Maurice rose, there seemed nothing else to do but go. He had not moved, however, before she burst into tears.
‘It’s true,’ she cried. ‘Oh God! it’s true. But what else is there to do when I’m so unhappy. That or get out of it, out of all this useless meaningless squalor. I’m so unhappy,’ she said again, ‘and so bored. What’s the point of life? Oh, it’s different for you …’
‘No,’ said Maurice, ‘it isn’t.’ And he told her of his own despair and boredom. She listened for a while like an attentive child, then she seemed to grow restless with her own silence. Once or twice she tried to break in but Maurice was intent on confiding his troubles. At last she cried, ‘Well then, if you feel like that, what’s the hope for someone like me? You don’t know what real dull respectability is like, or worse still this sort of sordid disreputable life.’
Then in her turn she told her story – a more vivid recitation than Maurice’s. The large family, the dead drudgery of the Luton newspaper shop her parents owned, running away to London, film extra work, Woolworth’s soap counter, hostess at a little club, Victor.
It was at once a story so familiar to Maurice from what he had read in the newspapers and so personal from her vivid narration, that he was spellbound. He only interrupted her once, ‘And prison?’ he asked.
‘Oh, the whole thing’s a prison,’ she cried.
‘Is all this true that you’re telling me?’ he demanded. ‘No, I shouldn’t have said that. Only it’s all so difficult.’
‘Oh, yes, you should,’ she replied. ‘How can you believe me when I’ve told you so many lies. But it is true. Not what I’ve said before. That about prison was just to make myself interesting. It wasn’t even true about Victor. He hasn’t been unfaithful. He just didn’t come back tonight because it’s all so hopeless. He feels he can’t help me and he’s right, nobody can. I’m no use.’
It was now Maurice knew that he ought to convince her of what life could be, was going to be when his generation got their chance, but he found himself taking advantage of a quite different chance. He got up and kissed her. When he found that she lay so passive in his embrace, his shyness left him and he kissed her excitedly if a little clumsily on mouth and cheeks, ears and neck. She lay purring like a white cat that has found warmth.
‘It’s nice,’ she said in her husky voice, ‘we’re both young and that’s right, isn’t it?’
He had hardly started to stroke her arms again a little clumsily before she seemed to become drowsy. Then she pushed him away – but gently.
‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s no good. Victor and I belong to each other. It may be hell but that’s the way it is.’ Maurice noticed for the first time that her voice had assumed a faint American note. ‘Victor and I are downhillers,’ she said. ‘You’re not. Look,’ she went on, ‘I like you. You understand so much and you’ve helped. I need a friend who I can talk to. Will you be my friend?’
Maurice could not remember feeling so depressed, but he summoned all his courage to assent.
‘I want to sleep now,’ she said. ‘And you must go, because if Victor comes back he’ll be worried if you’re here and I’m too tired to face any more trouble.’
‘The doctor said …’ Maurice began.
‘Please, don’t make it worse.’
‘All right,’ Maurice said, ‘but you won’t be silly again.’
‘Cross my heart,’ she said. ‘Come and see me again. I like to hear you talk.’
Maurice moved to the door. ‘Of course, I shall come tomorrow to see how you are.’
Sylvia seemed to hesitate, then she smiled lazily, ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but don’t come before five. I’m going to have a lovely long sleep,’ and she curled down among the grubby sheets and blankets.
Maurice could find no taxi until he reached Marble Arch and by that time he was so absorbed in trying to sort out his emotions that he preferred to walk home.
He too slept long and heavily. Mrs Liebig was already lunching when he woke. She seemed anxious at first that he should have been involved in last night’s trouble. ‘I don’t know what to say to Norman,’ she said. ‘He ought to be pleased that you did so much for his brother’s girl. But heaven knows what your mother may say. I can’t tell their ideas. Better say nothing. Yes, that’s it,’ she cried, ‘tell them nothing. Do you hear, you’re to tell them nothing. ‘All the same you behaved well, Maurice.’
When she found that he ate a good lunch, she seemed less worried. ‘Victor’s got in a fine mess,’ she said. ‘All the same it’s his life. That Paula must give him a divorce. I shall tell her. She’s got a good job; what’s she want to hang on to him for?’ But when Maurice asked her if she had arranged to see Aunt Paula, she answered vaguely. ‘Time enough,’ she said. ‘Besides it’s all nonsense. You’re not to think any more of it, do you hear? At your age. There’s quite enough with your wild ducks. All that Sylvia and Victor. It’s a lot of nonsense. It’s just the way they live.’ And with that she dismissed the subject. She was more intent that he should meet her on time for The Pajama Game.
Maurice found himself near Westbourne Grove long before five o’clock, but he passed the time impatiently in a tearoom. When at last five o’clock sounded from a nearby church, he ran all the way to Sylvia’s house for fear that she might be annoyed at his lack of punctuality. When Sylvia opened the door, his fears seemed to be realized, for she scowled at him. Her appearance in daylight surprised him; she was shorter than he had expected, and as a result her plumpness seemed a little gross. Her breasts reared at him aggressively through her tight white sweater and her hips seemed almost tyre-like beneath her tighter black skirt. Heavy, bright lipstick made her cheeks seem waxen. Her fair hair fell loosely across her forehead. All in all, however, she sharpened his desire.
‘Oh! hullo,’ she said a little crossly. ‘I’m nearly ready. You’d better come in while I finish my face. Victor’s expecting us at the club.’
In the bedroom she put on an Elvis Presley record on the gramophone and sat before the mirror doing her eyebrows. Maurice tried to make conversation but her inattention and the deafening volume of ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ made it impossible. He sat on the bed and stared disconsolately into the distance. When at last she had finished, he met her turning glance with a smile. She smiled in return and stopped the record, ‘Elvis the pelvis,’ she said, but there seemed to be no possible reply.
‘It’s only a little drinking club,’ she announced, ‘but we always go there.’ Before they left the house, she added, ‘It was sweet of you to come round.’
The club was up three flights of bare wooden stairs and very dark when you entered. The radiogram here was playing Dickie Valentine. There were only three people sitting at the bar and none of them was Victor.
‘Hullo, Sylvia,’ the barman said, and a thin dark girl cried, ‘Sylvia, darling!’
‘Hullo,’ said Sylvia, ‘I expected Victor.’
‘He’s gone to the little boys’ room,’ said the girl. ‘He’ll be back in a jiffy.’
‘This is Maurice,’ Sylvia said. ‘Maurice, meet Joy and Davy. King of his own frontier,’ she added and laughed depressedly.
‘What’s it to be?’ Davy asked.
‘Gin,’ said Sylvia. ‘Gin and what, Maurice?’
But Maurice was seized with panic. He must be gone before Victor returned. ‘I really think I’ll have to go,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to be at the theatre.’
‘Oh God!’ cried Sylvia, ‘do you really go to the theatre? It’s ghastly.’
‘I haven’t been to the theatre for years,’ Joy announced.
‘We always go to the pictures.’
‘I’m afraid I must go, though,’ Maurice said.
‘Well, yours was a quick one all right,’ Davy said.
Just as Maurice was stumbling out on to the top step in the darkness, he found Sylvia beside him. ‘I’m being bloody, I know,’ she said, ‘but that
’s how it has to be.’ Once more her accent was American. ‘I do need your friendship though. More than you know. I can’t go on with it all much longer, even for Vic’s sake. Can I call on you to help if things get too bad?’
Maurice was afraid of falling down the stairs, so it was with difficulty that he said, ‘Yes, of course.’
‘It may be sooner than you think. It may be tonight,’ Sylvia answered and kissed him on the mouth. Then she went back into the club room. Maurice stumbled down the stairs.
All the way back in the taxi from The Pajama Game Mrs Liebig hummed ‘Fernando’s Hideaway’. ‘That was a good show,’ she said. ‘Something to take away with you.’ She was tired, however, and had her nightcap in bed. Maurice sat up and read Burke’s chivalrous challenge to arms in defence of the fair, unhappy Queen of France. He found it difficult, however, to feel sufficiently for Marie Antoinette’s wrongs and once or twice he half rose from his chair, thinking that he had heard the ring of the telephone.
Muriel Spark
YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN THE MESS
I AM now more than glad that I did not pass into the grammar school five years ago, although it was a disappointment at the time. I was always good at English, but not so good at the other subjects!!
I am glad that I went to the secondary modern school, because it was only constructed the year before. Therefore, it was much more hygienic than the grammar school. The secondary modern was light and airy, and the walls were painted with a bright, washable gloss. One day, I was sent over to the grammar school, with a note for one of the teachers, and you should have seen the mess! The corridors were dusty, and I saw dust on the window ledges, which were chipped. I saw into one of the classrooms. It was very untidy in there.
I am also glad that I did not go to the grammar school, because of what it does to one’s habits. This may appear to be a strange remark, at first sight. It is a good thing to have an education behind you, and I do not believe in ignorance, but I have had certain experiences, with educated people, since going out into the world.
I am seventeen years of age, and left school two years ago last month. I had my A certificate for typing, so got my first job, as a junior, in a solicitor’s office. Mum was pleased at this, and Dad said it was a first-class start, as it was an old-established firm. I must say that when I went for the interview, I was surprised at the windows, and the stairs up to the offices were also far from clean. There was a little waiting-room, where some of the elements were missing from the gas fire, and the carpet on the floor was worn. However, Mr Heygate’s office, into which I was shown for the interview, was better. The furniture was old, but it was polished, and there was a good carpet, I will say that. The glass of the bookcase was very clean.
I was to start on the Monday, so along I went. They took me to the general office, where there were two senior shorthand-typists, and a clerk, Mr Gresham, who was far from smart in appearance. You should have seen the mess!! There was no floor covering whatsoever, and so dusty everywhere. There were shelves all round the room, with old box files on them. The box files were falling to pieces, and all the old papers inside them were crumpled. The worst shock of all was the tea-cups. It was my duty to make tea, mornings and afternoons. Miss Bewlay showed me where everything was kept. It was kept in an old orange box, and the cups were all cracked. There were not enough saucers to go round, etc. I will not go into the facilities, but they were also far from hygienic. After three days, I told Mum, and she was upset, most of all about the cracked cups. We never keep a cracked cup, but throw it out, because those cracks can harbour germs. So Mum gave me my own cup to take to the office.
Then at the end of the week, when I got my salary, Mr Heygate said, ‘Well, Lorna, what are you going to do with your first pay?’ I did not like him saying this, and I nearly passed a comment, but I said, ‘I don’t know.’ He said, ‘What do you do in the evenings, Lorna? Do you watch Telly?’ I did take this as an insult, because we call it T.V. and his remark made me out to be uneducated. I just stood, and did not answer, and he looked surprised. Next day, Saturday, I told Mum and Dad about the facilities, and we decided I should not go back to that job. Also, the desks in the general office were rickety. Dad was indignant, because Mr Heygate’s concern was flourishing, and he had letters after his name.
Everyone admires our flat, because Mum keeps it spotless, and Dad keeps doing things to it. He has done it up all over, and got permission from the Council to remodernize the kitchen. I well recall the Health Visitor, remarking to Mum, ‘You could eat off your floor, Mrs Merrifield.’ It is true that you could eat your lunch off Mum’s floors, and any hour of the day or night you will find every corner spick and span.
Next, I was sent by the agency to a publisher’s for an interview, because of being good at English. One look was enough!! My next interview was a success, and I am still at Low’s Chemical Co. It is a modern block, with a quarter of an hour rest period, morning and afternoon. Mr Marwood is very smart in appearance. He is well spoken, although he has not got a university education behind him. There is special lighting over the desks, and the typewriters are the latest models.
So I am happy at Low’s. But I have met other people, of an educated type, in the past year, and it has opened my eyes. It so happened that I had to go to the doctor’s house, to fetch a prescription for my young brother, Trevor, when the epidemic was on. I rang the bell, and Mrs Darby came to the door. She was small, with fair hair, but too long, and a green maternity dress. But she was very nice to me. I had to wait in their living-room, and you should have seen the state it was in! There were broken toys on the carpet, and the ash trays were full up. There were contemporary pictures on the walls, but the furniture was not contemporary, but old-fashioned, with covers which were past standing up to another wash, I should say. To cut a long story short, Dr Darby and Mrs Darby have always been very kind to me, and they meant everything for the best. Dr Darby is also short and fair, and they have three children, a girl and a boy, and now a baby boy.
When I went that day for the prescription, Dr Darby said to me, ‘You look pale, Lorna. It’s the London atmosphere. Come on a picnic with us, in the car, on Saturday.’ After that I went with the Darbys more and more. I liked them, but I did not like the mess, and it was a surprise. But I also kept in with them for the opportunity of meeting people, and Mum and Dad were pleased that I had made nice friends. So I did not say anything about the cracked lino, and the paintwork all chipped. The children’s clothes were very shabby for a doctor, and she changed them out of their school clothes when they came home from school, into those worn-out garments. Mum always kept us spotless to go out to play, and I do not like to say it, but those Darby children frequently looked like the Leary family, which the Council evicted from our block, as they were far from houseproud.
One day, when I was there, Mavis (as I called Mrs Darby by then) put her head out of the window, and shouted to the boy, ‘John, stop peeing over the cabbages at once. Pee on the lawn.’ I did not know which way to look. Mum would never say a word like that from the window, and I know for a fact that Trevor would never pass water outside, not even bathing in the sea.
I went there usually at the week-ends, but sometimes on week-days, after supper. They had an idea to make a match for me with a chemist’s assistant, whom they had taken up too. He was an orphan, and I do not say there was anything wrong with that. But he was not accustomed to those little extras that I was. He was a good-looking boy, I will say that. So I went once to a dance, and twice to films with him. To look at, he was quite clean in appearance. But there was only hot water at the week-end at his place, and he said that a bath once a week was sufficient. Jim (as I called Dr Darby by then) said it was sufficient also, and surprised me. He did not have much money, and I do not hold that against him. But there was no hurry for me, and I could wait for a man in a better position, so that I would not miss those little extras. So he started going out with a girl from the c
offee bar, and did not come to the Darbys very much then.
There were plenty of boys at the office, but I will say this for the Darbys, they had lots of friends coming and going, and they had interesting conversation, although sometimes it gave me a surprise, and I did not know where to look. And sometimes they had people who were very down and out, although there is no need to be. But most of the guests were different, so it made a comparison with the boys at the office, who were not so educated in their conversation.
Now it was near the time for Mavis to have her baby, and I was to come in at the week-end, to keep an eye on the children, while the help had her day off. Mavis did not go away to have her baby, but would have it at home, in their double bed, as they did not have twin beds, although he was a doctor. A girl I knew, in our block, was engaged, but was let down, and even she had her baby in the labour ward. I was sure the bedroom was not hygienic for having a baby, but I did not mention it.
One day, after the baby boy came along, they took me in the car to the country, to see Jim’s mother. The baby was put in a carry-cot at the back of the car. He began to cry, and without a word of a lie, Jim said to him over his shoulder, ‘Oh shut your gob, you little bastard.’ I did not know what to do, and Mavis was smoking a cigarette. Dad would not dream of saying such a thing to Trevor or I. When we arrived at Jim’s mother’s place, Jim said, ‘It’s a fourteenth-century cottage, Lorna.’ I could well believe it. It was very cracked and old, and it made one wonder how Jim could let his old mother live in this tumble-down cottage, as he was so good to everyone else. So Mavis knocked at the door, and the old lady came. There was not much anyone could do to the inside. Mavis said, ‘Isn’t it charming, Lorna?’ If that was a joke, it was going too far. I said to the old Mrs Darby, ‘Are you going to be re-housed?’ but she did not understand this, and I explained how you have to apply to the Council, and keep at them. But it was funny that the Council had not done something already, when they go round condemning. Then old Mrs Darby said, ‘My dear, I shall be re-housed in the Grave.’ I did not know where to look.
The Second Penguin Book of English Short Stories Page 32