‘I jerked my head back at the room. “Give it me,” he said, “quick. You shall have the train in the morning.”
‘I shook my head. He said, “I’ve got the bleeder here, and the key. You’d better toss it down.”
‘ “Go away,” I said, but I could hardly speak with fear.
‘ “I’ll bleed you first and then I’ll have it just the same.“
‘ “Oh no, you won’t,” I said. I went to the chair and picked it – Him – up. There was only one place where He was safe. I couldn’t separate the Host from the paper, so I swallowed both. The newsprint stuck like a prune to the back of my throat, but I rinsed it down with water from the ewer. Then I went back to the window and looked down at Blacker. He began to wheedle me. “What have you done with it, David? What’s the fuss? It’s only a bit of bread,” looking so longingly and pleadingly up at me that even as a child I wondered whether he could really think that, and yet desire it so much.
‘ “I swallowed it,” I said.
‘ “Swallowed it?”
‘ “Yes,” I said. “Go away.” Then something happened which seems to me now more terrible than his desire to corrupt or my thoughtless act: he began to weep – the tears ran lopsidedly out of the one good eye and his shoulders shook. I only saw his face for a moment before he bent his head and strode off, the bald turnip head shaking, into the dark. When I think of it now, it’s almost as if I had seen that Thing weeping for its inevitable defeat. It had tried to use me as a weapon and now I had broken in its hands and it wept its hopeless tears through one of Blacker’s eyes.’
The black furnaces of Bedwell Junction gathered around the line. The points switched and we were tossed from one set of rails to another. A spray of sparks, a signal light changed to red, tall chimneys jetting into the grey night sky, the fumes of steam from stationary engines – half the cold journey was over and now remained the long wait for the slow cross-country train. I said, ‘It’s an interesting story. I think I should have given Blacker what he wanted. I wonder what he would have done with it.’
‘I really believe,’ my companion said, ‘that he would first of all have put it under his microscope – before he did all the other things I expect he had planned.’
‘And the hint?’ I said. ‘I don’t quite see what you mean by that.’
‘Oh, well,’ he said vaguely, ‘you know for me it was an odd beginning, that affair, when you come to think of it,’ but I should never have known what he meant had not his coat, when he rose to take his bag from the rack, come open and disclosed the collar of a priest.
I said, ‘I suppose you think you owe a lot to Blacker.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You see, I am a very happy man.’
G. F. GREEN
A Wedding
How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?
The light in his bedroom was of a new June day. It fell redolent of fields, woods, by the curtains, broad floor boards, to lose in faded stripes of white damp blurred walls – as for days past. But Tom, dressing, did not take it in. He reached for the new-bought shirt. It was his father’s wedding day; not his day. He put the shirt on. His body was small, his gestures wooden, a puppet’s. The room was empty, not his; not the room he went from onto the farm, by his father; but ante-room to an event, in the midst of this June day, which he did not think of, not understanding; and where he must dress. He tied the tie. Sun did not warm his chill hand. It was visitor like, not an inhabiter. ‘Call me Phyllis, not Mother,’ Miss Howland said. She had flax hair, black lashes separate as flies’ legs, round blue eyes. ‘Yes.’ He would see a lot of her he knew. He went for his brushes, but glanced to the window. The great tree edge to the field, line of lake to the right was dry as cardboard – a toy theatre at his grandfather’s near Marlden was long discarded – meant nothing to him: isolated, of different material. He put on a new flannel jacket. His dislike of not being part of the day, did not make him think. He got ready and went down.
He went down the stairs; a boy of twelve, sturdy, but calm faced, his hair neatly done. His hand slid on the flat-topped banister. The cool, stone and cleaned pan smell closed him, dark in his grey suit, from the hot day. Annie was in the hall. He came down.
‘Where’s Father?’ he said.
‘Let’s see,’ Annie turned on him. ‘That’ll do. Your father’s busy. You’re to go straight to the church with Don in the trap.’
She shifted a bowl of flowers on the chest, moved some papers and books.
‘Their lot’ll take you on in a car. So be sharp.’
She bustled, fat, to the kitchen. Tom walked in to the living room. The buff blinds, half down, diffused light in the chintz chairs, new vases of flowers, and the ornaments. No one was in the room. His mother’s photograph was on the cabinet. He moved round. One of Phyllis in a silver frame stood on the piano. His father was not there. He went out, and down the passage by the kitchens, to find Don in the yard.
It was hot driving to church in the trap. His new suit creased on him. May in the hedges was like dust, the sky and birds’ song toneless. He saw their fluttered, town-smart crowd on the steps. He got out; went, cramped and soiled, to join them; but relieved to be in the church.
The small church was quiet and cool. He stood with the few guests of his father that he knew. His skin sallowed, his eyes grave, his hands were bare and lithe on the pew top, by the solemnity. A man held Phyllis who leant – soft blue, a huge hung reddish fur, a pink bouquet, her face done white to round spider eyes, her loose hair. ‘Her’ people across the aisle – a flurry of blouse, dark-cut skirt, wide hats – stared on his father’s group, raised the prayer books, the small clasped reticules: did each perhaps hold money? The plain, arc-topped windows were behind them. Near, Ned Ellis, in his serge with leggings, muddled a gold ring; nods, sudden amens breaking his red, cracked face: was he drunk again? A lady, big amber beads on her breast, watched him. Tom’s eyes, dark, reflected pain. Prayer, like a net closed on them at the altar, and about the church – warmer. He glanced about him for release.
His grandfather was in front. His tall, long-coated back to him, the grey hand on the pew. His head, the clipped white beard, sharp eyes, fixed them in the church. He had watched rigid, his hand on a dark stick, a dog cease worrying his sheep, on the fells once. Tom eyed him, sought refuge in his control. They all knelt. He shut his eyes. The frilly satin gathering, money, the Howlands’ Phyllis, fell from the stern shoulders, that gave: the farm and the owned day. They prayed. Then all rose. He filed out with them onto the sunlit steps; at the base the cars waited.
He sat small in a car with some three ladies. Sunlight mixed with perfume, powder – and new gloves-smell. It drove on.
‘Such a quaint church. Like an old-fashioned police court.’
Houses passed – laburnums – painted gates. It was very light. He looked out, bare eyed. The lamp posts and shrubberies. The Firs.
‘Here we are.’
It slowed up, stopped. They got out and went up the gravelled drive.
He entered the room, where the guests already were, sipping, nibbled biscuits, chatted. He was unnoticed. Smell of paste, scribbled-pink white wallpaper touched him, from shut windows to pink upholstery. Phyllis bent at an iced cake; the laid buffet held flowers in silver vases. His father was beyond. A man came and offered him drink. He took it.
‘Champagne,’ the man said, ‘not for every day, eh?’
He drank. The foul stuff split his nose and throat. He backed from the man, thick-faced, heavy over him: and saw his grandfather. He went brief through the crowd up to him.
He spoke rapidly and wildly. His grandfather looked down at him, answered him briefly. His face was flushed, his eyes clear bright by excitement, he moved his hands, was exaggerated. He chattered, as if he would gain something, be even with him. His hands sought once in a smoke-scented cupboard at Marlden. People were beginning to go, round them. Sudden, he took his grandfather’s hand.
‘Good-bye
, Grandfather,’ he said.
His grandfather gazed steady at the cowed boy who held his hand.
‘Good-bye, Son.’
Many people had gone. Phyllis had left. He went back to his glass.
He picked it up. Few remained in the warm, now disordered, room. But the man came to him; he glanced up.
‘Forgettin’ you? It’s not cheap stuff, this – keep you alive, sonnie.’
He filled up his glass. Tom saw beyond him. The amber bead lady going to the door, made one less. He drank. A woman’s hand, gold worn ring, had touched his face, a night dark with trees: his mother’s.
‘I must go,’ he said, ‘to see them off.’
He was at the gate. He saw Phyllis, white-powdered in blue, stoop into a car at his father’s side. One threw confetti. They all waved. The car drew off in the road.
He went to his car, but turned where his grandfather stood dark by the brick wall. He held out his hand, speaking quickly.
‘Good-bye, Grandfather.’
The man stood, ignored his hand. The boy’s eyes shifted, his face hot with sweat, his hand and mouth unstill.
‘You’ve said that once, boy,’ he said. ‘What do you want.’
‘Nothing.’
He turned quickly. The last guests got into their cars. He knew. Sun struck him from the cars and road. His grandfather believed he cadged for a tip. His legs weakened – for money – taking him to his car.
He sat in the back, sun and dust scattered by him. It bumped him down roads, away from the smart people at the cars, the sun hot road, his grandfather at the brick wall. He held the glossed leather seat. But he scarce saw the passed countryside. Glazed windows shut his stung throat, eyes, his throbbing head, within the close car. His flannel suit ached on him, as he waited. At length the car drew in to the yard: he got out to quiet afternoon.
It was still in his bedroom. The light hung in view of great trees and field. He quickly undressed. Air, alone from woods of shade and water, touched him. He took an open shirt and cord breeches. As he dressed, his hands felt his own clothes; met, too, things about the farm, field things, the fences, and boat tether at the lake: tried the known limits of his world. He tied loosely the knee laces. But he bent in a world made his, by a near, perpetual woman, her soft dresses, quiet, straight hands; by an other day. He put on his shoes. His way was easy as days before. He went out, and down the wide staircase.
He took his rod in the hall, and went through the fields, to the lake. The boat was tethered in a tree’s shade. He stooped to free it, grass lush at his half-tied knees. He threw in the rope, followed it. For a time he rowed quickly, then sank the oars. He fixed the bait, threw and dropped it in. He sat in the boat; his hand crept on a brass ring in the rod’s haft; his serious eyes watched intently. Water’s light lipped on his still face, the clothes, and the boat; spit gold in the huge trees’ gloom behind.
ANGUS WILSON
The Wrong Set
Just before the club closed, Mrs Lippiatt asked very specially for a medley of old numbers. Mr Pontresoli himself came over and told Terry. ‘It’s for your bundle of charms’ he said ‘so don’t blame me.’ Vi wanted to refuse when Terry asked her – she had a filthy headache and anyway she was sick of being kept late. ‘Tell the old cow to go and …’ she was saying, when Terry put a finger on her lips. ‘Do it for me, dear’ he said. ‘Remember without her I don’t eat.’ Poor Kid! thought Vi, having to do it with an old trout like that, old enough to be his grandmother – still she stank of money, he was on to a good thing if he could keep it. So she put on a special sweet smile and waved at Mrs Lippiatt. ‘Here’s wishing you all you wish yourself, dear’ she called. Then she smiled at Mr Pontresoli, just to show him how hard she worked for his lousy club – might as well kill two birds with one stone. ‘Let it go, Terry’ she called and the two pianos jazzed out the old duet routine – Souvenirs, Paper Doll, Some of these Days, Blue Again, everything nice and corney. It was while they were playing ‘The Sheik of Araby’ that she noticed Mrs Lippiatt’s face – all lit up with memories. Christ! she must be old if she goes back to that, thought Vi, and then she said to herself ‘Poor old bitch, she must have been pretty once, but, there you are, that’s life, makes you hard.’ At least she’d got a nice bit of stuff in Terry, best looking boy in the place; not that she didn’t prefer something a bit nearer her own age herself, and she gazed proudly over at Trevor, with his wavy grey hair and soldier’s moustache, talking to Mr Pontresoli. Funny how class told. Old Pontresoli could have bought Trevor up any day, but there he was, respectful as anything, listening to what Trevor had to say. She could hear Trevor’s voice above the music ‘My dear old Ponto, you’ll never change that sort of thing in this country till you clear out the Yids.’ If Mr Pontresoli knew what Trevor really thought of him! ‘Filthy wop’ he’d said, but he’d agreed to be nice, because of Vi’s piano act and until he got a job they needed all the money she could earn.
After closing time she had a drink with Terry and Mrs Lippiatt. Mrs Lippiatt said what was the good of having money, there was nothing to spend it on. Vi thought to herself what she would like was to have some money to spend, but aloud she said in her smart voice ‘Yes, isn’t it awful? With this government you have to be grateful for the air you breathe. Look at the things we can’t have – food, clothes, foreign travel.’ ‘Ah, yes, foreign travel’ said Mrs Lippiatt, though she knew damned well Vi had never been abroad. ‘It’s bad enough for you and me, Mrs Cawston, but think of this poor boy’ and she put her fat, beringed hand on Terry’s knee ‘he’s never been out of England. Never mind, darling, you shall have your trip to Nice the day we get a proper government back.’ Mr Pontresoli and Trevor joined them. Trevor was the real public schoolboy with his monocle and calling Mrs Lippiatt ‘my dear lady’, Vi could see that Terry was worried – he was frightened that Trevor was muscling in; but that was just Trevor’s natural way with women – he had perfect manners. Later in the evening he asked Vi who the hell the old trout was.
‘The Major’s got a good one about Attlee’ said Mr Pontresoli in his thick, adenoidal Italian cockney, his series of blue stubbed chins wobbling as he spoke.
‘It’s impossible to be as funny about this government as they are themselves’ said Trevor. He had such a quiet sense of humour. ‘They’re a regular Fred Karno show.’ But they all begged to hear the story, so he gave it to them. ‘An empty taxi drove up to No. 10,’ he said ‘and Mr Attlee got out.’ Beautifully told it was, with his monocle taken out of his eye and polished just at the right moment.
‘Well Sir Stafford gives me the creeps’ said Terry. No one thought that very funny except Mrs Lippiatt and she roared.
‘Are you ready, young woman?’ Trevor said to Vi with mock severity ‘because I’m not waiting all night.’ As she was coming out of the ladies’, Vi met Mona and her girl friend. She stopped and talked to them for a minute although she knew Trevor would disapprove. It was true, of course, that that sort of thing was on the increase and Trevor said it was the ruin of England, but then he said that about so many things – Jews and foreigners, the Labour Government and the Ballet. Anyhow Mona’s crowd had been very kind to her in the old days when she was down to her last sausage, and when they’d found she wasn’t their sort there’d never been so much as a word to upset her.
‘For Christ’s sake, Kiddie’ said Trevor ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk to those Lizzies.’
On the stairs they met young Mr Solomons. Vi had to talk to him, whatever Trevor said. First of all he was important at the club, and then his smile always got her – nice and warm somehow like a cat purring, but that was what she felt about a lot of Jews. ‘She’s stood me up, Vi’ he said, his eyes round with pretended dismay ‘left me in the lurch. Ah! I ought to have stuck to nice girls like you.’ Vi couldn’t help laughing, but Trevor was wild with anger. He stood quite still for a moment in Denman Street under the electric sign which read ‘Passion Fruit Club.’ ‘If I catch that lousy Yid hanging around you agai
n, girlie’, he said ‘I’ll knock his ruddy block off.’ All the way in the tube to Earls Court he was in a rage. Vi wanted to tell him that she was going to visit her nephew Norman tomorrow, but she feared his reception of the news. Trevor had talked big about helping Norman, when she told him the boy had won a scholarship at London University and was coming to live with them. But somehow her sister Ivy had got word that she wasn’t really married to Trevor and they’d sent the boy elsewhere. She and Trevor had taken him out to dinner once in the West End – a funny boy with tousled black hair and thick spectacles who never said a word, though he’d eaten a hearty enough meal and laughed fit to split at the Palladium. Trevor said he wasn’t all there and the less they saw of him the better, but Vi thought of him as her only relative in London and after all Ivy was her sister, even if she was so narrow.
‘I’m going to see Norman tomorrow’ Vi said timidly, as they crossed the Earls Court Road.
‘Good God’ cried Trevor, ‘What on earth for, girlie?’
‘I’ve written once or twice to that Hampstead address and had no reply.’
‘Well, let the little swine stew in his own juice if he hasn’t the decency to answer’ said Trevor.
‘Blood’s blood after all’ countered Vi, and so they argued until they were back in their bed-sitting room. Vi put on a kimono and feathered mules, washed off her make-up and covered her face in cream until it shone with highlights. Then she sat plucking her eyebrows. Trevor put his trousers to press under the mattress, gave himself a whisky in the toothglass, refilled it with Milton and water and put in his dentures. Then he sat in his pants, suspenders and socks squeezing blackheads from his nose in front of a mirror. All this time they kept on rowing. At last Vi cried out ‘Alright, alright, Trevor Cawston, but I’m still going.’ ‘O.K.’ said Trevor ‘how’s about a little loving?’ So then they broke into the old routine.
The Penguin Book of the British Short Story Page 25