The Penguin Book of the British Short Story

by Philip Hensher

  At least, that is presumably also the lay-out of the bathroom and kitchen in the left-hand house, for the windows are mostly hidden by the apple-tree. The houses are almost identical, except for the lawn on the left of the hedge. In the back-yard of the right-hand house, a clothes-line stretches from the high wooden fence to one end of the kitchen window, and another from the same spot in the high wooden fence to the other end, forming a V with the first clothes line.

  The girl, the daughter of the house, is perhaps aware that I am watching it, for the bathroom curtains have been hastily drawn. On closer scrutiny I can see that the bathroom in fact occupies only two of the framed panels in the upper window, the right-hand two, the curtains of which have been hastily drawn and are lined in white. The other two must belong to a small bedroom, the girl’s bedroom perhaps. Its curtains, pulled back on either side, have a buff lining. It is midday and the cool sun of a cold July tries to pierce through the greyness to warm me in my convalescence. I call it convalescence because the doctor does and the sun is trying to shine, but I know that the paralysis will not retreat, rather will it creep up, slowly perhaps but inexorably over the years, decades even, until it reaches the vital organs.

  In the kitchen window of the right-hand house, one of the panels of two squares over two over two is open to reveal a black rectangle and the beginning of the gleaming sink. Inside the sink is a red plastic bowl and on the window-sill are the red rubber gloves, now at rest.

  The morning sunlight slants on all the windows, reflecting gold in some of the black squares but not in others, making each rectangular window, with its eight squares across and four squares down, look like half a chess board gone berserk to confuse the queen and all her knights. The bathroom window and the kitchen window below it form two halves of a chessboard, more or less.

  In the black rectangle of the open kitchen window the sunlight gleams on the stainless steel double-sink unit, just beyond the cream-painted frame. Above the gleaming sink the red rubber gloves move swiftly, rise from the silver greyness lifting a yellow mass, plunging it into greyness, lifting it again, twisting its tail, shifting it to the right-hand sink, moving back left, vanishing into greyness, rising and moving swiftly, in and out, together and apart.

  On closer scrutiny I can see that in the left-hand house the wooden frames of the thirty-two black squares, eight by four in each of the rectangular windows, are painted white. It is only the right-hand house which has cream-painted windows. They all looked the same behind the trees against the strong August sun that faces me on my high balcony. The left-hand house seems quite devoid of life. Possibly the two rectangular windows one above the other in the left-hand house, are not the windows of the bathroom and kitchen at all. It is difficult to see them through the apple-tree, and of course the goldening elm in the garden at the back of my block of flats. In the right-hand house, however, the lower room is definitely the kitchen, in the black rectangle of which the red rubber gloves move swiftly apart, shake hands, vanish into greyness, lift up a foam-white mass, vanish and reappear, move to the right, move back, plunge into greyness, rise and move swiftly right. Beyond the red rubber gloves is a pale grey shape, then blackness.

  Despite so much washing activity and two clothes-lines in the back-yard I have not seen the woman yet, the mother of the girl. Surely, she must come out one day to hang out the washing on the line. I have not seen the woman yet, or the girl again, only the red rubber gloves, although the woman has been washing ceaselessly day after day since I first began to watch the house. She must have a large family, which likewise I have not seen, except for the girl sunbathing in that June heat-wave, oiling her body inch by inch, lying it seemed quite naked on the red canvas bed. But as I stare at the empty clothes-line, I know with a mild pang that I have seen shirts hanging from it, and slips, and nightdresses, many a time, without then registering the image, which only now recurs very precisely in the back of my memory. Yet I have never seen the woman herself come out to hang the washing. She must do it while I am having physiotherapy, or seeing the doctor, or eating a meal. Perhaps she waits for a moment when I am not on the balcony, to come out and hang her washing.

  On the stainless steel draining board just inside the black rectangle of the open kitchen window is a red mass on a white plate. One of the red rubber gloves unfolds the mass, the other holds a carving knife, almost invisible in the redness of the glove, and cuts the meat into small square pieces on a pale blue chopping board, carefully removing the gristle. In red rubber gloves. A bit much, really. The left red rubber glove sweeps the gristle into the gleaming sink, and then moves up and down, quickly pushing, presumably, the gristle down the waste-disposal unit. One of the red rubber gloves holds the edge of the stainless steel sink, the other moves quickly all around it.

  There is no doubt about it, now that the strong September sun has dimmed and gone behind a cloud, the window frames and the frames of all the small black squares inside the windows of the left-hand house are painted white. And the window frames and the frames of the small black squares in the windows of the right-hand house are painted cream.

  The red rubber gloves are upstairs now, in the white washstand just beyond the cream-painted squares of the right-hand house. It is very exciting when they are upstairs. They move apart and vanish, rise and come together, shake hands, vanish and reappear. They look larger in the small wash-basin. The shape behind is white in the rosy darkness and the arms above the gloves are clearly visible. It is a rosy darkness due to the walls being probably painted pink. Inside it must be quite light. The arms are thin and white. The red rubber gloves have been removed, the wrists dip naked into the pink washbasin, one hand soaps the other arm, under the arm, the neck, the other hand soaps the first arm, under the arm, the neck.

  The stainless steel is dull today, the bright reflecting squares have become black squares, removing the uneven permutations of sunlight on the two halves of the chessboard. The red rubber gloves move swiftly apart, rise from the greyness lifting a red mass, vanish and reappear. The arms above the gloves are thin and white. Despite so much washing activity I have not seen the woman yet. But then I have not been out on the balcony for quite some time, it is too cold, even with rugs. So I wheel my chair by the dining-room window and watch. Surely the woman must one day emerge to hang out all that tremendous wash. But no, the cold November drizzle is too cold and drizzly. Unless perhaps she has a spin-dryer.

  The woman steps out into the paved back-yard holding in her thin white embrace the red plastic bowl full of wet clothes. She wears a black jumper and a short grey skirt, and the red rubber gloves. She is thin and has short hair. She puts down the basin and picks from it a shirt which she smooths out and hangs upon the line, upside down by the tails. And then another shirt. Then a pyjama top, with stripes. She and the girl who seemed totally naked on the red canvas bed are one and the same person.

  Nobody moves at all in the house on the left. And yet the window corresponding to the bathroom and small bedroom window has one of its panels open. Through the denuded elm, books are visible on the extreme left wall.

  The red rubber gloves move swiftly apart behind the cream-painted frames of the kitchen in the right-hand house. One of the squares reflects a pale December sun but otherwise all the squares are dark on the lower half of the chessboard. The red rubber gloves move swiftly apart, shake hands, vanish into a foam-grey mass, rise, vanish and reappear, move swiftly apart, vanish, rise, move apart, vanish, rise, move swiftly. In the blackness beyond the gloves the shape is emerald green.

  The woman has no daughter, and no washing-machine. She is the daughter, she is the washing-machine. She is probably the spin-dryer too. Whoever she washes for so continually is never to be seen, from this position at my high dining-room window in the immobility of my convalescence. The two houses have separate roofs, high and deeply sloping in a late Edwardian style with neat little, tight little tiles of darkened red.

  The red rubber gloves are also worn to chop up mea
t on the pale blue chopping board. A bit much, really. The meat must taste of stale detergent. The left red rubber glove sweeps the gristle into the gleaming sink, and then moves up and down pushing the gristle down the presumably waste-disposal unit. One of the red rubber gloves holds the edge of the stainless steel sink, the other moves swiftly around it.

  It is three o’clock in the afternoon and the wintry sun accuses my impotence with blank undazzling orange in a dull white sky. The thin white shape appears at the bedroom window, draws the buff-lined curtains with swift brusquery. This is the first time I have seen the woman relaxing. At least, I assume she is relaxing since she has drawn the curtains. It was so jerkily done. Staring at the drawn buff curtains I know that I have seen them drawn before, without registering the image. No doubt in June already, during the heat-wave, she went up to the bedroom at three o’clock in the afternoon and drew the curtains swiftly, jerkily, in a great hurry to relax while I was dozing off. Perhaps she is not relaxing. All I saw was a quick white shape, a slip maybe, unless it was an overall, although her arms were bare. In the kitchen she sometimes wears a white overall, which makes her stand out better against the darkness of the rectangle. And of course the red rubber gloves. They lie at rest now on the kitchen window-sill just inside the small black squares, while she relaxes, thinking of black velvet or of restful landscapes as she isolates her head, and then dismisses it as she isolates her neck, and then dismisses it as she isolates her left shoulder, her left arm, flowing, flowing, out, her right arm, and then dismisses it as she isolates her left leg, and her left foot, and then dismisses it as she isolates her right leg, her right foot. That is what the physiotherapist tells me to do when I am in pain. Normal people have to do it all the way down, isolating the left leg, then the right, but I feel no pain down there at all, my legs have isolated themselves, so there’s no point. It is the neck and shoulders, and the back especially, that ache. Perhaps she isolates the inside of her thigh.

  The curtains are drawn open swiftly and a white shape moves away. A quick relaxation, that, merely counting to a hundred maybe, with a hundred deep breaths.

  The thin white shape appears behind the cream-framed squares of the bathroom window. Briefly, for the white lined curtains are drawn with a brusque movement.

  On closer scrutiny the bathroom curtains are not lined in white, but are made of plastic, the reverse side of which is white. Unless perhaps they have replaced, quite recently, the earlier bathroom curtains with the white cotton lining. It is now impossible to tell. There is a faint pink and blue pattern, ducks, possibly, or boats, brighter no doubt on the inside. Six out of thirty-two black squares reflect the pale December morning sun, Castle top left, Bishop left, White Queen on her colour, pawn one advanced two paces, pawn two advanced one pace, pawn four immobilised in dire paralysis.

  The lower half of the chessboard reflects no sun. In the black rectangle of the kitchen window the red rubber gloves move swiftly apart. One of the gloves holds the edge of the stainless steel sink, the other moves swiftly around it. Three shirts are hanging on the line, upside down, and a pyjama top, male underpants, one nightie, two slips, three panties and a pale green blouse. There are no pyjama trousers.

  Snow covers the two steep roofs, and all the trees and gardens. The narrow bricks of the Siamese twin houses seem unnaturally dark. The back yards look alike, no lawn now on the left, only the apple-tree, bare branched in black and white. The snow piles high on the window-sills of the left-hand house. But on the right-hand house the window sills have been swept clean and stand out dark and grey. The light is on in the kitchen, the woman clearly visible, in a blue smock over a red polo-neck. The red rubber gloves move swiftly apart, plunge into greyness and bring out a plate, a cup, another plate, another, and a saucepan, after scouring.

  The snow makes map-like patterns on the dark red and steeply sloping roofs.

  The red rubber gloves move swiftly apart above the gleaming sink in the dark rectangle of the open kitchen window. The April sun slants on the small black squares, whitening a few and leaving others blank, like half a chessboard gone berserk in order to confuse the queen and all her knights.

  During my relapse I have thought a lot about the woman. I was unable to sit by the window but I saw her clearly in my mind’s eye. Busy, always busy in her red rubber gloves. But I know. Clearly she has a lover. She receives him at three o’clock in the afternoon and swiftly draws the curtains. There is so little time.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon I sit by the dining-room window now and watch the house. The lover is there, behind the curtains, caressing her face, and then her neck, her breasts, her belly and the inside of her thigh as she lies totally naked on the red counter-pane. Her belly is enormous for she is eight and a half months pregnant by him. She must have been getting bigger and bigger during my relapse, and of course before, although at that time it wouldn’t have been so noticeable from this position at my dining-room window. Therefore he cannot make love to her but he caresses her. She loves me manually and I am content.

  The tiny baby lies dead on the pale blue chopping board by the stainless steel sink. She cuts him up with the big carving knife and drops the small bits one by one into the waste-disposal unit which growls and grinds them into white liquid pulp.

  The red rubber gloves move swiftly apart, half lost in all the blood. One hand holds the edge of the stainless steel sink, the other moves quickly around it.

  The heat-wave is tremendous for late May. The woman sits on the edge of the red canvas bed in her pale pink bikini, carefully oiling her body inch by inch, the arms, the shoulders, the chest and the long midriff. Now she is doing the right leg, the shin, the thigh, the inside of the thigh. She lies on the red canvas bed, thin, white and totally naked in her invisible bikini, chin up, eyes closed to face the morning sun that pours down melting her and my left side on my high balcony. In the black rectangle of the open kitchen window the yellow rubber gloves lie on the sill, at rest.

  ELIZABETH TAYLOR

  In and Out the Houses

  Kitty Miller, wearing a new red hair-ribbon, bounced along the Vicarage drive, skipping across ruts and jumping over puddles.

  Visiting took up all of her mornings in the school holidays. From kitchen to kitchen, round the village, she made her progress, and, this morning, felt drawn towards the Vicarage. Quite sure of her welcome, she tapped on the back door.

  ‘Why, Kitty Miller!’ said the Vicar, opening it. He looked quite different from in church Kitty thought. He was wearing an open-necked shirt and an old, darned cardigan. He held a tea-towel to the door-handle, because his fingers were sticky. He and his wife were cutting up Seville oranges for marmalade and there was a delicious, tangy smell about the kitchen.

  Kitty took off her coat, and hung it on the usual peg, and fetched a knife from the dresser drawer.

  ‘You are on your rounds again,’ Mr Edwards said. ‘Spreading light and succour about the parish.’

  Kitty glanced at him rather warily. She preferred him not to be there, disliking men about her kitchens. She reached for an orange, and watching Mrs Edwards for a moment out of the corners of her eyes, began to slice it up.

  ‘What’s new?’ asked the Vicar.

  ‘Mrs Saddler’s bad,’ she said accusingly. He should be at that bedside, she meant to imply, instead of making marmalade. ‘They were saying at The Horse and Groom that she won’t last the day.’

  ‘So we are not your first call of the morning?’

  She had, on her way here, slipped round the back of the pub and into the still-room, where Miss Betty Benford, eight months pregnant, was washing the floor, puffing and blowing as she splashed grey soapy water over the flags with a gritty rag. When this job was done – to Miss Betty’s mind, not Kitty’s – they drank a cup of tea together and chatted about the baby, woman to woman. The village was short of babies, and Kitty visualised pushing this one out in its pram, taking it round with her on her visits.

  In his office, the land
lord had been typing the luncheon menus. The keys went down heavily, his finger hovered, and stabbed. He often made mistakes, and this morning had typed ‘Jam Fart and Custard’. Kitty considered – and then decided against – telling the Vicar this.

  ‘They have steak-and-kidney pie on the set menu today,’ she said instead.

  ‘My favourite!’ groaned the Vicar. ‘I never get it.’

  ‘You had it less than a fortnight ago,’ his wife reminded him.

  ‘And what pudding? If it’s treacle tart I shall cry bitterly.’

  ‘Jam tart,’ Kitty said gravely. ‘And custard.’

  ‘I quite like custard, too,’ he said simply.

  ‘Or choice of cheese and biscuits.’

  ‘I should have cheese and biscuits,’ Mrs Edwards said.

  It was just the kind of conversation Kitty loved.

  ‘Eight-and-sixpence,’ she said. ‘Coffee extra.’

  ‘To be rich! To be rich!’ The Vicar said. ‘And what are we having, my dear? Kitty has caused the juices to run.’

  ‘Cold, of course, as it’s Monday.’

  He shuddered theatrically, and picked up another orange. ‘My day off, too!’

  Kitty pressed her lips together primly, thinking it wrong for clergymen to have days off, especially with Mrs Saddler lying there, dying.

  The three of them kept glancing at one another’s work as they cut the oranges. Who was doing it finely enough? Only Mrs Edwards, they all knew.

  ‘I like it fairly chunky,’ the Vicar said.

  When it was all done, Kitty rinsed her hands at the sink, and then put on her coat. She had given the Vicarage what time she could spare, and the morning was getting on, and all the rest of the village waiting. She was very orderly in her habits and never visited in the afternoons, for then she had her novel to write. The novel was known about in the village, and some people felt concerned, wondering if she might be another little Daisy Ashford.