England's Lane

by Joseph Connolly

  Tried to creep into the house quiet, like. I’d just sort of crawled my way out of the Barton bastard’s yard—just standing there he were, bold as you want, and he holding the door open for me for all the world like he that—what’s his name …? Yeh that Jeeves, is it, or something. Like he were going to be doling out to me a top hat and a pair of white fucking gloves. We never said nothing. Didn’t meet no one in the Lane, which were a blessing—Gawd alone know what I look like. It still were so bleeding early … yeh but I got to get the shop open soon, ain’t I? Yeh—business is business, and I ain’t never late. So what I done is, I come in the back—take the cover off of Cyril’s cage, say hello like, poke him through a little bit of millet, and then I goes up the stairs, soft as I can. My face … I can’t tell you. I looks in the mirror in the bathroom there, and blimey—I just can’t tell you. I get a bit of water on it—and it do sting, and no mistake—and then I bungs on a squeeze of that Savlon—and yeh, all right, it look a bit better, feel a bit better. I touches my conk … and nah, don’t reckon it are broke now. Big and bleeding red, though—and yeh, give me gyp all right. My eye—where he got me right square on the second doings—that more or less closed down. Going blue on the skin around it there, look—bit of sort of yellow and all: blimey—this rate, I’ll be bleeding looking like Cyril. Then I hears Mill—Mill, she knocking about somewhere. Pauly—yeh, he will of gone off by now, pick up Anthony for his school … yeh so that’s all right, then—he well out the road. But it’s Mill I got to cope with now. Don’t know where I can rightly start with it. Yeh well—no time to think: I turns round and she standing there, ain’t she?

  “Jim …! Oh … Jim …! Oh—your poor, poor face …! He did that to you …? I can hardly believe it. Oh Jim—why wouldn’t you talk to me first? It’s all just a huge misunderstanding, don’t you see? I could have explained. But oh—look what he’s done to you … I can’t—I just can’t believe it. It must only be because he’s … well I do think he might have become rather slightly deranged, you know. In the light of events. You didn’t hurt him though, did you …?”

  “Blimey O bleeding Reilly …”

  “No but what I mean is—he’s not himself, do you see?”

  “Yeh? Who the bleeding hell is he, then?”

  “All I mean is, Jim, he’s had a shock. He’s very disturbed. Oh … but I am really so very very sorry for your injuries. It’s just so untypical of the man. And also—well, he’s such a weedy little fellow, isn’t he …? I just can’t understand it.”

  “Weedy, ay? You reckon?”

  “Have you put something on that eye? Oh … just look at us Jim, though. The pair of us. Honestly—what a sight! It’s really rather funny, don’t you think …?”

  “Not really. No.”

  “No but I mean our faces! We both of us look as if we’ve just gone ten rounds with, um … with, er … oh Lord, I don’t know the names of any boxers …”

  “Rocky Marciano.”

  “Well, if you say so, Jim.”

  “Henry Cooper.”

  “Oh yes—I’ve heard of him, I think …”

  “Freddie Mills.”

  “Yes all right, Jim. That’ll do, thank you very much …”

  “Sonny Liston … Sugar Ray Robinson …”

  “Oh dear God …”

  “Yeh. Right. So, um … how’s you, then? What the doc say? You all right, are you? Here … tell me this though, Mill. I got to know. He really not hit you? That bastard? Because he says he never …”

  “Well of course he didn’t! I told you! I just fell down a few stairs, that’s all. My own stupid fault. I’m fine. Never been better. Honestly, Jim—I’m completely fine. Although … there is one thing … just one little thing I should like to talk to you about …”

  “Yeh well—I don’t. Want to talk. Not about none of it.”

  “Yes but there is just this one thing that we rather must. Talk about. I’m afraid.”

  “Got to open the shop, ain’t I …?”

  “Oh not now, I don’t mean. This evening though, maybe. Yes? After supper?”

  Well no. Couldn’t face none of that, when the time come. So that’s why, after I got my tea down me, I treats myself to a couple of stiff ones up the Washington, and then I got myself down here. See my Daisy. Yeh. And she been ever so understanding. When she go and clock my dial, she don’t say nothing like what every other bugger do—yeh and you should’ve heard them in the Washington: trouble and strife got the rolling pin on you, did she Jim? Aye aye—blind drunk again, was you Jim? One of them even gone and done that ten bleeding rounds with Henry bloody Cooper like what Mill done, you can believe it. Blimey … on and on, I don’t know. But my Daisy, she just sort of look at me all sympathetic like, and then she kiss me where it hurt, yeh? And she say she make it all go away and be better and everything. Yeh and I were ever so grateful. I weren’t up for none of the usual, though: telling you—black and blue, I ain’t kidding about. So she just kind of go and hold me, sort of style—sing a little lullaby, which is always favorite. And then she say to me—here, Jim: that pal of yours, he were down here earlier on. What, I says to her—Charlie, you mean? Nah, she goes—weren’t Charlie, were that other one what you brung down here that time. You remember, don’t you? Stan, weren’t it …? Oh yeh, I says—old Stan: how he keeping, then? Well, she says—weren’t too chipper. And acting dead odd he were, that’s what Aggie were saying to me. Odd? What sort of odd, I asks her. Well, she says—he give Aggie a right nice sort of a little nightie thing—negligee is what you might call it, I suppose. Yeh? Well that’s handsome of him. Yeh I know, Daisy says to me—it were, but then you won’t never guess what he come out with, Jim. Go on, I says—tell me, Daisy: ain’t in the mood for no guessing games, gel. Well, she says—he only ask her to marry him, that’s all. Said the first one what he ask today—she weren’t having none of it, didn’t want to know … so he go and ask Aggie instead …! Blimey, I’m going—silly old sod: must have been plastered, weren’t he? Couldn’t say dear, Daisy says—but she laughing along with me, like. And you know what else he said, Jim? He said his wife, the wife what he did got, like … she gone and croaked. Just last night, that’s what he were saying: that’s a bit of a turn-up, ain’t it? And Aggie—well, you know Aggie, Jim—she go to him, Well I’m ever so sorry for your loss, my sweetheart, and it very kind of you, I’m sure, to ask me to be the next Mrs. Whatever Your Name Is, dearie, but I don’t really reckon I’m good for anyone’s wife, you want the whole truth of it—but ta ever so much for the present all the same: ever so nice of you, Bert. And I’m laughing away there at all of that lot—and then I asks her, Daisy, what Aggie go calling him Bert for when his name is Stan, and she going oh search me, my lovely—maybe he want her to, maybe he tell her to: gentlemen what call, they will ask for the oddest things, sometimes: they can be quite odd, Jim. And then she were doing that little thing what she do in my lughole, Daisy were … whispering she got a nice warm towel, and it all ready for me if I changes my mind and I wants it—fiddling about with me a little bit, you know—so yeh, I’m feeling all sort of funny inside … but still and all I’m thinking, ain’t I? Thinking about it all. What Mill been doing … yeh well, take a bit of getting used to, that will. No denying it. Still—I got to keep her though, ain’t I? Look like it. And at least now I found out about it. Got it all out in the open, like. And there can’t be nothing else, can there? Ay? Not now. Nah. Done with. And Mill and me—we’ll be all right, we will: we always was. And as for all them other bleeding old biddies in the Lane what’s always with the gossip, and that—well bugger them, that’s all. Can’t give a tinker’s cuss about any man jack of them. They soon get fed up with it—couple days, they be wagging their chins about some other poor old sod. Way of it, ain’t it? Yeh. And then … and well then I gets down to thinking about me. All what I been through today … hard, it were … yeh but now I’m here—all nice and cozy, down here. And it right, you know, all what she say, my Daisy. Odd. It is. Proper
odd. Things what men gets up to.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Spilled Milk

  “It’s the same every year, isn’t it Mrs. Stammer?”

  “What is, Edie? And I’ll need some more icing sugar, I think …”

  “Christmas, I mean. You wait for it ever such a long time—talk about it, make your lists, all the extra work—and then suddenly: whoosh! It’s right upon you.”

  “Oh don’t, Edie! I’ve still just so much to do! But I know what you mean, of course I do. All of a sudden, yes—you’re perfectly correct, it’s exactly what you say: you’re barely aware, and then it’s right upon you. Yes. Oh well. There it is. You know … I really don’t think I’m able to resist a tin of that shortbread …”

  “Oh I know what you mean, Mrs. Stammer. They get them up so nice, don’t they. All that tartan. Ever so Christmassy. The large one is it, Mrs. Stammer …? Right you are, then. And it’s the same with Eat Me dates—got to have a box, haven’t you? I can never decide if I like them or not. They’re ever so sticky. And walnuts as well—but you do wonder, don’t you? If it’s worth all of the effort, for such a little nut. They don’t even taste very nice. And you’re picking bits of shell out of the carpet till doomsday. Oh I’m so looking forward to tomorrow, Mrs. Stammer …! The whole of the Lane is, far as I can tell. It’ll be lovely in the library.”

  “Oh I do so hope so, Edie. Council, you know—they’ve been making noises right up till the very last minute, officious little twerps. All sorts of by-law nonsenses, they’ve been quoting to me endlessly. But I told them straight: look here, my man, I said to this particular jumped-up little ass—Brumby, his name is—odious little man. Look here, I said—if you people can hold your Christmas party in the Town Hall which is funded by us, the ratepayers, then there’s nothing to say we can’t have ours in the library. That took the wind out of his sails. Goodness—it’s only for a few hours. I didn’t mention the group, of course—thought it might be unwise. Did you know about the group, Edie …? Oh yes—huge excitements. Young Doreen’s latest boyfriend—works in Woolworth’s in Swiss Cottage, apparently, and he has one of these new sorts of guitar, she was telling me—you know, electric, you plug it in, like that fellow’s in The Shadows, the one with the spectacles, you know? Yes and his friend, the friend of the chap who works in Woolworth’s, he has drums and cymbals, and so on—Lord above!—and she sings, she’s a singer, Doreen, or she says she is, anyway. Well I know. Anyway, I daresay it’ll all be the most frightful row, but I’m sure it can’t do any harm. It is Christmas, after all. Be fun. Add to the gaiety. And she’s also bringing her Dansette, Doreen, and all sorts of Top Ten records, she was telling me—terribly excited about it all, she is. Older people will absolutely hate it, of course. I haven’t said a word to Jim. He’ll say it’s all, I don’t know … fuzzy-wuzzy jungle music or something, though hopefully not if the negroes are within earshot—not that they’d probably understand, I suppose. But we’ll all be singing carols later on as usual, so that should please everybody, anyway. And Mrs. Dent, she says she’s perfectly happy to lend us her old upright so long as we can press-gang a few of the men into pushing it up the road, though she did warn me that it hasn’t been tuned since just after the war—but then as it’s only her who’s going to be playing it, I can’t imagine that it will matter very much: we’re not really expecting Liberace, are we? She also asked me if she thought those same strong men might be willing to carry her over too, because apparently her feet are simply worse than ever, poor woman: always are, she says, at Christmas. Not sure if she was joking or not. And people did—finally, they did start giving a bit of money, though only within the last week or so: it was all terribly touch and go. So I think the food and drink side of things should be all right—and of course we’re all so awfully grateful for your donations, Edie. Especially the cheese footballs—everyone loves those. Sally from Lindy’s, she’s doing the cake as usual—Paul said she’d eat it on the way over, which I told him was terribly cruel. Victoria Wine have been more than generous, I must say—and the Washington is setting up a barrel of Bass: I can’t tell you how pleased my Jim was when he learned about that. Stan … poor Stan … he chipped in with fizzy drinks and sweets and crisps and things before he had to … oh well anyway—you know. And the people who work there—in the library, I mean—they’re all quite cock-a-hoop about it all. I rather think because librarians, they maybe don’t get invited to that many things, do they …? Though that may be perfectly unfair. And, Edie … there’ll be plenty of paper chains! I well remember your insistence about that. I’ve had Paul and Anthony licking them and putting them together all morning. Left them a great big jug of Robinson’s Barley Water to keep their tongues wet. Which reminds me, Edie—I’d better take another bottle of Robinson’s Barley Water …”

  “Oh I am pleased about that, Mrs. Stammer. I do love paper chains. And are there going to be those lovely little hot sausages, like last time? They’re everyone’s favorite, I think … Oh … sorry, Mrs. Stammer … how awful of me … I really am ever so sorry, Mrs. Stammer …”

  “Quite all right, Edie. But no … I haven’t actually, um … approached the butcher. But look—we shan’t starve, I assure you.”

  “Of course not, Mrs. Stammer. And, um … balloons? What about balloons?”

  “Old Mrs. Jenkins from Moore’s—you know Mrs. Jenkins, don’t you …? Oh yes of course you do! Whatever am I thinking! You know everybody. Anyway—she’s given us ten packets! All assorted colors and shapes. I think I’ll have to get Jim to do those, though. Me—I’m quite out of puff as it is.”

  Yes I am: and barely able to think. My goodness, my goodness—what a time this has been …! And I do actually know exactly what Edie was meaning: you’re planning and preparing, spending far too much money—and yes, that does, I am afraid, remain a somewhat sensitive subject—and meanwhile you’re working all the hours God sends toward this colossal and important coming event … and yet something deep down just flatly refuses to allow you to believe that it ever will actually arrive. And then before you quite know where you are … bang! It’s upon you. The party is actually tomorrow—I can hardly believe it. And then a few days later there’s Christmas itself, of course … still a million things to see to … and then … yes well, I’m not yet really ready to think too hard about the coming year: 1960 … sounds so odd, everybody thinks so. And as for this year, of course … well, there has been so very much else to deal with hasn’t there …? Oh my Lord. And yes I could hardly fail to notice how Edie, poor thing, nearly bit off her tongue when she went and mentioned the sausages. Yes well. Everybody knows, of course. About all that. They have done for ages, it appears—and honestly, I hadn’t the slightest idea … though I redden now to think it. It all serves as ample demonstration of how very completely one may willfully blind onself: rather like children who cover their eyes and so very endearingly believe themselves then to be invisible: not at all endearing, however, in one who would be seen to be an adult and capable woman. Ah well. There it is: spilled milk, if ever there was. And I have often thought, you know, during the past, oh, week or so: well, Milly—where on earth are you to begin? And of course I knew the answer to that: why, at the beginning, of course: chop-chop. And work your way quite doggedly onward until, with cold determination, eventually you come to the end. It’s what we did in the war, isn’t it? How we got through. And who said that, though …? About beginning at the beginning, and so on …? Was it someone in Dickens? Oh, you know—I rather fancy it was Alice: I rather believe it was. I sometimes think I wouldn’t at all mind a convenient and fantastic rabbit hole to tumble down—a miraculous looking-glass I could idly walk through. And months ago … just months ago, when all I had been dreading was having to arrange this Christmas party—back in the days when still my everyday life was a blissfully humdrum affair—had I then but an inkling of all the coming upheavals quite on the top of that … well, I might truly, you know, have become a party to despair. It’s quite as well
in life, isn’t it, that one never does know even so much as the nature of whatever is looming …? Or else how could one dare to continue? But … one copes, doesn’t one? One has to. Yes … though just lately, one has to admit that some matters have proved to be a great deal more difficult to deal with than others.

  The funeral of Jane … that, thank the merciful Lord, at least now may be said to be over and done with. It was, of course, I who in the end had to attend to all of the dealings with the undertaker—because Stan … well, where to begin with the state of him, poor man …? And quite simply, there was no one else. But Levertons, I must say they did behave quite thoroughly professionally: not, as I had feared, remote and cold-bloodedly mechanical, but suitably consolatory to the useless widower, while incidentally quite wholly comforting to me, simply by means of their confident demonstration of ability. During my very labored endeavors to pry from Stan so much as an atom of information concerning her nature, it transpired that Jane, during the long distant days when actually she had dressed herself and then walked out into the street, had been a practicing and semi-devout Catholic. For many years she used to attend High Mass at St. Dominic’s Priory each Sunday morning at eleven o’clock, as well as an occasional Benediction on a Wednesday evening. Stan did tell me though, during one of his rare quite lucid and rather more loquacious interludes, that it had to be a lifetime since her last confession. No service was held for her, however, for there was no one to attend: no parents, no siblings, no cousins, no friends. At the graveside in Hampstead Cemetery, there stood quite awkwardly only Stan and dear little Anthony, Jim, myself (both very much still the walking wounded) … and then Doreen, of all people on earth—I simply can’t imagine why: I meant to ask her afterward, but she already had drifted away. Edie had wanted to be there, but was vexed to be unable to find anyone that morning to cover for her absence from the Dairies. I had not thought it suitable for Paul to have to witness such a thing as a funeral at so early an age … and when Jim—yes, I suppose quite inevitably—had begun to prevaricate over his previous quite strenuous, though whisky-fueled, promise to without a doubt be there, I was forced to put my foot down. And so with great reluctance, he placed in the window of the shop a hastily scribbled notice stating that he was “Closed Due To Bereavement,” this causing me, by simple recourse to my presence before them, the considerable embarrassment of days thereafter spent earnestly reassuring everyone in the Lane that I hadn’t, in fact, quite recently passed away. And during the brief and ugly … well, what might one call it …? Ceremony? No, I think not: hardly that … anyway, it rained. I had known that it would. Levertons had conjured up for us a priest, from whatever place it is that would appear to be brimful with clerics who are rentable by the hour. This balding, corpulent and, according to the thickness and virtual opacity of his tortoiseshell spectacles, seemingly purblind most holy reverend father—in prior exchange for a five-pound note (this, he rushed to assure us, to be contributed to the coffers of causes most dear to not just Jesus, Joseph and Mary, but all of the other saints as well)—had told us in solemn, evidently specious and I thought quite preposterous tones that our dear and departed sister would be absolved of all her sins that had been committed on this earth, and would at last find peace on the right hand of God. At which point Stan was heard to mutter quite bitterly Oh Christ Alive …! … before sinking to his knees into the black and boggy ground, scattering upon the coffin lid first a clod or so of mud, and then a colorful selection of chocolate bars and sweets, each of which once, he was adamant, Jane had greatly favored. Anthony had seemed quite perfectly detached about the whole affair—as if simply he were patiently awaiting the arrival of a bus. I beamed at him several times in what I hoped was a sort of collaborative encouragement, though simply he looked back at me blankly.