by David Storey
When he told her this she laughed, looking at him with a dulled amazement.
It was the only time, he thought, that anything he’d said had ever surprised her.
He never mentioned this aspect of his feelings to her again. Instead he felt her moving away from him, appalled, like someone retreating from an accident.
One morning he opened the door of his room to find a man standing there, smoking a cigar, one foot on the top step of the stairs. He was wearing a dark overcoat with a fur collar. On his head was some sort of fur hat. He was slightly bigger than Pasmore himself.
‘Hello, sport,’ he said. ‘You in?’
After a moment’s hesitation he opened the door wider. ‘Yes,’ he said, unsure.
‘Not very nice weather,’ the man said, glancing at the room.
He began sketchily to tidy it up.
‘Oh, don’t bother. Not on my account,’ the man said. He glanced at the papers on the table. ‘Hope I’m not interrupting,’ he said. ‘I know what it’s like when you’re concentrating.’
‘No. It’s all right.’ He shook his head. His legs for some reason had begun to tremble.
‘Nice place,’ the man said, and looked round for somewhere to tip his ash.
He offered him the ashtray on the table.
‘When I first started up,’ the man said, ‘I spent the first three years living in a cellar.’ He gazed down at the cigarette ends already collected there.
‘I suppose you get used to it,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact you do.’ He sank down in one of the two easy chairs. ‘I came to see you about my wife,’ he added.
‘Your wife?’
‘That’s right.’ He glanced round at the room, at the bed, the table, the chairs. ‘She come here often, then?’ he said.
‘Well.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘I suppose she does.’ The man indicated he had finished with his cigar.
He leaned over and passed him the tray.
‘Thanks,’ the man said and watched him as he replaced the tray on the table. ‘How much do you want?’ he said.
‘To do what?’
‘To keep away.’
He gazed down at the man quite bleakly.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
‘How much cash.’ The man seemed irritated by his obtuseness.
‘You want to pay me money?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You can’t really mean it,’ he said.
The man glanced up at him. He had taken off his fur hat. Underneath was a thatch of red hair.
‘What have you got to lose?’ the man said.
‘Lose?’ He was still dazed, trembling slightly.
‘You can’t marry her.’
‘Well.’ He shook his head.
‘She’s got two children. She’s my wife. We rely on her. All you’re doing is making her unhappy, destroying what family life we possess, breaking something up it’s taken years to establish.’
Pasmore gazed at him in amazement.
‘Have you told her you’re coming here?’
‘Sure.’ He nodded his head. ‘I hired a detective.’
‘To follow her?’
He nodded his head as if he found Pasmore incredibly stupid. He seemed disheartened.
‘Have you told her about this proposition?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, she’s involved in it, I imagine.’
‘She’s not involved at all. There’s me. There’s you. I’m making you an offer.’
‘Yes. I can see that,’ he said.
‘I’m suggesting, in other words, that what you have to gain isn’t much when you compare it to the harm you can do.’
‘I see.’
The man eased himself in the chair. ‘How’s your wife?’ he said.
‘She’s well.’
‘And the kids?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Fine.’ After a moment the man added, ‘I won’t say her life is easy. But then she knew that before she married me. We lived together for a couple of years in that cellar I mentioned.’ He waited to see if he recollected. ‘She’s a very emancipated woman. You know how it is.’ He spread out his hands.
‘You must be out of your mind,’ Pasmore said, ‘coming here like this.’
‘You won’t take the money?’ the man had said.
‘I won’t.’ He tried to laugh.
‘Ah, well.’ The man got up slowly from the chair.
‘You make yourself look very foolish,’ he said, his amazement growing all the time.
‘Does that worry you?’
‘No.’
‘That’s fine, then.’ The man crossed slowly to the door.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about this.’
The man watched him with a slight frown. ‘You’re not apologizing?’ he said.
‘No.’
The man glanced round at the room once more. ‘Well, then. I’ll see you,’ he said.
He went out, closing the door.
For quite a while afterwards, no matter what he did, Pasmore could not prevent himself from trembling. His arms shook, his legs shook, his body shook, as if he had been disturbed far deeper than he knew or could acknowledge.
He was woken late the next morning by a knocking at the door of his room.
When he opened it he found the shopkeeper from below standing on the landing. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said, ‘but there are some men downstairs asking for you.’
‘What do they want?’ he said.
‘I think you’d better come down,’ he told him.
He pulled on a raincoat over his pyjamas and followed the shopkeeper down the stairs.
The street door was open.
Across the street itself a small crowd of shoppers had collected.
On the pavement, by the door, stood four men in dark suits and tall hats. Lying at their feet was a coffin. It was highly polished, with silver rails running round the top and, on either side and at either end, silver handles. Further down the street, amongst the stalls, was parked a hearse.
‘Mr Pasmore?’ one of the men said, stepping forward and removing his hat.
‘Yes.’
‘We were asked to deliver this, sir,’ the man had said.
‘There must have been some mistake.’ He looked from one sombre face to another.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the man had said. ‘But this is the address. The information we had was that it was urgent.’ He indicated the coffin at his feet. ‘It’s already been paid for.’
‘I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,’ he said. ‘There’s no one dead here.’ He glanced at the shopkeeper. His face, however, was quite impassive.
‘What do you want us to do with it?’ the man said.
‘Whatever you like,’ he said. ‘It’s not required here.’
‘The question of refunding’s a little difficult, sir,’ the man had said.
‘It’s no concern of mine,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you’ve been made the victims of a practical joke.’
He returned to his room. He locked the door.
After a while he looked out of the window. The hearse was being driven off. Quite a large crowd had now collected.
In the afternoon several wreaths arrived. They were followed a little later by bunches of flowers. Each bore a little inscription. The flowers he returned to the florists, the wreaths he dropped in the bin. It was soon full to overflowing.
One evening a man stopped him at the corner of the street and asked him for a light.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t smoke.’
The man asked h
im his name. ‘It’s Mr Pasmore, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ve a few things here,’ the man had added, ‘I’ve been asked to give you.’
‘That’s nice,’ he said, and began to smile.
The next moment he was struck in the face.
His eyes closed to the pain.
Another blow struck him by his ear, some violent sensation shot through his knees, and he found himself lying on the pavement. As he struggled round in the darkness a crescendo of blows struck him from above. He called out, rolled one way and another, and tried to get to his feet.
Finally some object struck the back of his head and for a while he remembered nothing else. He heard someone speaking to him, felt another blow in his back then, vaguely, made out a pair of feet walking away. It seemed hours before he managed to clamber to his feet. He felt sick and one eye was almost closed.
Someone passed him in the street, paused, then walked on, glancing back.
When he reached his room he lay on the bed. He thought he might die. His ribs ached, one shoulder felt as if it had been torn off.
When finally he struggled into the kitchen and stood frowning in the light he saw, in the mirror above the sink, a face he scarcely recognized at all. From a mass of blood and bruises peered out a single eye. She rang him up a few days later. ‘Perhaps it’s better,’ she said, ‘we don’t meet again.’
‘Perhaps it is,’ he told her.
‘I’m sorry about what happened.’
‘Maybe I should have taken the money.’
‘You’d never have got it. He was just seeing what you were like.’
‘Ah, well,’ he said.
‘No hard feelings, then?’ she asked him.
‘No. No hard feelings, I suppose,’ he said.
He felt relieved as well as disappointed. He felt a little less confused.
He didn’t trouble now with anything.
It was as if, somewhere, a last door had closed.
Six
He was woken by the ’phone ringing and for a moment had the impression he was still listening to Helen’s voice.
‘I hope you don’t mind me ringing,’ the woman said. ‘I got your number from that friend of yours.’
‘Oh,’ he said. It was Marjorie Newsome.
‘I met him the other weekend at your house,’ she said.
‘Coles,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ she said.
‘Is anything the matter?’
‘It’s Kay, really,’ she said. ‘I know it’s an intrusion. But since your last visit she’s been terribly upset.’
‘Oh, well,’ he said.
‘You haven’t been there for a while?’
‘I haven’t been too well myself.’
‘Ah, yes,’ she said.
‘I thought it better to stay away.’
‘Well, I hope you don’t mind me ringing,’ she said. ‘Apart from telling you I didn’t quite know what I ought to do.’
‘No, that’s all right,’ he said and, after one or two other enquiries, he replaced the ’phone.
A few nights later she rang again.
She asked him how he was.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Progressing.’
‘Have you seen Kay?’ she said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Things have been a bit difficult. I haven’t been able to find the time.’
‘I think, you know, if you could manage a few minutes.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll try and arrange it.’
‘I’m sorry to trouble you like this,’ she said. ‘I’m just frightened she might do something silly.’
‘Like what?’ he said.
‘Oh, anything,’ she said.
For a while he was silent.
‘Will you see her?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll try.’
The following morning he bought several presents for the children.
However, in the end, he packed them in a parcel and sent them off by post.
He called by the house one morning, several days later.
Perhaps she had seen him coming.
She was wearing a red housecoat. She looked drugged, vanquished. The children, still in pyjamas, caught at his legs as he stood in the door.
‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ she said. She glanced past him, into the street, as if she suspected he were not alone.
‘Can I come in?’ he said.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Is it all right?’
She turned down the passage.
He shut the door and with the children hanging on him followed her to the room at the rear.
He began to take off his coat. The children tore at the sleeves. His arms were dragged behind him. ‘Now, steady,’ he said. The boy finally sat on the floor, watching him with a dazed expression. ‘Look, steady,’ he said as the coat was taken from him.
Kay had sat at the table. ‘What have you done with your face?’ she said.
‘I had an accident,’ he said. Though the swelling had subsided several of the bruises still remained.
She looked away. She scarcely seemed aware of the children. She leaned her head on her hand. Beside her, strewn across the table, were the remains of the children’s breakfast.
‘Aren’t they going to school?’ he said. He tried to avoid the blows that were aimed at him.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I’ll take them round if you want.’
She looked up at a clock on the mantelpiece.
‘There’s not much point in them going,’ she said. ‘It’s late.’
‘It’ll give you a break.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded her head.
‘Come on, now,’ he said to the eldest girl. ‘I’ll get you dressed.’
She frowned. Then her lips had curled.
She broke into a heavy crying.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said.
‘I don’t want to get dressed,’ she said. She still held his hand.
‘You’ll have to,’ he said. ‘To go to school.’
‘I want you to dress her first.’ She indicated her sister.
She too, in anticipation, began to cry. She broke into a frantic wail.
It was a long, continuous sound, ending in a scream. She sucked in, the air rasping in her throat, and screamed again.
‘I should leave them,’ Kay had said. ‘It’s not the first time they’ve missed a day.’
Yet he felt determined. He released the eldest girl and began to undress the other. Her head sank to one side; her crying increased. It was a kind of withdrawn grief, bitter and resolute: her head was pressed to her shoulder, her body shuddering between his hands. ‘It’s not worth it, then,’ he told her.
She held him away. She tore herself free and ran across the room.
She threw herself into a corner, burying her head in her arms.
‘You’d better leave them,’ Kay had said.
She got up and went out of the room.
He heard her, through the crying and screaming, going slowly upstairs.
‘Look,’ he said to the eldest girl. ‘Let me dress you.’
After a moment, frightened, she nodded her head.
He dressed her in silence. She sat down beside him as, finally, he fastened on her shoes. Red-faced, she glanced numbly at her hands clasped in her lap.
The boy had gone out of the room. He began to bang with a heavy object in the hall.
Further away he heard Kay’s crying, a kind of broken, child-like moaning, scarcely the sound of a woman at all.
‘There’s my hair,’ the gi
rl had said.
He’d picked up his raincoat and pulled it on. The presents he’d brought the children were still in the pockets.
‘Are you going?’ the girl said.
He nodded, fastening his coat.
‘Are you coming again?’ she said.
‘I might,’ he said.
He went down the hall, stepped over the boy, and went out of the front door. He hesitated outside, then walked away.
He turned back when he reached the corner of the square.
In one of the compartments of the hut in the centre of the square an old man was sitting. He sat with his legs apart, his hands supported on a stick. A dog lay near his feet.
He walked back round the square. When he reached the house he stopped by the van.
A child’s bucket chair was clipped to the seat by the driver. In the back, amongst the usual debris, was a folded pram. He leaned on the van, looking over its roof, towards the garden. Several women wheeling prams had appeared at one of the gates. The old man in the hut got up.
He took out his key, went up the steps and opened the door.
The house was silent except for a child’s voice at the rear. He closed the door quietly and went down the passage to the room. The children weren’t aware of his return. The boy was sitting on the floor eating from a pile of raisins spread out beside him.
The eldest girl lay in a chair, still dressed, sucking her thumb and gazing vacantly towards the window. The youngest girl stood with her legs apart over a pool of water. ‘I’m a crocodile,’ she said.