The Second Penguin Book of English Short Stories

by Christopher Dolley (ed)

  The driver again became aware of somebody shouting. It came from the wooden erection which was the nearest thing to a house in that desolation of broken brick. The driver climbed the smashed wall and unlocked the door. Mr Thomas came out of the loo. He was wearing a grey blanket to which flakes of pastry adhered. He gave a sobbing cry. ‘My house,’ he said. ‘Where’s my house?’

  ‘Search me,’ the driver said. His eye lit on the remains of a bath and what had once been a dresser and he began to laugh. There wasn’t anything left anywhere.

  ‘How dare you laugh,’ Mr Thomas said. ‘It was my house. My house.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the driver said, making heroic efforts, but when he remembered the sudden check to his lorry, the crash of bricks falling, he became convulsed again. One moment the house had stood there with such dignity between the bomb-sites like a man in a top hat, and then, bang, crash, there wasn’t anything left – not anything. He said, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help it, Mr Thomas. There’s nothing personal, but you got to admit it’s funny.’

  Angus Wilson

  AFTER THE SHOW

  ALL the way home in the taxi and in the lift up to her flat on the seventh floor Mrs Liebig kept on talking. Sometimes she spoke of the play, making comments to Maurice in the form of questions to which she did not await the answer. The lights of Regent Street and Oxford Street flashed momentarily through the taxi window, caught in the saxe-blue spangles of the ornament that crowned her almost saxe-blue neatly waved hair, reflected in the mirror of her powder compact which seemed always to occupy her attention in taxis. ‘Was the father of the girl a fraud then?’ she asked, and, ‘Why didn’t the mother make him work?’ ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘that the old man had used him to get rid of his mistress.’ Then, ‘What a play,’ she exclaimed, ‘for a boy of your age to take his grandmother to! But it’s clever, of course, too clever, I think. There weren’t any real animals you know, in the cage. That was clever.’

  More often she commented on family affairs. ‘Your father needs a real rest,’ she said, ‘let’s hope your mother sees that he gets it. It’s not the way to take holidays – mixing business up with pleasure. Of course your mother will want to spend a lot of time with her own people, that’s only natural. They have a very nice house, you know, the Engelmanns in Cologne. Or they used to have. Anything might have happened to it now. But she must think of your father all the same. That won’t be much of a holiday for Norman, talking German all the time. Though he’s a wonderful linguist, your father, you know.’

  Once she said, ‘Well we must try to imagine what they are doing now,’ but the effort was apparently too great for her, because she went straight on, ‘Lending her house to those Parkinsons. What a thing for your mother to do! But then they don’t have to think about money, so there’d be no sense in all the trouble of letting.’ Her tone was at once reverent and sarcastic.

  Maurice said nothing, indeed he hardly stirred, except once or twice to light Mrs Liebig’s cigarette with the lighter she handed him from her bag. She shared his parents’ constant concern that he should have perfect manners with women. After the theatre, his slim body, usually so loosely and naturally elegant, remained tense – a tailor’s-dummy woodenness perhaps more in keeping with the slightly over-careful elegance of his clothes than his usual poise. A tension too came into the expression of his large dark eyes, ordinarily a trifle cow-like in their placid, liquid sensuality. It was not so much that he remained hypnotically bewitched by the play’s deception, but rather that he dreaded returning from its dramatic reality to the fraudulent flatness of his own life. He seemed to strain every nerve to keep the play in action, to spin out at least its mood from the theatre into the commonplace texture of his own life. His apprehension announced his experience that the task was vain, his nervous elation a certain fear that he might on this occasion succeed. It was the same, too, with every theatrical performance from Shakespeare to musical comedy. In addition to this adolescent histrionic restlessness, however, there was a somewhat plodding seriousness which demanded a peculiarly strong response to ‘good’ plays.

  Tonight, after The Wild Duck, then, his earnest good taste reinforced his emotions in their struggle against the invasion of his grandmother’s voice. The underlying Jewish cockney note of her cracked contralto jarred more than usual and he could not condemn his unfeeling snobbery without also condemning his mother, for Mrs Norman Liebig was forever saying that ‘Grandmother’s voice was such a pity’.

  As they entered the hall of the flat, old Mrs Liebig’s well-corseted plump body collided as usual against one of the giant-size Japanese pots as she searched for the light switch, but she still continued to talk. ‘Well, there it is,’ she said, ‘so the poor little girl committed suicide. No wonder with a father who was a liar and did nothing all day. All the same,’ she said, and the electric light shone brightly upon heavily rouged high cheek-bones, ‘I don’t think a little girl like that would shoot herself. More likely the mother – tied to such a man.’

  Maurice took her black moiré silk evening coat off her shoulders, and folded it carefully, smoothing the squirrel-skin collar; then he said, ‘Gregers Werle was a fanatic. In his false determination to expose the truth, he destroyed the poetry in Hedwig’s life and drove her to her death.’ His voice was a shade higher than usual and its normal slight sibilance had a hissing edge. Even Mrs Liebig was struck by the fierceness of his tone, she looked up for a moment from the telephone pad on which the maid had noted a message. ‘Oh, it’s a dreadful thing all right,’ she said, ‘to destroy young people’s dreams.’ But there was a limit to her sentiment, or perhaps she remembered her own comfortable, prosaic childhood, for she added, ‘What a way to bring a child up! With all those fancies. No,’ she said emphatically, ‘it’s not the sort of thing I’d have gone to if you hadn’t taken me. But I’m glad I’ve seen it. The acting was fine.’

  In the sitting-room the brown velvet sofa and easy chairs looked hot and uninviting on this warm spring evening. Mrs Liebig automatically moved one or two of the daffodils in the thick shell-shaped white earthenware vase. She crossed the room and drew the long heavy velvet curtains, shutting out the night breeze. ‘Go on, Maurice,’ she said, ‘help yourself, tuck in.’ And she slapped the handle of the silver-shaded green metal cocktail wagon. ‘Your father said you could have two beers or one whisky.’

  Maurice gave himself a lager and turned to his grandmother, but she answered his gesture before he spoke, ‘No, I’ll have my nightcap after my bath,’ she said, but she helped herself to a large canapé of prawns in aspic from a white-and-gold-painted metal table. ‘Go on,’ she said again, ‘tuck in.’

  Maurice surveyed the array of gelatinous hors d’oeuvres. The Norman Liebigs also always had a mass of foodstuff awaiting their return from the theatre, but true to her German origin, Mrs Norman saw that everything was cooked at home. Maurice could hear his mother’s disapproving tones – ‘Poor Grandmother lives from Selfridge’s cooked provision counter’ – so he contented himself with a cheese straw.

  Mrs Liebig trotted out of the room and came back with the rubber ice container from the refrigerator. She dropped a square of ice with the tongs into Maurice’s beer and kissed his forehead. She was happy to have for a while a man to wait on. ‘So there you are, my dear,’ she said. ‘That was your Uncle Victor phoned while we were out. Ah, well, some trouble again. Money for the dogs or for that Sylvia. It comes to the same thing, my dear. In any case it can wait for tomorrow.’

  At the mention of his Uncle Victor’s name, Maurice’s curved nostril dilated for a moment, adding to the camel-like arrogance of his thin, sensitive face. Mrs Liebig flushed above her rouged cheek-bones to her temples.

  ‘Oh, there’s no good putting your head in the air at your Uncle’s name, my dear. He hasn’t had your father’s luck nor his brain. But business brains aren’t everything. I know. I’ve got them. I’ve made money, but that’s not all in lif
e.’ Her grandson’s complete stillness seemed to anger her, for she added loudly, ‘Who built your father’s business up, eh? And they can’t do anything now, you know, my dear, unless I agree. I’m still a director. What does your mother say to that?’

  To this attack on his mother, Maurice answered quietly, ‘We see Aunt Paula regularly.’

  It had all the effect he desired. Mrs Liebig’s large dark eyes narrowed with fury. ‘All right, you see your Aunt Paula. So do I. And she’s a clever buyer and she knows it. But that’s not flesh and blood. What if your Uncle Victor did leave her? How did she treat him? I can’t understand your father. He knows the world. He knows well enough that Paula only married Victor because she thought he would be a success. And when he wasn’t, she turned to and made success for herself. All right, she’s a clever girl. But all the time she let him know it. That’s not love.’

  ‘Father helped Uncle Victor for years,’ Maurice said coldly. He took out an orange-wood stick and began to clean his nails.

  ‘And you’ve got clean nails and he hasn’t,’ Mrs Liebig cried. ‘Very good. Yes, your father helped Victor. So did I. So should we all, his family. Rose sends him money from New York. It’s flesh and blood, my dear. I could hardly tell Rose that your father doesn’t see Victor any more. She asked me how the hell can they be like that when they’re brothers. And now you’re not to see Victor. Your mother told me, “We don’t wish Maurice to meet Victor.” She wants to have it every way. The Liebigs are no good because they have no culture. “Norman doesn’t care for music. I want Maurice to care for things besides money.” Very well. Your Uncle Victor cares for things besides money and he’s a Liebig. He’s a good artist. His cartoons made money and then those film people changed their minds and so he didn’t make any more money. Oh, yes, your mother likes artists, but she doesn’t like them to be out of work. I know.’

  Maurice rose and picked up a book from the table. ‘I can’t listen to you if you talk about Mother like this,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean you can’t listen? A boy of your age,’ Mrs Liebig cried. ‘You’ll listen to what I choose to tell you, my dear. You’re going to Cambridge and you’re going to be a lawyer. Nothing to do with the rag business for Gertrude Liebig’s son. Well, designing dresses and selling them has more art in it than arguing in law courts. You listen to sense for once instead of to your “Wild Ducks”. Mustn’t meet your own uncle. You’re old enough to decide for yourself.’

  She was breathless by now with anger and sweating through through her heavy make-up. She put her hand to her breast.

  ‘That’s the sort of fool I am, upsetting myself for a foolish boy. All this has nothing to do with you,’ she shouted, ‘discussing your uncle at your age. Why, you’re only just seventeen.’ She drew her compact, plump little body to its full five feet four. ‘I’m going to have my bath,’ she said and walked trimly out of the room, teetering a little as always in her very high heels.

  Maurice arranged himself negligently on the striped period Regency couch in order to control his rising hysteria. Because these people, his father, his mother, his grandmother had conditioned him to love them, they had no scruple in tearing him apart. ‘Very well,’ as his grandmother said, they had him emotionally, but his mind remained entirely indifferent, even contemptuous – no, not contemptuous, for that involved some engagement – to them. He chose carefully the words in which he set his thoughts – ‘emotionally’, ‘involved’, ‘engagement’ – for words shaped one’s thinking. He could forgive them working off their loneliness, their ambitions, their nervous exhaustion on him; what he could not forgive – or rather accept, for forgiveness suggested some demand on his part and he asked nothing of them – what he could not accept was this inclusion in their empty, flat lives. Yes, even his mother, with her cultural aspirations; it was almost easier for someone with ideas to accept a woman like his grandmother with her tough, vulgar pushing ways.

  Carefully adjusting the sharp creases of his chocolate-brown trousers as he crossed his legs, he applied himself to Burke’s speeches. Through the clever passion and the stirring elegance of the oratory he tried to control his impatience, his furious wish to have the years pass more quickly so that he could live a proper life of high responsibility, of tempered adult courage. For this age of mediocrity, of grubbing merchants and sordid artisans – this age of Liebigs would pass; he and his generation would see to that. But meanwhile, if only something would happen – something real and not just on the stage.

  When Mrs Liebig emerged from the bath-room, she poked her head round the sitting-room door. Between the folds of her gold thread dressing-gown, her breasts showed sagging; her face was flat, dead with vanishing cream; her blued hair frizzed out from a silver hair-net. ‘How’s your book, Maurice?’ she asked with a smile. Anger was soon gone with her. ‘We must get the man to the T.V., my dear. It’s not right for it to go wrong like this. I paid a lot of money for that machine. Get me my night-cap,’ she said, ‘I’ll be back in a minute. On the rocks,’ she added. She had brought the phrase back from her visit to her daughter Rose in New York and she loved to use it.

  When she returned to her strong whisky, she settled down to her favourite half an hour’s chat before bed. She had the impression that the daily routine of her life left no time for real conversation, although she had never been silent even at the height of her active career as Madame Clara, modiste.

  She tried this evening to keep her talk off family matters. ‘I don’t know what I shall do next winter,’ she said. ‘The Palace is closing down. There’s not another hotel like it in Madeira. They’ve known me since before your grandfather died. The head porter always asks after you – the young gentleman with the books.’

  As Maurice made no answer, she tried hard to connect with him. ‘The boys still dive, you know,’ she said. ‘Crabs and sponges.’ The words in her mouth brought Maurice no evocation of sub-tropical romance. ‘I wonder if Senhora Paloes will be at Biarritz this year. She plays very high stakes. These Brazilians are so rich, you know, my dear.’ But her annual holidays – Madeira in February, Biarritz in June – were so much a routine even to her, that she could find little to say of them.

  ‘Well,’ she asked, ‘who are you meeting tomorrow? The Clarkson girl or Betty Lewis?’

  ‘I’m going out with some friends from school,’ Maurice said firmly to avoid his grandmother’s roguish innuendo, but to no avail.

  ‘You prefer the little blondes, don’t you, Maurice? She was very pretty, that girl in the stalls.’

  Despite his annoyance at her noticing his glances in the theatre, he did not wish to appear priggish, so he said, ‘Yes, wasn’t she?’

  ‘That’s what I tell your mother,’ Mrs Liebig said. ‘Let Maurice find his girls for himself. Always arranging theatre parties for the Clarksons or dinner dances with Adela Siegl’s girl. He’ll go out with his old grandmother when he’s with me, I said. Let him find his girls for himself.’

  Maurice did not wish to side too openly with her against his mother, so he merely smiled.

  ‘And tomorrow evening a nice show for me,’ Mrs Liebig continued, ‘a nice musical show – The Pajama Game. Rose saw it in New York. She said it was tops. Not a show for you this time. A show for the children. For the old girl.’ She laughed in delight at her little joke – a harsh braying jay sound that seemed almost to call forth an answering note from the telephone.

  ‘Oh, my dear, so late,’ Mrs Liebig exclaimed. ‘You answer, Maurice. Is it Victor? What does he want? I can’t speak now. It’s too late.’ She chattered on, so that Maurice had to stop one ear with a finger to hear his correspondent.

  ‘You’re wanted at once,’ he said. ‘Sylvia is very ill. Uncle Victor’s not there. They can’t find him.’

  ‘Well, I can’t go like this,’ Mrs Liebig was indignant. ‘What’s she got? A pain or something?’

  ‘It’s very urgent,’ Maurice said, speaking gravely as th
ough the person at the other side might hear Mrs Liebig’s levity. ‘She’s had an accident.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Mrs Liebig cried. ‘The damned fool girl. Poor Victor! Well, what can I do?’

  ‘Mrs Liebig will come as soon as possible. I shall come immediately,’ Maurice said into the telephone. ‘I’m Mrs Victor Liebig’s nephew.’

  Mrs Liebig got up from her chair, drawing the gold and green dressing-gown round her, slopping a little in her mules. ‘You can’t go there,’ she said. ‘What do you mean “Mrs Victor Liebig’s nephew”? You’ve never seen the girl?’

  Maurice said, ‘Someone must go. The woman on the phone wouldn’t say exactly, but she implied that it wasn’t an accident. I think she wanted to say that Sylvia had tried to kill herself.’ His eyes were no longer flat and dead. ‘She couldn’t find anyone else,’ he said, as though that clinched the matter.

  But for his grandmother it did not. ‘Oh, my God!’ she cried. ‘What does Victor want to mix up with such little fools for? I should never have agreed to meet the girl,’ she added, as though her recognition of her son’s mistress had given the girl aspirations above her station, encouraged her to ideas of suicide.

  Maurice seemed not to hear her. ‘You’d better get dressed as soon as you can and follow me over there,’ he said and moved to the door. Mrs Liebig ran after him, holding her dressing-gown round her with one hand, she put the other on his arm. ‘I don’t know what …’ she said. ‘Norman will never forgive me. You’ll have to answer to your mother, you know. You’re not to meet Victor and now you rush off to see his girl. I don’t know …’ Maurice went out of the room. She followed him, shouting into the darkness of the hall. ‘They’re not married, you know.’ She knew perfectly well that he knew, she shouted it as though it were a threat. Only the click of the front door latch answered her.