by David Storey
‘Are you in?’ he said.
‘I suppose so.’
She waited.
‘Is your mother here?’
She shook her head. ‘She went back a few days ago.’ She watched him quite calmly. A blue ribbon fastened back her hair.
‘I like your dress.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Did your mother buy it?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
He was, then, a little at a loss at what to add.
‘Am I allowed to come in?’ he said.
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’
He nodded. He didn’t quite know why.
‘Where are the children?’ he said.
‘At school.’
‘It’s a bit early,’ he said.
‘Marjorie took them.’
He gazed in past her. The house looked very clean, and neat.
‘Is this your mother’s idea?’ he said.
‘What?’
He gestured at the house. ‘Keeping me out.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not keeping you out,’ she said.
For a moment he wasn’t sure how to answer.
‘If you come on Sundays as we arranged there won’t be any misunderstanding,’ she said.
Yet he stood on the step gazing stubbornly past her. After all, it was his house. Or was it? Primarily, he supposed, it belonged to his father-in-law who had paid the deposit and the building society to whom he owed a substantial part of the balance. Perhaps the front door, a window, a little of the garden at the back were his and his alone.
‘I’ve still got a key,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
The furniture too was his. He hadn’t thought of his problems in these terms before. They took on a very ugly light.
‘The other thing I wanted to talk about,’ he said, ‘was the money.’
‘We can talk about it on Sunday.’ She stood now with her arms by her side. ‘What time are you coming?’
He wasn’t sure. ‘Whenever it’s convenient.’
‘About ten, then.’
He glanced past her once more. The door to the main room at the rear was closed.
‘Is Marjorie picking up the children at lunch-time?’ he said.
‘We do it alternate days.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s my turn tomorrow.’
‘It sounds a good arrangement.’
‘Yes.’
He waited. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll come on Sunday.’
‘We’ll look forward to seeing you,’ she said.
He looked up.
‘’Bye,’ she said, and closed the door.
He was, for a moment, tempted to take out his key; perhaps, even, break the door down as a more practical demonstration of his feelings.
He walked slowly away from the house, his incredulity growing, glancing back as he reached the corner of the square as if unsure he had called at the right address. He hadn’t, after all, demanded very much.
Yet everything was the same, even – since the day was growing warmer – to the women pushing their prams in the gardens.
When he reached his room he locked the door.
He sat with his back to the closed curtains, staring at the wall. After a while he lit the gas fire, immobilized, gazing at the wall. He had never felt so low.
On the Sunday he arrived at ten, rang the bell and heard the children running down the passage. For a moment they fumbled with the latch then, slowly, despite their excitement, they pulled open the door.
Wide-eyed they looked out at him.
‘Hi,’ he said and felt for the first time, imperishably, a stranger.
They looked up at him, full of recognition, yet uncertain what he meant to do.
‘Can I come in?’ he said.
They nodded, stepping back.
He stooped down and kissed them. In their cheeks he felt the same hesitation, a kind of tenseness.
‘Shall I show you what I’ve brought?’ he said.
They nodded, waiting to see what this implied.
‘Let’s go inside,’ he said, ‘and see what we’ve got.’
He picked up the boy and set him on his arm.
He gazed sternly away from him, looking round for Kay as he was brought into the room.
She was sitting by the table, wearing a dress with a large white collar. A white ribbon was fastened round her hair. She was making some notes on a piece of paper.
The room itself was spotless, the floor gleaming, not a toy or a piece of furniture out of place. Even the garden at the back, he noticed, had been tidied. Plants had been set in the borders on either side.
He couldn’t help but feel reassured.
‘The lunch is all ready,’ she said, indicating a row of pans on the stove. ‘They just need a light. I’ve written it down.’ She laid the note on the table. ‘The meat’s in the oven. If you want to use the van at all the keys are on the shelf.’ She pointed to the mantelpiece.
‘Fine,’ he said. He set the boy down and took off his coat.
The children sat across the room and watched him.
‘Do you want to talk about the money?’ she said.
‘Well, it’s really a question of economy,’ he said. ‘But there doesn’t seem much point in it at the moment.’ He indicated the new coat lying over a chair, the pair of new gloves lying on the table, and the new dress itself.
She lifted up a handbag from the floor and took out a notebook, also new.
‘I’ve set down the weekly expenses,’ she said, holding it open at a row of figures. ‘Here’s what it costs.’ She turned the pages. ‘We’ve been short ourselves,’ she added. ‘My father lent us some.’
‘I see,’ he said, and added, ‘Ah, yes.’ His smile had vanished.
She laid the notebook down on the table beside him.
‘I’ll look it through,’ he said.
‘Was there anything else?’
He wasn’t sure.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
She picked up her coat. ‘Well, I’d better be off,’ she said.
He took the coat and held it, lifting the collar as she slid her arms inside.
‘It looks very nice,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
She pulled on her gloves and picked up her handbag.
‘Did your mother buy the clothes?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
The boy suddenly got off his chair and went to her.
‘Oh, I’m going out,’ she told him.
He began to cry.
‘Are you going?’ one of the girls had said.
‘Oh, I’ll be back before you go to bed,’ she said.
She went to the door. The children began to hurry after her.
‘I’ll be back when you’ve had your tea,’ she said.
He heard the front door close, the clip of her high heels on the steps outside; then, on the inside, the children wailed.
He even thought, for a moment, she might come back. Such a call must be audible across the square.
When he went into the hall the three diminutive figures were standing pressed against the door, the eldest stretching up and reaching for the latch, the other two howling, watching her efforts.
He had to carry them back, one by one, to the room. He gave them the chocolate he had brought. They sat fingering it, tearing at the paper, chewing, still weeping, gazing blankly at the floor.
They cried all morning.
It began to rain. He sat in the window watching the pools forming in the garden.
They ate nothing at lunch. He mass
ed the cold food onto plates and left it on the table.
They withdrew to their various chairs. Crying, the boy fell asleep. He held him, briefly, between his attempts to console the other two. He felt too sick to move.
The rain stopped. The pools in the garden began to drain away. The patch of sky discernible between the surrounding houses was low and heavy.
He brought their boots and coats and hats, the boy screaming now at being woken.
Crying, he ushered them to the door, unlocked the van, pushed back the seat for them to climb inside and set off.
He drove them from park to park. At each deserted playground they got out, were encouraged to climb onto swings where, motionless, they were pushed to and fro, their faces white, their eyes red and swollen, gazing sightlessly around.
From the wet swings he led them to the wet slides, to the wet roundabouts and rocking horses, then back to the van.
At each park the same ritual began, pushing and coaxing, a kind of terror running through him at their incapacity to be reassured.
Finally he judged it was time to drive back. The boy, still sobbing, slumped across the spare wheel and fell asleep.
He drove back past the end of Newsome’s street. At least, afterwards, he assumed that this had been his intention. He turned down the road that led in that direction when, some distance ahead, he saw two figures he thought he recognized.
Arm in arm, he was almost on top of them before he recognized Kay and stopped, afraid, in this first instance, of being seen.
The man was tall and heavy, laughing as if, perversely, they knew he was there, she leaning against him as they negotiated various puddles along the street, he making some display of this courtesy, taking her waist.
It was only as they vanished round the corner that he recognized the man at all. It was the figure he had last seen, almost naked, entering Newsome’s kitchen, fat, swollen, bearded, a cast in one eye, its head enigmatically averted. Fowler.
He turned the van.
He had little recollection of driving back to the square, merely the sensation of arriving outside the house and stepping down to find his legs trembling so violently that for a while he stood leaning on the door.
By the time she came back he’d achieved, he thought, some sort of composure.
She appeared, smiling, in the kitchen door. The children, having begun their tea and suddenly aware of her, got up and ran to her, embracing her and calling out. For several minutes he was forgotten. He felt a fresh sickness whirling inside him, a desire to get down on his knees and, not unlike them, crawl about the floor.
He sat by the table, his hands spread on its surface, smiling. The children began to cry now, in recrimination, holding her hands, pulling her down into a chair.
‘Now, steady,’ she said and, laughing, fell down with them. He caught, beneath her coat, a brief impression of her legs. They were splashed with rain. It was appalling. His entire body was in flames.
Solemnly they took it in turns to kiss her face.
‘Did you have a good time?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She laughed, scarcely looking up, drawing her head back to watch then mimic their expressions. ‘Oh, now, it can’t be that bad,’ she said. Slowly she coaxed them back to their tea.
She sat with them. He poured her out a cup.
‘There’s no need to stay,’ she said, suddenly, looking up as if, for the first time, aware of his presence.
‘Oh, I’ll see them into bed.’
He sat about the room for a while, occasionally glancing at her, finally getting up and wandering out of the room. He went into the front room which, in the past, he had used as his study, climbed up to their bedroom, the bathroom, the children’s room, the guest room, examining them minutely for evidence of any presence other than his own.
He helped to get the children dressed and washed for bed. They looked exhausted now, their faces discoloured and swollen, Kay curiously unmoved by their condition, laughing still and disarming their complaints with long, swaying embraces.
When he came down from their bedroom he found her in the room already tidying it up. ‘I’ll have to rush round a bit,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some people coming in.’ And at his silence she looked up and added, ‘Are you off, then? I hung your coat in the hall.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose I’d better.’
‘I hope they weren’t too much of a trouble.’ She had her back to him, gathering up the remnants of the tea.
‘They missed you quite a bit,’ he said, and added, ‘It’s quite disturbing, really. All this: it’s not doing them much good.’
‘They’ll have to learn to live with it,’ she said. ‘You’ll be here next Sunday?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘They’ll soon get used to it.’
‘Who’s coming round this evening?’
‘A few friends.’ She glanced across.
He couldn’t believe it.
‘I’d better be off, then,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t look too good, finding your husband here.’
‘Have you left the van keys?’ she said.
He felt in his pockets. ‘I must have left them in the van.’
He opened the door.
‘I’ll get them,’ she said. She came out past him. ‘It’s always dangerous leaving them there.’
She leaned in the van, extracted the keys, then looked round and checked the doors. He watched her, standing on the pavement, his hands in his pockets.
‘Well, thanks for taking them out,’ she said. ‘I’m sure, really, it’s done some good.’ She nodded to him and went up to the door. ‘’Bye, then,’ she said, closing it and putting out the light.
He walked slowly away, wondering whether he should stay and see who her visitors might be.
He walked round the square. The curtains had been drawn in the front room and the light put on. The lights too were on in their bedroom on the first floor.
He walked slowly back across the square. Rain had begun to fall again.
Putting up his collar he set off, back down the hill, to his room.
Later he rang her.
The ’phone rang some while before it was answered. The sound of music and voices sprang into his ear before he heard Kay repeat the number.
‘I wondered if you’d found some papers,’ he said. ‘I seem to have dropped them somewhere in the house.’
‘I haven’t seen anything,’ she said as if she had been expecting his enquiry. ‘I’ll have a look round if you like. Are they important?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘They were just a few notes. I could have lost them anywhere. I was just checking.’
‘If I do find anything I’ll send it on,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ he said, and added, ‘Sounds like a party.’
‘Yes.’
‘Anyone I know?’
She was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘There’s Arthur.’
‘Arthur?’
‘Coles.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘And Bill Newsome.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I don’t think you know any of the others.’
He heard the music change on the gramophone: his gramophone. They were his records, too, purchased from his own resources.
‘I’m sorry about the papers,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a look round.’
‘Thanks,’ he said again.
‘Good-night.’
There was a brief burst of shouting from across the room then the ’phone was put down.
The night passed as slowly as ever in the street outside, the sound of the crowds returning, of the drunks and singers as the pubs closed: the last footsteps of someone trailing home, then the long hours o
f silence occasionally broken by the passing of a vehicle; then, so much later, the roar of a lorry, the rattle of milk bottles, the odd, hurried steps of the first workers; the faint tremor through the house of the underground; then more vehicles, slower and more frequent, people passing in a constant shuffle. A faint light finally spread behind the curtains.
He didn’t eat. It was as if his stomach had withered away, a gigantic absence at his very centre, a terrible numbness and trembling which, despite all he did, refused to go away.
In his mind he followed the sequence of his family’s rising, the preparation of the breakfast, Kay standing in a dressing-gown at the stove, the children playing on the floor behind her; the meal itself, normally the pleasantest of the day, the children dressing, setting off for school. Perhaps it was her turn this morning to collect the Newsomes: driving up that narrow cul-de-sac, knocking at the door, Fowler in his dressing-gown, smiling, extending a hand, his eyes fractionally distorted, his teeth protruding. He held his head. He couldn’t rid himself of that image: another man, in public, in possession of his wife.
Even the sounds in the street oppressed him, the ringing of the bell, long since mended, the sound of footsteps mounting to the flat above, the one below.
He locked the door. There was nothing he could do.
He sat quivering in his chair.
He held his head, trembling and crying. What on earth could any man want with her?
In the evening he caught a bus at the end of the road and was soon in Islington, approaching the square from the opposite direction and positioning himself across from the house by a telephone booth where, though it was empty, he appeared to be waiting to make a call.
It was early evening. The only illuminated part of the house was the pane of glass above the front door. The glow, however, was so faint that he assumed the family was still gathered in the room at the rear, the door of which, presumably, was slightly ajar.