Out of the Blackout

by Robert Barnard

  Simon decided on a direct approach. He was an open soul by nature, and in any case too many devious approaches led to people comparing notes and finding discrepancies. Drinking down the quarter of a pint that remained in his glass, he marched over to the bar and stood by Teddy.

  ‘You must be Teddy Simmeter,’ he said. ‘I recognize you from your photograph.’

  ‘Such is fame,’ said Teddy, a genial smile on his ruddy face. ‘Now all I need to hear is that you’re from the CID’s ‘Wanted Persons’ department. No, wait!’ He banged his fist against his forehead. ‘I know who you are. You’re the young chap from upstairs.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ve just been hearing about you. Connie was full of you, and even the old Ma said you were a well-spoken young man.’

  ‘That was nice of her.’

  ‘Wrung from her, of course. It’s not in Ma to approve a member of the younger generation. They’ve been going further and further to the bad since the old Queen died, if you believe Ma. I shouldn’t laugh at her, poor old thing. She’s looking a bit like the old Queen in her last days herself.’

  ‘Is she still poorly?’

  ‘Looks like a wreck of her old self. ‘Course, you won’t have seen her in her prime: the true British battle-axe, honed to a vicious cutting edge.’ He downed his first pint, and pushed his glass across the bar for another. ‘But when they get to that age, you forgive all, that’s what I say. What she wants is cheering up. Not that it’s easy. I feel like Max Miller in a Wednesday matinée at the Wimbledon Empire. Still, it’s better than fighting with her, like Len.’

  ‘I gathered from Len that she didn’t want to hand over the reins.’

  ‘Nor she does. But he needn’t rub in her weakness in the way he does. She’s always held the purse-strings, Ma. Len’s always handed over his weekly wage, like a good little boy. Then she starts getting forgetful, and Len starts bit by bit to get control. Nastiness and bitterness all the way, and all over a few quid. What Len really enjoys is showing her who’s boss now.’

  Teddy took out his wallet.

  ‘I’m going to take a bottle of Scotch back. Len’s too mean to buy her anything—and of course the stubborn old body says she doesn’t want it, and it goes against her religion. Sign of weakness, that’s what alcohol is, as she’s told me many a time in the past. Which doesn’t mean she’s not sitting at home now, hoping I bring a bottle back with me.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘TV rentals and repairs. We’re the straightest firm this side of Guildford—though mind you’ (he winked) ‘the competition’s not too hot. That’s another sign of weakness, TV. “I won’t have a television receiver in the house,” she always used to say when I offered her one. In the end I just brought one round and left it. She needs something to cheer her up. She’s never been what you’d call a lively spirit herself, and Len’s got all the brightness and vivacity of a twenty-five-watt bulb. They just sit around spreading pools of gloom. At least the telly gives her something to tut-tut over.’

  ‘And there’s your sister. She seems a bit different.’

  ‘Connie’s not going to waste any effort on Ma. Don’t get me wrong. Connie’s OK. At least she’s got a bit of fun in her. But there’s too much water’s gone under that bridge, too many things in her past that Ma never tires of reminding her of, for her to care much whether Ma is comfortable or not. She just uses the place as a hotel—and there’s no love lost between her and the proprietors.’ He took a hefty swig at his second pint, and ordered a bottle of whisky. ‘No, it’s a dismal house and no mistake. My wife refuses to come round, ever since Ma called her a painted strumpet. I don’t try to force her: it was pitching it rather high, just for a bit of Boots lipstick. The kids stopped coming years ago. I come round when I start feeling guilty. I can take Ma and Connie, but Len gives me the gripes. He was bad when he was under her thumb, but he’s worse now that he’s wriggling out from under. Ah well! Back to the Happy Haven!’

  He downed the last of his beer, took up the whisky in his pudgy hand, and began making for the door.

  ‘I’ll walk along with you,’ said Simon. ‘Time I was getting back.’

  ‘Right you are. Home to Bleak House, Glum Terrace together. They’ll have been counting the minutes I’ve been gone. The old Ma will say: “You’ll never succeed in business if you drink all the profits.” And when I produce the whisky it’ll be: “Wasting your money like that. Don’t pretend I want it.” And when he sees the bottle Len’s piggy little eyes will gleam. Have you got a family?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ said Simon. ‘A very nice one.’

  ‘Count yourself lucky. I sometimes wonder how I ever came through without being all knotted up inside, like Len. I used to tell my sister-in-law—Len’s wife, poor soul—that she ought to get away with her little boy before they got twisted too. But she never managed it. Me—I was lucky. You could say the war was lucky for me, just as it was unlucky for her. I was in it from the start, almost. Got away, among normal people, and stayed away. Well, here we are—’

  ‘I’ll say goodnight,’ said Simon.

  ‘Here, look: why don’t you come down and have a nip of this with us? Relieve the atmosphere, like. Won’t be any fun, I warn you, but you’d be very welcome.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Simon. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Right. Here we go. Childe Whatsit and friend to the dark tower came. Mind the steps.’

  CHAPTER 12

  The scene in the Simmeter sitting-room was a long way short of festive. Teddy had let himself in with his own key, and when he appeared at the door from the hallway they were all three looking up at him expectantly—rather as the inhabitants of an old people’s home might look up at an amateur conjuror with an expression that said: ‘Entertain us. We challenge you to entertain us.’ Mother was sitting idly in a chair; Connie, in a smart dress of light blue, had Woman in the Home on her lap; and Len was at the table, stewing over a grubby little notebook. Mother sniffed, Connie smiled a lazy smile of welcome, and when he saw Simon behind Teddy Len got up, stretched his mouth into a smile, and began rubbing his hands. It was Mother that Teddy directed his attentions to, but she looked so drawn and tired, bore such signs of a long struggle against human weakness, that it looked to Simon as if he would have an uphill struggle.

  ‘I’ve brought you a bottle, and I’ve brought you a guest,’ said Teddy heartily, as if he were only augmenting an atmosphere already cheery. ‘What more could you want?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have,’ said his mother, and she seemed to intend the remark to apply to both of his gifts. ‘You spend money like water. You know I never brought you up to have drink in the house. It’s money wasted: don’t pretend I want it.’

  ‘Come on, Mother—just a little nip. It’ll warm you up.’

  He turned towards her inquiringly. Simon had already noticed the dull gleam in Len’s eye—not the gleam of an alcoholic, but the gleam of a person who likes getting something—anything—for nothing.

  ‘Well, I won’t say no,’ Len said.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Teddy, with his imperturbable jollity. ‘Hear that, Ma? I’ll just pour you a little nip. Warm the cockles of your old heart—that’s what I bought it for. And I brought along young Simon here to toast your health.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Oh, pour one, for Christ’s sake,’ said Connie, under her breath. ‘You know damn well she always drinks it.’ Aloud she asked, hostessly: ‘And how will you have it, Mr Cutheridge?’

  ‘Simon. With a little water, if I may.’

  ‘With a little water,’ said Connie to Teddy, making no effort to get up. ‘Neat for me, and a bit of warm water in Mother’s.’ Teddy bustled off to the kitchen, and there was a clink of glasses on a tray, and the sound of running water.

  ‘Well,’ said Len, who had been lurking angularly in the shadows. ‘This is a real little party. We should have done this before. Fancy you running into Teddy.’

  ‘Oh,
I was in the Colonel Monk,’ said Simon casually. ‘I often go.’

  ‘Do you now? Thought you hadn’t been upstairs so much recently. Well, I’m glad you did run into him. I’d been meaning to ask you down for a long time.’

  ‘I’d hoped to ask you down for a meal,’ said Connie, trying on him a practised smile such as she might use on a customer who bore the marks of gentry-hood. ‘It’s the least we can do.’ For Simon’s ears only she added, sotto voce, ‘Considering the rent you pay.’

  ‘Here we are, then. Here we are,’ said Teddy, bustling back into the room with his Cheeryble good humour. Imperviousness to atmosphere must, Simon decided, be his way of dealing with the Simmeter ill-humour and mean-mindedness. ‘Here’s your neat one, Connie. Bit of warm water for Ma. Water for Simon, soda for me and Len. Right you are, everyone. Down the hatch and don’t give up hope. Be happy while you’re living, for you’re a long time dead.’

  They drank.

  ‘In the circumstances, Teddy,’ said Connie, honey-sweet of voice, ‘I think “Bottoms Up” might have been a happier toast.’

  ‘Why?’ said Teddy. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Well, we may have time to enjoy ourselves while we’re living, but in the nature of things Ma won’t have that long, will she?’

  ‘Connie!’ said Teddy, shocked out of his good humour.

  ‘They want me dead,’ announced the old woman bitterly, the voice heavy with regret at her own enfeeblement, regrets for the victories she had won over her children in the past. ‘Any excuse to rub it in they take. They’re sitting around waiting for me to die!’

  ‘Lay off it, Ma,’ said Len, sharply. ‘Tonight of all nights. Can’t you see we’ve got a visitor?’

  ‘I didn’t invite him. I’m just making it clear to Teddy what I have to put up with. These two want me dead, and I’m not going fast enough for them.’

  ‘Well, you’re going a lot too fast for me, Ma,’ said Teddy, sounding more than a touch desperate. ‘You want a bit of feeding up—not to mention brightening up. You don’t look a patch on when I was here last.’

  ‘Is it surprising, with this lot rubbing their hands at every little sign of weakness?’ The old woman’s voice took on the tones of a particularly doleful contralto. ‘They want me gone so they can get their hands on the house and money. They’re scared to death I’ll change the will and leave it all to you.’

  ‘You silly old biddy,’ snapped Len, ‘you’re making this up. Nothing of the kind’s ever been said.’

  She turned on him with a formidable, effortful gathering of strength.

  ‘Don’t you give me barefaced lies in my own house. It’s been said often enough. And when it hasn’t been said it’s been thought. You sit there, the pair of you, thinking who’s going to get what when I’m gone.’

  ‘Now that’s your imagination, Ma,’ said Teddy.

  ‘I’ve got better things to think about, I know that,’ said Connie coolly. ‘I couldn’t speak for Len.’

  Len swung round.

  ‘We can do without your insinuations. Showing us up before guests.’ He turned back, and toned down his manner to a filial concern. ‘It’s a real nightmare, you going on like this, Ma. After all the years I’ve been with you, looking after you. None of the others have done the same, that you must admit, Ma.’

  ‘It wasn’t done for love,’ said Mrs Simmeter dismissively.

  ‘By-y-y Christ!’ exploded Len, savage again. Simon could see he would like to have added: ‘How could it have been?’

  ‘Anyway, Ma, that property business was settled years ago,’ said Teddy, trying against the odds to re-establish a comfortable tone. ‘Len gets the house, Connie gets the bit of money in the bank, I get a little something to remember you by. That’s how I wanted it. I’m not complaining, and if I’m not, who is? I’m the one who left the nest—and I’ve done very nicely for myself on the whole.’

  ‘You won’t go on doing if you throw your money around on drink the way you do,’ observed his mother sourly.

  ‘Stow it, Ma. Drink it down and warm yourself up.’

  ‘I think this discussion could well be brought to a close,’ said Connie, stretching herself comfortably in her chair. ‘Teddy, Mr Cutheridge’s glass is empty. Get him another one, do.’ And as Teddy bustled up, she handed him her own glass, as if he were the bar waiter. ‘You must wonder at us, Simon, really you must. Do all families go on like this, or is it just us?’

  ‘In our family there’s nothing much to leave,’ said Simon. ‘We live in a tied cottage, and there’s little or nothing put away. Quite apart from the fact that I’m an only child.’

  ‘There you are, you see. Very sensible, your parents. No problem at all if there’s only the one.’

  ‘Unless you lose him,’ said Len, bitterly. He came to sit by Simon on the sofa. ‘My David was an only son. Perhaps we should have had more. I’d have felt the loss less keenly. But it wasn’t to be.’ He gazed down at the carpet, seeming genuinely to be sunk in thought. ‘If only he’d lived . . . Things would have been different . . . Now there’s only Teddy’s two, and we hardly know them.’

  ‘You can always leave the ancestral home to the British Union,’ said Connie, waspishly breaking in on his thoughts. ‘I’m sure they could find a good use for it. As for me, if I survive Ma—which I’m not banking on, because you’re tough as old boots, Ma, you know you are—if I get that little nest-egg I’m going to use it to have a good time. A bit of moderate whoopee, that’s what I’m going to give myself.’ She giggled spitefully. ‘So don’t worry your heads as to who’s going to get it after me. There’ll be no pickings when I pop off!’

  ‘I wasn’t, Connie, I wasn’t,’ said Teddy with a sigh, returning with the refreshed glasses.

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t referring to you, Teddy. You know that. You’ve always been good to me, and I’m grateful. If I had anything to leave it’d be you I’d give it to, but somehow I don’t think there will be. I think I’ll branch out. I can’t see myself stopping here in this dump with just Len. I could get myself a nice little service flat . . . meals sent up . . . It might just run to that. I have a gentleman friend in property who could advise me. He says they’re not expensive, when you consider the convenience of it.’

  Suddenly the voice of Mrs Simmeter rang out in a wail.

  ‘You’re all sitting round here waiting for me to die!’

  ‘Whatever gives you that idea, Ma?’ asked Connie sweetly.

  ‘Teddy—it’s like this every night of my life now. They’re trying to worry me into the grave. If only you’d stayed. You’re not like them. If only you’d stayed—not joined up, not married that painted creature.’

  ‘Now then, Ma: I’m not staying if you start in on that.’

  ‘All right, I won’t, Teddy. But you can’t deny that we were in trouble, and you got out.’

  ‘Children do, Ma. This isn’t India or somewhere. Kids leave the family home. I wasn’t to know you’d be in trouble. I went because there was a war on.’

  ‘Teddy fought for his country,’ said Connie meaningfully.

  ‘Ah well—’ said his mother.

  ‘Ah well, you’d rather I hadn’t. I know that by now, Ma. We had that out often enough, then and since. You’d rather I’d fought for the other lot, if the truth be known. But you and Len never succeeded with me there—not with me, nor with Connie.’

  ‘Here, hold on, Teddy,’ said Len, whose characteristic caution seemed to be reasserting itself. ‘We’ve got guests.’

  ‘All right. Enough said. But don’t think I don’t remember all the mullarkey we had about it at the time. With me only eighteen, and you two going on at me day and night. It was no fun, living at home those last eighteen months before I joined up, with only Mary I could talk to about it. She was the only one in the family with a grain of human feeling. And you’d have been a damn sight worse, Len, if you hadn’t been shit-scared of being investigated—taken in and interned.’

  ‘I told you, Teddy, belt up a
bout that.’ Len’s face had become a deep pink, in perturbation.

  ‘That’s you all over, Len,’ said Connie, still aggravatingly relaxed and comfortable in her chair. ‘All big aggressive talk, like you were about to lead the troops into battle and become Gauleiter of London. Then at the first sign of anyone fighting back, you go nose first down your burrow. One minute you’re screaming revolution, the next you’re diving for cover.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Connie. A lot you know about it.’

  ‘I know plenty. I was back home by then, remember. I remember the way you made us scuttle out of Paddington, half way across London, just because when the chips were down you hadn’t the nerve to face things. I remember plenty about you and your wartime doings . . .’ She took a swig from her glass. ‘And don’t you forget it.’

  Len shot her a glance, half cowed. But then his sense of grievance got the better of him.

  ‘I didn’t notice you taking up your country’s struggle,’ he said, his mouth twisted satirically. ‘Spent most of the war on your back, as far as I remember. As you’d spent the peace.’