by David Storey
‘Go away, Lynda!’ her mother shouted. ‘Go away, Lyn. We’re only having a game.’
She looked doubtful. ‘Can’t I play, Mam?’
‘Go away, Lynda! Go on. …’
The girl lurched round and went banging down the stairs.
Mrs Hammond lay with her head turned to the wall. Her body began to mount in a slow fit—of rage and bewilderment. Surprise. ‘You’re a man!’ she screamed. ‘You’re a bleeding man!’ Her fists were knotted and rose on the thin stems of her arms. Her eyes slid about in her head. She smelt of soap powder, steam, and damp cloth. She was singing out loud at the end.
She got off the bed and went straight down. I thought it was to find Lynda. Only I was wrong. As I grabbed my coat and rushed out I saw she’d gone back to the washing. Just as if nothing had happened. She had her peggy stick in the tub, and was beating slowly, almost as if it was empty.
I drove round for an hour, then went to the Mecca as soon as it opened. The place was deserted. I sat at the bar and got out Tropical Orgy—a moonlit night on a calm tropical sea, and Capt. Summers had just come on deck after leaving his sample ‘fully satisfied and utterly contented’ in his cabin down below. A boat came alongside to collect the contraband, and Capt. Summers took out his dark little .38. I found I wasn’t blaming myself. I wasn’t all that responsible, I told myself. Don’t tell me she’s that innocent. She’s been married. I wouldn’t have tumbled like that if I hadn’t thought … Still, I didn’t feel safe till I saw Maurice and the girls come through the door.
‘Tarzan’s been fighting again,’ Judith, the Mayor’s blonde secretary, said. ‘Won’t he fight me?’ She pulled my coat back and found my shirt wet and flushed with blood. She grimaced.
‘Oh well, you’ve got to be brave about these things,’ she said. I laughed with some sort of relief: I’d been frightened they’d run away at the sight of me.
We didn’t do it very often. I preferred to go upstairs with her in the middle of the afternoon when it came to me more easily than at any other time of the day. So it was usually a Sunday. We had a routine. She’d go upstairs and get on her grey wool dress, and if I didn’t come up in time she’d call or come down and sit quietly by the fire till I stood up. She made sure I went with her. The routine continued in the bedroom, always mine she insisted, as if she’d made up rules at the beginning and keeping them was the most important part. She was always quiet about it. She never spoke. When it was over she’d put on her working clothes again. She suffered it. She thought, I imagine, there was no alternative. She didn’t care. It normally happened once a fortnight.
She became cleaner in her habits. The boots disappeared from the hearth.
Pre-season training had been under way a few weeks when I eventually decided to get in touch with Mrs Weaver. Her suggestion that I might see her again had me thinking a while as to what my advantage might be. I wasn’t so sure that she didn’t indicate the boundary: Deep water. Keep out.
Then I was suddenly worried that I’d left it too late. Why I should bother at all when I could cruise along without it was beyond me. I’d been asked to pass some charity tickets on to her, and I gave them to Weaver himself to deliver. If he forgot, that’d be all right. I’d just drop the affair. The tickets were for a Darby and Joan Whist Drive at the Co-operative Rooms, 7.30-9.30 p.m., and I’d written my name on the back. If anything as vague as this could interest her I felt there might then be something in it for me. Weaver told me she’d be pleased for news of any other charity event I might pass on. ‘It’s her hobby,’ he said, digging me for a laugh which I gave him.
I was surprised when she did turn up at the Co-op Rooms and played her rounds of whist. Admittedly she looked a bit out of place—like a battleship racing yachts. Perhaps a bit foolish. To some extent it was her usual routine, except the drives she attended were vetted by the Inner Circle and took place at the Town Hall. I wasn’t sure what I should do. Better to leave it to her, I decided, and went through the drive as though she’d never existed.
At a quarter past nine she caught my eye. She looked impatient, bored, a bit sick with the smell. I went over. ‘I thought we might have spoken before now,’ she said. ‘I’m being collected in fifteen minutes.’
She was angry, realistic.
‘I thought you wanted to be formal,’ I told her, fitting in.
‘Formal, here?’ Her voice whined off round a bend. ‘Nobody knows us.’
‘They know me.’
‘Perhaps that’s as it should be,’ she said, and gave a critical look round the room.
‘They’re going to die soon. I shouldn’t let them see you look like that.’ We both seemed surprised at the way we were talking.
She got up and made for the door. I waited some time before following. I’d seldom been so excited. I reached the entrance downstairs in time to see someone opening the door of her Morris Minor. I backed inside and watched them drive away.
A week later, when I’d just got over worrying about it, I got a letter from her amongst my little pile of fan mail at Primstone.
Dear Arthur Machin,
I’m sorry if I appeared rude and abrupt the other day, but my nerves were a little stretched by a recent event and I was feeling out of sorts. I hope you will forgive me. Perhaps you could come to tea some day this week? Wednesday might be suitable. As you know, Mr Weaver is away and I should like a little company.
Best wishes,
Diane W.
On the bottom, as if she wasn’t sure how thick I was, she’d added, ‘This does not mean bring any of Mr Weaver’s rowdy friends who visit him at week-ends!’
It was the only letter from an adult amongst my pile.
I took Wednesday afternoon off work. I wasn’t sure that she knew or remembered I worked at Weaver’s, but it seemed the best excuse possible to play an afternoon—to see the boss’s wife. I went home and changed into my suit.
‘Has somebody died?’ Mrs Hammond said.
‘No. I’m going out. I’ve got the afternoon off.’
‘It must be important—you only wear your suit on Sat’day. Are you going somewhere with Maurice?’
‘No. It’s all private business.’
‘What private business have you got, pray?’
‘Private private-business.’
She came to the front door to see me drive off. She’d begun to take some pride in what I did and how I looked.
I spent a couple of hours in the billiard hall, played three games of snooker, then felt it might be around her teatime. I was so nervous I’d to stop the car twice on the way up for a slash. Funnily, the only person in sight when I got there was Johnson. I’d heard some weeks before he’d found a part-time job at Weaver’s, probably on the strength of my name. But I got a shock seeing him there, large as life. He was weeding a flower bed at the side of the drive. I pulled up beside him.
‘How are you, Dad?’
He dropped the little shovel he’d got and opened his eyes.
‘We’re starting on Saturday—a friendly with Leeds. Are you coming?’
‘Yes,’ he said. He looked at the car, then back at me. ‘Mr Weaver’s away this week,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘What’ve you come up for then?’
‘It’s the lady I’m seeing.’
‘Are you off work?’ He looked worried.
‘Only for the afternoon … I’ll see you, Dad.’ I ran the car up to the glass porch. He watched me get out. May opened the door when I knocked, and I went in.
‘Hello, Arthur. You’re a stranger at this time of the day … and week. I thought you knew Mr Weaver was away.’
‘I came to see Mrs Weaver,’ I told her, and like Johnson began to worry. ‘Hasn’t she told you?’
May shook her head thoughtfully. ‘She’s said nothing to me. I’ll just nip in and see.’
&n
bsp; Whereas on Saturday nights I ran through the house like a dog, now I stood frozen in the hall, my feet moulded in the carpet which was taken up at week-ends. I saw it was a mistake coming here. She might have expected me to reply to her note. Perhaps she didn’t even expect me to come at all.
‘This is a surprise, Mr Machin,’ she said coming through the lounge doorway, and I could see by her neckline she was expecting me. ‘I’m very sorry, but I must have mislaid your letter … or did you phone? It’s all very naughty of me. …’ She looked at me expectantly. May was standing just behind her.
‘I mentioned it to Mr Weaver,’ I told her heavily. ‘He said Wednesday afternoon would be your free day. He must have forgotten to tell you about this charity. …’
‘Well. At least his information is correct,’ she sighed. ‘You had better come in the lounge and let me hear all about it.’
This sounded so rough I thought May must be hiding a laugh. She said to Mrs Weaver, ‘What shall I do for tea?’
‘Tea,’ she said. ‘You’ll stay to tea, Mr Machin? It won’t be much for a big man like you, I’m afraid, but May will rustle up something … won’t you, dear?’
We went into the lounge and she shut the door. There was a green-leaved wallpaper that had me quietly scratching. The french windows were open. I could see Johnson busy with the effect of weeding, and when he occasionally looked up he could see me. It was a bit of consolation. She might have placed him there deliberately.
Mrs Weaver was about twelve years older than Mrs Hammond, and I was the same distance the other, younger, side. The general effect of all these years on Mrs Weaver was to make her a bit fat round the ankles, and to give the overall impression, outside her tight, brown dress, of the very best sort of seal. As she sat down she added to this the idea that she was a good sport. She crossed her legs.
The first thing I could say was, ‘The gardener—he’s new here.’ I meant to sound casual, but she laughed.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Do you know him?’
I didn’t answer, and she stepped in with, ‘Edward Philips—how’s he keeping these days? I haven’t seen him since that Saturday you were up here.’
I was about to say, ‘Neither have I,’ when I told her, ‘He’s all right. He’s getting his pencil sharpened for the beginning of the season.’
‘Oh—the beginning of the season! That’s something I’d forgotten about. It makes the summer seem very short when we’re talking about football again. Are you glad to be playing again?’
‘Yes—I get a bit bored over the close season.’
‘A bit bored! But I can’t imagine you being bored. Tell me, what do you do when you’re bored? Go off drinking?’
‘I’m just bored. Do nothing, I reckon.’
‘Don’t you go out a great deal?’
‘I try to. It runs up the petrol with the car though.’
‘Oh. …’ She thought about it and recrossed her legs. ‘So you aren’t paid over the summer—for football, I mean.’
‘No.’
‘I suppose that’s one of the reasons you’ll be glad it’s started again.’ She smiled to herself, and said, ‘What I was really wanting to know is why you came up that Saturday afternoon with Philips.’ She was smiling broadly now, and had her fingers stretched over her knee.
‘He wanted to use my car,’ I said.
‘To use your car.’ She hadn’t expected this. ‘Why was that?’
‘His car was laid up—he thought it might make a bad impression if he came up on the bus.’
‘Oh … if that isn’t just like him. I might have known … So he dragged you all the way up here just because he needed your car. Still, that’s not surprising. …’
She got up and went to the french window and shut one side, then folded her arms. ‘What do you think of our flowers?’ she asked.
I thought about whether I should get up, and when she turned her head my way I did, and went to stand beside her. ‘They look smart,’ I told her.
She had a kind of resigned stance. ‘That’s Johnson,’ she said, as we both watched him look up. I suddenly realized there was no reason why she should know I was pally with him, and I decided it might be better if she didn’t know. Johnson saw us watching and started trowelling a bit faster than usual.
‘Do you do any gardening yourself?’ she asked.
‘No.’
She found that funny, and turned to laugh with me. Then she put her hand on my arm. ‘Oh, Arthur,’ she said lightly, casually, and I heated up.
We’d both got back to our seats and she was saying something about not being much interested in flowers herself, when there was a knock on the door and May wheeled in a tea trolley. ‘Thank you, May,’ she said.
‘I’ll be going now, Mrs Weaver, if there’s nothing else to do.’
Mrs Weaver looked surprised. ‘So soon?’ She glanced at a clock shaped like a ship’s wheel.
‘You said I could go an hour early today, Mrs Weaver.’
We seemed to be back with the bad-memory act again, and both Mrs Weaver and May played their parts seriously, though they must have known it was something of a flop. ‘I’ll stack the washing up for you to do in the morning,’ she finally told May, and saw her to the door.
She fastened it with some care I thought, and came back to pour out the tea. I started to balance things around me, unused to eating so primitively, and I glanced at her to see how I was doing. She was balancing things herself so she hadn’t much time to notice, but when she did look up she saw how I was fixed and said, ‘You won’t be used to eating as delicately as this, I suppose. Do you think we ought to set a table?’
‘That’s all right,’ I told her. ‘I’m not so hungry.’
‘Not so hungry,’ she said. ‘I’m not so hungry either but I still eat something.’ She shoved a few plates across with lots of mess on and I stuck my fingers in some bits, dragged them together, and pushed them in my mouth.
It suddenly occurred to her, perhaps for the first time, that I was actually a workman, for she suddenly said, ‘Did you have to take the afternoon off to come here? … I never thought. …’
‘No, I was taking it off in any case,’ I told her. ‘I was playing billiards this afternoon.’
‘Billiards,’ she said, and raised her eyebrows with a slight interest.
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose with playing professional football it’s not so essential to have a full-time job.’
‘Not really, no. One or two don’t work at all. They just live off their football money.’
‘But what do they do over the summer?’
‘Oh. … They get some sort of job then.’
‘Are you like that, Arthur?’
‘No, I usually work.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘I’ve got a lathe.’
‘A lathe.’
She ate a few more of the bits of rich stuff that May had dished out and sucked her fingers. ‘Which do you prefer—working or playing football for a living?’
‘I prefer football.’
‘Oh that’s good,’ she said. ‘I mean you have a gift for football. It raises you above the general level, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ She sounded so out of touch with what she was talking about that I felt sick, and hoped she’d drop it. Johnson was looking up the garden towards the french windows. I doubted if he could see me through the glass, for he went on staring thoughtfully a while before he bent down again to his weeds.
The next thing I knew she was sitting beside me and saying, ‘Shall I fill your cup?’
I handed it over to her and she dangled the teapot spout over it but nothing happened. ‘Can you hold the lid, Arthur?’ she said.
She tipped it right up, with my forefinger on the top. ‘It’s quite empty,’ she complained. ‘Ma
y can’t have put much water in, and she’s forgotten to bring in the jug.’
‘Shall I go and put some on?’ I asked her.
She put the teapot down beside the cup. ‘No,’ she said. ‘That is—unless you want some more tea.’
‘No, it’s all right.’
I slid my hand into my trouser pocket and started to clean my fingers on my handkerchief.
‘It’s a shame about the water,’ she said.
Then we were face to face.
How long we were like this I don’t know. I looked in her eyes and saw BED written in each one. She eased her right breast against my arm. I decided I didn’t want to do anything about it.
‘We’re being watched,’ I told her.
She stiffened only slightly, but it was a sign of how she felt. ‘Who by?’ she asked casually.
‘Johnson—he’s in the garden, weeding … and watching.’
‘There are other rooms in the house if you don’t like being observed by gardeners.’
‘Won’t it be a little obvious to Johnson?’
She was a bit impatient. ‘I shouldn’t have thought that worried you. But it is unfortunate we’re right in his view. We can move over to my side of the room, Arthur, if you wish.’
She got up, took my hand, and led me to the other sofa, from where I could see the bonnet and front lamps of my car. It didn’t seem to occur to her to shut the other french window. She let go of my hand in time for me to stand up and hear Johnson crunch up the gravel drive and see him glance in sideways.
‘It’s that man again,’ I told her.
‘I like you,’ she said. ‘You’re like a cat.’
‘I’d like a drink. Do you have anything to drink in the house?’
‘Always moving. I’ve never seen anyone so restless.’
‘I don’t like seeing that Johnson around so much.’
‘He should be going in a few minutes. Then you might cool down. It’s extraordinary. …’
She went to a cupboard at the side of the gramophone and poured out two drinks. She watched me swallow mine, then sipped half of hers. I’d a feeling Johnson was skulking outside the window. It was whisky. ‘Do you want to move?’ she said.