England's Lane

by Joseph Connolly

  But … it is Jim’s “attire,” for want of a more credible term, that currently I am forced to contemplate … and what therefore cannot possibly be ignored then is his wretched flat cap. Simply the very sight of this will always occasion in me a correspondent stirring of queasiness: he will not throw it out—he will not have it cleaned (although now it is long beyond that). Well—there it is. So where Jim is concerned, please do erase from your mind any images of such as David Niven, James Mason, Charles Boyer—or, indeed, Jonathan Barton: for what we have in Jim, as he waddles away with my Paul at his side, is rather more akin to a jobbing dustman.

  “So then Pauly—looking forward, ay?”

  Paul nodded eagerly. “I am,” he said. And he did not say that it would though be a whole lot better if it wasn’t for you …

  “Bet you are. Me too. So what—we cross over to Stan’s then, do we? That the set-up?”

  “Yes. Amanda said she’d meet us there. We’re actually a couple of minutes late … oh look. There they are. They’re all outside.”

  “Yeh well, couple of minutes. Blimey—Zoo ain’t going nowhere, is it? Wotcha, Stan—all right?”

  Stan had been eyeing their approach with a degree of unease, though quickly he assembled a smile of greeting.

  “Hallo, Paul—all ready? Fighting fit? Good of you to bring him, Jim—but I’m sure young Paul is more than capable of crossing the road on his own, aren’t you Paul?”

  Paul though was already in quite animated conversation with Anthony and Amanda … and there was another girl there too, who was slightly holding back. Amanda then said Paul, this is Susan—from my school: we’re both best friends. And Paul then shyly had said hello.

  “Four kids! Blimey, Stan—that ought to be enough for us, ay? No no—thing is is, I coming along, that all right. Quite fancied the idea.”

  Stan’s face was set.

  “I see. Well yes of course, Jim. More the merrier.”

  A pale and sickly sun did seem to be straining with reasonable might to break through the weak and silvered sky that bound it. There was brightness enough, however, at the summit of Primrose Hill, and the six of them stood there, despite the bite of the cold. Jim had shouted to them all “There it is! See it Pauly? See it everyone, do you? St. Paul’s that is. Named after you, Pauly. St. Paul’s Chapel … no. Church. No—ain’t a church neither, is it? What’s it called? Cathedral, that’s it. St. Paul’s Cathedral. Yeh, that’s it. With the dome, look.” Stan stared straight ahead while the children glanced around at one another, Amanda and Susan struggling not to laugh as Paul glared down at the ground, his ears now throbbing with a crimson heat. Stan then checked that the fair old climb up to the top of the Hill had not affected Anthony too badly—who smilingly swung up a crutch in happy dismissal of the very idea. Paul was used to helping him a bit on the descent into Regent’s Park, because it really was rather steep—and in the past, Anthony had skittered along rather more quickly than he intended and more than once had managed to pitch himself over. Stan had been expecting the usual queue at the entrance to the Zoo, but there seems to be no one, which is all to the good: quite do with a cup of tea, now I think of it. Paul then was eagerly pressing into his hands the amount of money that his Auntie Milly had given him for the entrance fees—he was pleased to have remembered, and remembered too what pocket it was in—while Stan was saying No no no, wouldn’t hear of it, my treat Paul, of course it is: my idea, wasn’t it? And then he paid the sleepy man in the little glass cubicle for all six of them (well the children, they’re halves at least, so not too bad, but still rather pricier than I thought it would be) and as they filed through the turnstile Jim said boomingly Blimey O’Reilly—they sure do know how to charge in these places, and no mistake: last time I come here, it were pennies. Here, Stan—fancy a quick one, do you? Kids’ll be all right. What you say? Little snort, ay? But Stan wasn’t listening—Stan was saying this: Now listen boys and girls, before you all run off—mind you read all the signs and behave yourselves, yes? No mischief. And stay together—don’t get lost. We’ll meet you in the cafeteria in, what—hour, say? See how everyone’s doing. All right? Got your watch on, haven’t you Anthony? Yes—and Paul, he’s got a watch too, so that’s all right. Off you go then, all of you—have a good time …!

  “Nice move, Stan. That’s the boy. Got shot of them. So how about it, then? Fast one, yeh?”

  “Don’t you think we ought to, well—look at the animals or something …?”

  “Well there’s a bloody great elephant, look, stood right in front of you. Can’t have missed it, Stan. No but yeh—we’ll get to all of that, course we will. Gorillas is what I like. Lions. Penguins—they’re a right laugh and a half. They got a pub here, or what …? Nah—outside licensing hours, bloody country. Maybe in the caff you can just get a bottle of Double Diamond or something, what you reckon? It’s legal if you get some scoff in, ain’t it?”

  “Don’t think so, Jim. Sunday, you know. Wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, though.”

  Jim’s whole face was stopped, his enthusiasm frozen.

  “Oh blimey yeh. Bloody Sunday. Never thought of that. Oh well we’re buggered for the whole of the day, then. What they want to pass a law like that for? Bloody country. But the Lord God, you know—I can’t see him minding, you want a tickle of something you fancy of a Sabbath afternoon. No harm I can see … oh well, never mind ay? Let’s go and have that cuppa you was on about. Cos look what I got, Stan: wouldn’t let you down, would I …?” And he drew out from inside his donkey jacket a flat half-bottle of Haig. “Give your char a little bit of oomph, ay …?”

  Stan now tightened his smile because he knew it had come loose.

  “Let’s just find the café, will we?” he said quite flatly. “Round this sort of direction, if memory serves … And Milly, Jim. Milly keeping well, is she?”

  Jim now clapped him across the shoulders, chucking away a fag stub.

  “Or we can muscle in with the chimps at the old tea party, ay? Reckon we’d fit in prime. Yeh—she Trojan, ta.”

  Stan just looked at him.

  “Pleased to hear it. They don’t have it in the winter. It’s a summer thing, the chimps’ tea party. They don’t have it in the winter.”

  “That right? I think that’s the caff over there, look. Blimey—all brand spanking new since I were here last. Used to be more like a bloody Nissen hut. Looks like one of Billy Butlin’s now: very bleeding posh, I must say.”

  As he queued behind Jim for his tea, Stan was thinking he wouldn’t have fruitcake on account of he’d not that long ago had his dinner. He’d fried up some chicken thighs and wings he’d got from Mr. Barton’s. He chops up the birds into portions: only place I know that does. It’s handy: you don’t have to go the whole hog. Anthony and me, we’d tucked into the thighs with a few peas and a jacket potato: it was nice enough. The wings I’d brought up to Janey: not much meat on them, but then that’s ideal, isn’t it really? For someone who’s not going to touch them. I don’t want to think about how Milly’s going to get on with her: just can’t visualize—can’t imagine the scene. Janey, to my way of thinking, she’s either just going to sit there and stare at her like she does with me, or else she’ll start screaming the place down at the sight of a human being in the room. Either way, daresay Milly will be able to handle it: like she says—she’s a capable woman. And it was only a couple of days back I was sharing a cup of tea with her … just after she caught me. Well she did, didn’t she? Red-handed, I was really—holding out that blessed stupid nightie thing: didn’t know where to look. Yes and what can she have thought of me, that’s what I’d like to know. And then I go and tell her all about Janey. Dear oh dear … Funny, though, that that was just a couple of days back, when I was sharing a cup of tea with her … and now it looks like I’m just about to do the very same thing with Jim. Her husband. Can hardly believe it. What’s he doing here anyhow? Why did Milly send him? She didn’t say anything about it, I’m pretty sure. I wasn’t really listeni
ng all that closely though, God’s honest truth, toward the end: I was just watching her. Watching her, and thinking. But I am fairly sure there was nothing about Jim in that little scheme of hers: can’t remember that he had featured at all. And what on earth are we going to talk about? Nothing in common. Except for the Lane, of course. And, well … Milly, I suppose. His wife.

  “Nice big cup, at least,” said Jim, putting it down on a table by the door. “Oh bugger—I gone and slopped it in the wossname. Wonder if they got a rag …? Saucer, look—gone and slopped it in the bleeding saucer …”

  “I’ve got a tissue,” said Stan. “I always have them for Anthony …”

  “Yeh? Well give us it over, there’s good lad. Clumsy sod, I am … you want to ask Mill. She tell you. Wanna fag? Oh right—you got your pipe.”

  “I don’t see very much of her,” Stan said, quite tentatively. “Milly …”

  “No well you wouldn’t, would you? Stuck in your shop, same as me. But she do go in, don’t she? Time to time. For the boy, and that. My smokes, of course. Blimey, Stan—the money you had off of me down the years! Sixty a bleeding day. I’m a fool to myself. Here, mate—give us your cup. Get a slug of this down you …”

  “I won’t actually, Jim. If it’s all the same to you. But yes—Milly. She’s quite a regular customer.”

  “Please yourself, Stan. Your loss.”

  “Seems a nice girl, that Susan,” said Stan, quite wistfully. “I’ve not met her before. I do hope the children are enjoying themselves …”

  “Don’t you worry about them. When did kids not have a good time at the Zoo, ay? I never got no treats like that, not when I were a lad. Zoo? I lived in a bloody zoo, never mind go to one. Nowadays … well nowadays they don’t know they’re born. That’s what I says to Pauly. Pauly, I says to him—here, come over here, tell you something: you, my son, you don’t even know you’re born. He just sort of look at me, the way kids does. You know. But it’s right what I says. Look at that la-di-da school what you and me is slaving our bleeding guts out to send them boys to. You go to a school like that, did you? No, didn’t think so. No you did not. Nor me neither, mate. Me—I never gone to no school at all, not for more than two minutes, any road. You blink, son, and I were gone. Ain’t done me no harm. But it’s all different now. Whole world. It’s a different world from before the war—well you knows it yourself, Stan. What ain’t changed though is the way what they look at you if you ain’t talking all hi-falutin. You ain’t got a red-hot spud stuck up your ass like Jonathan fucking Barton, pardon language—well then they reckon you got to be stupid, or something. But I ain’t. I may not be, you know what I’m saying—I may not be posh, yeh well I knows that, don’t I? But stupid I ain’t. Bastards. Oh anyway. Way it bloody is. Here—you sure you don’t want none of this, Stan? Beautiful smooth. You want to get in quick, son—down to the label. Don’t know how that gone and happened so fast …”

  Stan was eyeing him dully.

  “Yeh. All right. I will have just a tot. Thanks, Jim.”

  Yeh I will. Maybe, please God, it will make me numb.

  “Right you are, son—there you go. That’ll keep the chill out. Here … Gordon Bennett …! Look over there, Stan! See them? Just walking past. See them? It’s them Sambos out of the woodyard. Blimey. Come to visit their mum and dad, shouldn’t wonder. Bleeding King Kong, or something …!”

  Stan was looking in the direction.

  “Yes—that’s them. One of them—the one on the right, see him? With the stripey jacket, he’s really very nice. Still can’t remember his name. It’s a funny name. I had him in the shop one time to repair some shelves. A happy bloke, he seems, Good at his job, anyway.”

  “Yeh well—give them enough bananas and they won’t never stop smiling, will they? Easy pleased, see? Law of the jungle. Other one looks a right bleeding bastard, to my eye. Wouldn’t want to bump into him in an alley of a night time. Couldn’t bloody see him, for starters. No—me, I wouldn’t want nothing to do with them. Not like us, is they? Different. I mean—I ain’t saying they’s all bad people. They don’t have to be bad people. Ain’t saying that. Don’t belong though, do they? Stick out like a sore wossname. Better off back where they come from, my way of thinking. England for the English. Nothing wrong with that. What we fought a bleeding war for. That’s right, ain’t it Stan?”

  Stan was slumped in his chair, and slowly wagging his head.

  “Don’t know, Jim. Couldn’t tell you. Sometimes I feel, these days … I just know nothing. Got any more of that Scotch, have you …?”

  “That’s the way, Stan. But you drunk all your tea, look. Get in another cup, will we?”

  “No, Jim. Don’t bother. Sick of tea. Sick of it. Just pour it in, will you?”

  Yeh, he thought. Just pour it in. Please God it will make me numb.

  *

  Milly was actually feeling quite foolish, even as she tapped with her fingertips the frosted-glass panel of the back door to the shop. I mean to say—I know it’s unlocked, so why am I knocking? Stan has already assured me that he wouldn’t draw the bolt—and even if Jane were to be fleetingly aware of any distant rapping, then still she is hardly likely, from what I have been told of her general demeanor, to cast aside her bedclothes with a cry of girlish joy and then come bounding down the stairs happily sporting the smile that speaks of enormous welcome, her bright eyes brimming with an inner tinkling laughter and the eager need to lavish upon her unexpected visitor this much unstinting hospitality. Therefore it is, yes, extremely silly to be knocking on the door, I do understand, but it’s just that … I don’t know … it seems, so very wrong to just walk into someone else’s house.

  And now that I find myself on the other side of the door—having eased it to as softly as if here there are babies sleeping—now that I am standing quite still in this chill and dank, rather shadowy corridor, I begin in a rush to sincerely question the wisdom of just any of this. What actually do I imagine I am doing here? When you have a moment, Milly, I should like an explanation, please. Why had I made such an offer to Stan? And look—it was quite a bit more than just an offer, wasn’t it really? I had been quite insistent on the matter, as now I recall it. I did not quite go so far as to cajole, I very much hope. No, I don’t think it ever exactly came to that, but still I did my utmost to overcome his initial very shocked dismissal of the entire idea, and then—following the grayness of his indecision—so very determined to tip over the pivot of what by then was really no more than a residual hesitancy. Why did I do all that? How suddenly had I come to care so terribly much about the state of Jane? A woman to whom, in the past, I have barely even spoken. We would encounter in the Dairies from time to time, sometimes in Amy’s, beneath the dryers … but all that was back in the days when the unfortunate woman would actually bring herself to, well—leave the house. Do the shopping, have her hair done like any other normal sort of a person. Good heavens—unless Stan has been grossly overstating the case, it appears now as if she never even strays from the upper floors. Which is now, I suppose … where next I must venture. Oh dear. I do feel most unwilling to do this. And for the first time, it now just occurs to me, I have very good reason for my new reluctance. And I do feel so abominably stupid: how could I not have thought of it before? It’s Jane: what of Jane herself, for goodness sake? My impulse to help, of course it had stemmed from compassion for Stan in his silent, unspeakable plight—that, and maybe the bewilderment of little Anthony, should he even be remotely aware of the singularity of his circumstance (because children, they are so very heartbreakingly accepting of whatever bitter spoonfuls are urged beyond their innocent lips). But Jane … how on earth—always assuming that I do manage finally to summon up the backbone to go ahead with all of this rather appalling nonsense, as now I see it plainly to be—how on earth do I expect her to react to the sight of me? Just suddenly standing there in front of her, and within a space I suppose she now has come to think of as perfectly inviolate …? It is Sunday, the shop is close
d, and the house is as quiet as if it were night. Stan will almost certainly have told her that he is taking the children off to the Zoo, whether or not she will consciously have absorbed the information. Whether or not she actually minds at all whatever he does. And therefore, in the knowledge that on this afternoon she truly is quite utterly alone, then possibly in the light of that, she might be … she might be … well I don’t know, I just don’t know. She might be doing anything. Absolutely anything. How on earth am I supposed to guess at such a thing? I simply can’t imagine … and the whole idea, this entire and very idiotic escapade, it does now more than slightly horrify me. And specifically, I think, because this particular confinement, if Stan is to be believed … and what now am I saying, actually? I hardly think that the poor man can be making it all up … is quite wholly voluntary on Jane’s part in that her limbs are apparently functional, and nor is she suffering from any strictly definable organic disability. So … what does a person in so unthinkable a situation actually, you know … do, then? Well possibly she is watching television. That’s fairly likely. Is there television on a Sunday afternoon? Do you know, I have not the slightest idea. Maybe they put on something religious, or an ancient film or something. The wireless, conceivably: maybe she’s a music lover, or she could follow the serials. She might well be reading. She reads, presumably. Or asleep: she could be asleep. Alternatively—and here is the vision that chills me most—just simply sitting there. Motionless, in a high-backed chair. Staring at nothing, though almost certainly the wall.