by David Storey
‘I don’t smoke,’ he said.
She nodded as if this were very much what she had suspected. ‘Do you mind?’
The small silver lighter – its design corresponding in some way with the case – she propped for a moment before her face, flicked it and dipped the cigarette into the flame. ‘How long have you been teaching?’ she said.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘For quite a while.’
The tray was laid on the table before them; as he removed the two glasses she cut off the tip from the change and poured the coins into her bag. A tiny clasp secured it. ‘Are you married?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
She laid her bag beside the glass.
‘And you?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was drained of any interest. She held the cigarette before her, gazing down. ‘Have you been working this evening?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
He added, ‘I leave here though, next term.’
‘Where will you be going?’
She half-smiled. Her mouth was drawn back at one corner. She blew out a cloud of smoke which drifted slowly past his head.
‘I have a fellowship.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A year off.’
‘To do what?’
‘To put some work together.’ He added, ‘At least, that’s the intention.’
‘It sounds very nice.’ A certain malevolence, he thought, had come into her voice. ‘I didn’t know you could do that sort of thing.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I see.’
‘This is American money. I’ve been trying to get it for some time.’ He laughed; she continued to regard him aloofly. ‘For that you get special dispensation. A term off. In this instance, three.’
‘Perhaps they won’t know,’ she said, ‘what to do without you.’
‘Didn’t you like my lectures? he said.
She shook her head.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know.’ She held her fingers against her forehead. ‘No, I didn’t like them, I suppose,’ she said.
He began to smile.
‘Have another drink,’ he said.
‘A last one. Then I must be going.’
It took a little time to catch the barman’s eye.
‘I didn’t think,’ she said, ‘that they meant a great deal to you, either.’
‘I’m surprised you noticed.’
‘I notice quite a few things,’ she said.
He didn’t catch the tone precisely.
The bar turned generally to watch her departure.
‘I’ll walk with you to the car,’ he said when he realized she expected to be left outside. She had put out her hand to say goodbye.
‘Really, there’s no need,’ she said.
But she had already turned towards the college. She walked with her hands in her coat pockets, the bag hanging from her wrist.
‘What will you do about your lectures?’ he said.
‘Drop them.’
It might have sounded too much like a comment on their encounter, for she added after a moment, ‘Probably. I don’t know. I’m not sure.’
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
‘Good-night, then,’ she said when they reached the college gates. She held out her hand again.
‘I never learned your name,’ he said.
‘Helen.’
He watched her walk past the beadle’s lodge to her car. It stood alone now in the yard. In the lodge itself the beadle, hatless, was reading an evening paper.
As he walked down the street to the bus stop she passed him in the car.
They met a week later, whether by accident or design he couldn’t tell. She was coming out of the same lecture theatre: he happened to be passing.
‘You’re still here, then?’ he said.
For a moment she seemed surprised, uncertain who he was.
‘Have you got half an hour?’ he said. ‘I’m just knocking off.’
‘I don’t know.’ She asked him the time.
For a moment, together, they gazed up at the clock over the beadle’s lodge. The three nuns walked slowly past and disappeared into the darkness of the street outside.
Her car wasn’t in the yard.
‘Do we have to go to the same place?’ she said.
‘No.’ He shook his head.
She looked up again at the clock and said, ‘All right, then. Half an hour.’
She walked along then quite casually, her hands in her pockets.
‘How was this evening?’ he said.
‘Oh.’ She shook her head. It was as if he were someone else entirely.
For a while they walked along in silence.
‘How about this place?’ he said when they’d gone some distance from the college.
She scarcely glanced up. From her pocket she produced a scarf and tied it round her head. She looked neither at the people nor the interior, simply going to an empty table and sitting down.
He asked for the drinks to be brought over.
‘Do they know you here?’ she said.
He shook his head, looking round. ‘I’ve never been here in my life.’
She wore no make-up. Her eyes were wide, a little startled.
From her pocket she took the same cigarette case and the same lighter, offering him one, closing her eyes at his refusal and taking one herself. ‘What are you smiling at?’ she said.
‘I’m astonished you’re here,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She smiled herself.
‘Do you have many friends?’ he asked her.
She suddenly laughed. The dark eyes examined him in surprise.
‘What does your husband do?’ he said.
‘He works,’ she said. ‘Like any other.’
‘This,’ he said, and gestured at the room, ‘he wouldn’t approve of.’
‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘He’d probably feel very flattered.’
‘Knowing you were here?’
‘Any precautions I might take,’ she said, ‘are entirely for my own convenience.’
He wasn’t sure what she meant. He said, ‘I see.’
She added, ‘Would you like another drink?’
She waited for him to signal the barman. ‘And you,’ she said. ‘What does your wife do?’
‘I imagine very much the same as you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m very lazy.’ She watched him a moment, still smiling, then added, ‘How many children have you got?’
‘Three.’
She laid a note on the table and waited for the barman to put out the change. He collected it for her from the tray.
‘I’ve two,’ she said.
‘I suppose you find all this a bit preposterous.’
‘What?’
‘These demands.’ He wasn’t sure.
‘Oh. Demands are always preposterous,’ she said.
She leaned her head on her hand, her cigarette smoking by her cheek. Her eyes, above her couched cheek, were half-closed.
For a while she said nothing. Then she added, ‘Everything, I suppose, has its own kind of form.’
‘Yes?’ he said, and added, ‘And this?’
‘I don’t know. The form reveals itself, I imagine, as it goes along.’
‘Nevertheless, it is a little strange.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
They had a third drink then, as on the previous occasion, she decided, without consulting anything, that it was time to go.
‘I never asked you,’ he said as they walked back through the darkened streets, ‘where you live.’
She gl
anced up. ‘Does it matter?’
‘No.’ He shook his head.
She walked with her arms held to her sides.
He recognized the car eventually, parked in a side-street near the college.
‘Shall I see you again?’ he said.
‘I don’t know.’
He gazed at her with much the same sort of coldness.
‘If you like.’ After a moment she added, ‘If you think it’s worth it.’
‘Where?’ he said.
‘I’ve no idea.’ She glanced over at the car then back down the street towards the college. ‘The same place,’ she said, and added, ‘You might think of somewhere else to go.’
‘I will.’
‘Do you want a lift?’
He was about to accept.
For some reason he shook his head. ‘I’ll walk,’ he said.
She got into the car without another word, switched on the lights, then the engine, waved and drove quickly off.
He felt a great sense of relief.
When he reached home he embraced Kay and said, ‘Really, things will be all right after all.’
He held her as if he’d returned from a long absence, stunned, a little overwhelmed.
‘Goodness,’ she said. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Oh.’ He shook his head.
Later, he said, ‘Surely, at some point, everyone throws up their hands at what they’ve become.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I never have.’
‘You always have the children.’
‘Do they help?’
He didn’t answer. She didn’t press too closely. It was too strange to go into.
‘You seemed to think everything had fallen to pieces,’ she said later. ‘That there wasn’t any chance.’
‘Everything was shut in,’ he said.
‘And now?’
‘Everything seems different.’
‘Well.’ She still watched him in surprise.
The coldness melted. They came alive. She was suddenly very happy.
They went out to the theatre one evening. They scarcely went at all. It seemed part of this invisible event, as if he were entertaining her with the secret, opening the door so that she might see inside.
The house grew in size. The children were restored to favour.
A week later he told her he would be late home in the evening.
‘You’re usually late,’ she said.
‘Not to worry,’ he told her. ‘If I’m late I’ll be working in the library.’
She spread out her arms. ‘Well, all right,’ she said, and smiled.
He saw her some little distance off, waiting in the shadow of the office buildings across the street from the beadle’s lodge. An odd malignancy had crept into their encounter as if, somewhere, a light had been put out.
‘How are you?’ he said, and shook her hand.
The same formality was evident in her too, like the moment when he had last seen her. No other intimacy intruded.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d be here,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I nearly left a message at the college.’
He glanced across at the beadle’s lodge, filled suddenly with a kind of dread.
‘Have you thought of where we can go?’ she said.
‘A pub seems the only place. I mean, how well are you known? We could go for a meal. Or a walk.’
She said nothing. Her expression conveyed nothing, neither disappointment nor unease, nor, it seemed, much hope either. It was cold, almost winter. ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘it might be wiser to meet somewhere else. The term ends in a week or so. Things might be easier.’
‘Let’s go for a drink,’ she said, and turned off down the street.
She wore the same scarf as before, the same dark coat, belted. It was like a uniform: the thing she became the moment she slipped it on. In it he saw no desire to please; no desire, even, to please or reassure herself. It was a kind of negation.
She chose once again a corner of the pub, sitting with her back to the other people and gazing not at him but blankly at the wall beyond.
‘Aren’t you well this evening?’ he asked her.
‘I’m perfectly all right,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’ He didn’t answer, but looked away.
‘I suppose all this is a bit absurd.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Perhaps we’d better call a halt.’
‘Why don’t we get a room?’ he said.
The same calmness persisted.
She began to smile.
After a moment she said, ‘All right,’ and in much the same tone as before added, ‘If you think it’s worth it.’
Her expression didn’t change. She seemed neither surprised nor concerned as if the whole thing had been decided behind her back, by people they didn’t know and had never mentioned.
‘I can’t stay long,’ she said. ‘Another drink and I’ll have to go.’
They sat for the rest of the time in silence.
In a mirror by the bar he saw their reflection: they were like two figures waiting in a station, at a roadside. Like refugees.
In the same silence they got up. In the same silence they walked through the streets.
‘How can I get in touch?’ he said when they reached the car.
‘Perhaps you could leave a message,’ she said. ‘At the college.’
‘It’s a little difficult.’
‘Well.’ She glanced up, frowning, as if she couldn’t understand his concern.
‘I suppose I could arrange it.’
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘I’ll leave it at the lodge.’
‘Good.’
She got into the car.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he said with some strange ambition to reassure her.
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ she said and waited for him to close the door.
She waved briefly as she drove away.
He felt curiously dejected.
‘You didn’t work so late after all,’ Kay told him.
‘I couldn’t wait,’ he said, ‘to get back home to you.’
In a way it was true: he was so relieved to see her.
He was still feeling very dazed.
The next week he spent all his spare time searching for a room. Many were left vacant by students returning home for Christmas. In this way he discovered a small flat a short distance from the college.
It had two rooms. They comprised the second floor of a small Victorian house, one of a terrace which, on the ground floor, had been converted into shops. The street itself was a shopping arcade, crowded throughout the day and brightly illuminated at night.
The main room looked out onto the stalls, the crowds and the traffic: it was this, primarily, that attracted him to it. A double divan, a gas fire, two armchairs, a cupboard and a table comprised its main furniture. The second, smaller room, across a narrow landing, was equipped as a kitchen. Its single window overlooked a block of tenements and, below, a concrete yard full of parked cars.
The place had a strange intimacy. It came from the feeling of being both in the street and yet above it, looking down on all those heads, on all that activity and traffic.
In the evenings, when the stalls had been wheeled away, an army of scavengers appeared. He had never seen anything like it. At one end of the street a group of men would arrive with brushes and shovels, at the other a larger group, many of them dishevelled, limping and shuffling, picking their way through the mounds of rubbish. Some of them maimed, the majority of them disfigured, they sorted out the remains into paper bags, quarrelling briefly as the two groups converged then, just as quickly, disappeari
ng. A little later, when the lamps came on, a water-cart would arrive and flush the last debris from the gutters. The last thing at night the street would stand empty, glistening, the pavements and the roadway damp and bare.
She came to the flat a few days before Christmas.
He arrived an hour before her, lit the gas fire, tidied the room, brushed the floor, and set a bunch of flowers on the table in the main room.
The bell in the street didn’t work. He knelt on the bed, leaning out of the window, watching for her amongst the crowds. The air was full of the cries of the vendors, of the shuffling of hundreds of feet, of the bleating of the traffic pushing its way between the stalls.
He saw her some way off.
She wore a black hat which shielded her face, and a black, astrakhan coat. A small brooch, at first he thought a flower, was pinned near her collar. She was looking up, without any curiosity, at the street numbers.
He went down and waited for her in the doorway. She was still a little distance off, unaware, jostled slightly by the crowd, glancing up at the doors, about her the same incredible aloofness.
When finally she saw him she came forward quite casually, raising her head slightly but scarcely glancing at the building. ‘The bell doesn’t work,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d come down.’
‘Is this the place?’ she said.
He nodded and without any comment she walked inside, down the narrow hallway, pausing in the comparative darkness to make sure of the stairs.
He climbed slowly behind her. The stairs were steep and sharply curved: she found her step with some difficulty, stumbling once, his hand rushing out, brushing her shoe. ‘It’s all right,’ she said and continued up without his help.
When they reached the second landing he stepped before her to open the door.
She came into the room slowly, looking round.
‘What do you think?’ he said.
She glanced up at him directly, coming to stop in the centre of the room.
‘It’s somewhere,’ he said.
‘Yes.’