quick, I can’t even be sure in my own mind. But it was a bit before Easter time, that I do know, because I’d just been having the devil of a job storing all the eggs that my wholesaler had just dropped off on me. Yes—and he’d given me no sort of a warning, you know. Just turned up in his van without so much as a by your leave with all these hundreds of Easter eggs, and me with a stockroom packed to the rafters as it was: mainly down to the crates of Tizer returnables—they just take forever, these people, to come and pick them up. So what’s all this, I says to him, my wholesaler: it’s not Easter, is it? Not for weeks. Yeh, he says, but that’s the way it is, see? People are wanting them earlier and earlier, don’t ask me to explain it. Creme Eggs—them little Cadbury’s numbers? Can’t get out enough of them, I can promise you that: they’re clamoring. That’s what he said.

  Anyway, I’d had a bit of a flap on that day, as I recall, what with all the eggs coming in on top of everything else. Some days, the shop, it’s like that: busy from the off. Other mornings, I’m checking the door to see if I remembered to unlock it. How it is, in retail. My line it is, anyway. Sometimes the whole world and his brother is wanting his fags and his sweets for the kids—lollies, ices, fizzy drinks, gobstoppers, what have you—and the very next day no one so much as walks through the door for the better part of an afternoon. It’s a mystery, really. So as I say, I was up the ladder later in the day, just like I am now, and ooh—I come a terrible cropper. I’m on my way back down, and the step, that last step on the ladder, it just wasn’t there—can’t understand it. Anyway—went flying. The fruit bonbon jar, that broke. Sticky sweets all over the place: everywhere, they went—so that was good money right down the drain. Christ Alive. And my ankle wasn’t right, not right for weeks. Black and blue my leg was—all down the one side. So now I play it very safe. Come down nice and slowly, arm around the jar—and they’re heavy when they’re full, you know. You don’t realize. They can be quite a weight, those big glass jars: people don’t think of it. And that top shelf … covered in dust. I’ve really got to give the whole of the shop a real proper going over. Been putting it off for ages. There just doesn’t seem to be the hours in the day, that’s the trouble. I’m always saying I’ll do it of an evening time, after I’ve listened to the wireless. But once I’ve seen to Anthony—got him his tea, sorted out his medicines, massaged his little legs for him and all the rest of the palaver … and then there’s the wife, of course. Changing her sheets. That’s become a daily occurrence, I won’t go into it. Don’t like to take them in to be done any more, not any more, so I have to see that Anthony’s all nicely settled in with his homework and a Kit-Kat, and I nip round the corner to the Laundrette. Then I’m taking away all the plates of food she hasn’t eaten … her favorite biscuits, the sausage rolls she always said she was so partial to. Cups of tea she’s barely touched. Clearing it out, washing it up. Yes—and once I’ve done all of that, I’m fair fit for nothing, I’ll be frank with you. Just watch the news and have a smoke of my pipe. While trying not to dread tomorrow. And that never works, of course. Never works at all. Clouds my evening, the thought of tomorrow.

  Anyway, I’ve given the lady her quarter of chocolate raisin fudge—isn’t a great seller, the chocolate raisin fudge, not these days it’s not: a jar, it’ll last me a good six months—whereas your sherbet lemons and your aniseed balls and your liquorice comfits, those I’m replenishing most every week or so. Yes, so done that, got her her change, and now it’s Mr. Barton who’s rapping the edge of a florin on the counter. He’s like that, Mr. Barton—ever so mannerly, always a smile on him, I’m not saying that—but he’s not the most patient of people. Always very eager to conduct his business and be off. Well—businessman, you can hardly blame him. I’m very accommodating, of course, very eager to please, because there’s no one in the Lane who’s such a good customer for my more higher-class lines. No one comes close. Like today—his usual eight ounces of violet creams for his wife (“violent,” he calls them—it’s his little joke, says it every time). Fiona, I think she’s called, the wife. And twenty Sobranie Black Russian, which he’ll buy from time to time. Not on a regular basis. I only get them in for him. And often of a weekend he’ll take a box of Terry’s 1711, the two-pound box with the bow. I only get those in for him, and all. Never sell one of them round here, not unless it’s Christmas time, maybe. There aren’t that many who are willing to spend a guinea and more on a box of chocolates. But there—I daresay there’s money in meat.

  “Keeping well are we, Mr. Barton? Everything shipshape, is it?”

  Jonathan glanced at him sharply, as if he had been stung.

  “Shipshape …? In what way are you meaning shipshape …?”

  Stan was widening his eyes—rather taken aback by the challenge in the man’s voice, and eager to dissociate himself from any intent whatever.

  “Er … well truth to tell, Mr. Barton, I wasn’t meaning anything. Just came out. I say these things, and I’m hardly aware.”

  Jonathan held his gaze before relaxing his face into an easy smile.

  “Of course. Yes yes—I maybe even am guilty of doing so myself. With the customers, you know. Becomes something of an automatic routine, doesn’t it really?”

  Stan was nodding. “You’re telling me. Yes indeedy.”

  “Quite. And maybe some Black Magic, I’m thinking …”

  “Certainly, Mr. Barton. Pound box all right, is it? Largest I have, I’m afraid. Just at the moment.”

  “A pound should do me very well, thank you Stan. How much do I owe you? Rain’s kept off, anyway. Thus far. Something, I suppose …”

  “That’ll be, let me see … with the cigarettes, the chocolates there, that’ll be thirteen and eleven, thank you Mr. Barton. Quite a black time you’ll be having, then …”

  And he was immediately alarmed to see that the gleam of accusation was back in Mr. Barton’s eye. He babbled his explanation.

  “I was just meaning, you know … what with the Black Russian, the Black Magic … yes. I think they said it might come on later. That’s what it said on the wireless. And seven-and-a-penny change. Thanks very much. The rain, I mean.”

  And Stan was thinking two things: that he wasn’t sure whether it was just remembering about that old ankle injury of his a while back that had made it maybe somehow lodge in his mind … but either way it was suddenly giving him gyp. Aching terrible. And why is it … here’s my other thought: why is it that I call him Mr. Barton, and he calls me Stan? Seems to come quite naturally to the both of us, though. I suppose it’s just him being a gentleman, really, butcher or no.

  “Well thank you so much, Stan. Until anon, I have no doubt. And now I must be gone.”

  Indeed I must: so very much to see to. The, ah … incident, shall we call it? The incident, yes, with the unconscionable pig man, this has, you know, honed my mind into incisive concentration, as any impending peril will. The status quo is very evidently in the balance: the merest touch, even no more than the approaching warmth of a finger—an angel’s breath, the kiss of a feat
her—will trigger the lurching of the scales, and then the clattered capsizing of all my equanimity, this followed closely by immediate, sprawling and unseemly collapse. There can no longer be any doubt upon the matter. And as a consequence, I have to take immediate and decisive steps in order to protect myself, in order to keep from harm those few who are dear to me, while flagrantly utilizing as part of the essential process all those who are not. All those who are thoroughly expendable—and it is extraordinary, I long ago realized, how very many are. People at large, they seem not to see this. They maybe wish, I don’t know—to love and be loved by all? Can such moon-eyed gullibility truly be so apparently universal? Though of course certainly one may, tight up to the razor’s edge of one’s own advantage, appear to embrace so nonsensical an illusion, but only for as long as so distractingly colorful a facade continues to conceal the true intent, while covertly furthering all one’s best interests. I, but of course, have my own best interests at heart—well naturally I do—and at the moment it is clear to me that no one must be alienated—not now, not yet. An even keel—this is what at all costs must surely be maintained. No just palpable flutter of panic, no easy gesture of impetuosity—all must be serene. The circumference of my charm, indeed, must even be further extended—for I need now within my circle and close to my side a big and stupid man who will unquestioningly do my bidding. And this is why I made so singular an approach to the negro carpenter: Obi, his name is. Which, coincidentally, it glancingly occurs to me, sounds not unlike “obey.” Sort of name, I suppose, one of these would have.