Pasmore

by David Storey

  Periodically he walked up and down, moving off down the road, without losing sight of the house. He kept to the shadows in case he encountered any neighbours.

  After a while lights went on at the top of the house; the children were being bathed and put to bed.

  He waited. At least, with the house under observation, the worst of his imaginings were now eased.

  He walked more boldly round the square, passing by the house, looking up at its door and windows, pausing by the van.

  The lights in the upper windows suddenly went out. A short while later they were put on again.

  He walked up and down, rubbing his arms.

  A taxi entered the square.

  It drove round the opposite side. He could see the driver leaning forward, peering at the numbers.

  It pulled up eventually by the van and blew its horn.

  A few moments later the light in the hall went on, then the door was opened.

  Kay appeared, dressed in a white coat. At first he didn’t recognize her. Then came the gesture of raising her hand towards the taxi.

  Behind her appeared a vaster, broader figure he had no difficulty in recognizing at all.

  Marjorie too came to the door, watching them both get into the taxi, calling out, then laughing.

  He could scarcely believe it. It was like a tableau, mounted viciously, it seemed, for him alone.

  He had scarcely time to step behind the booth before the taxi swept past him and turned in the direction of the West End.

  After a while he walked round the square again, past the lighted windows and basements, glancing in, recognizing here and there faces, arriving outside his own front door, pausing and, after some delay, passing on.

  He returned to the call box, standing beside it, gazing across at the house. Finally he felt in his pockets, went in the box and called up his house.

  He heard Marjorie repeat the number then he said, casually, as though he had scarcely time at all, ‘Marjorie, could I have a word with Kay? It’s Colin.’

  ‘Colin,’ she said, digesting this for a moment then adding, ‘Kay, I’m afraid, is out.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘Never mind. Probably best to call tomorrow. How are you?’

  ‘Very well,’ she said.

  ‘And Bill?’

  ‘Oh, same as usual. Battling with the world.’

  ‘Where’s Kay gone? Pictures?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I think for a meal.’

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ he said. ‘So long as she keeps eating. Who’s she gone with?’

  ‘A friend.’

  He waited, looking through the panes of the box at the house, the light on in the hall, imagining her stooped there over the ’phone, swaying perhaps in her leather boots examining their toes.

  ‘I suppose she won’t be back till late,’ he said.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘It’s very good of you to give her a break.’

  ‘Oh, she’s looking after our two tomorrow afternoon. It’s share and share alike these days.’

  ‘Well, I won’t bother you any longer,’ he said. He could hear the television, his television, in the background. ‘I might drop in on Bill one day this week. Is that okay?’

  ‘I should think so. Give him a ring before, and fix it up.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I will. Good-night.’

  He heard the ’phone put down and watched the light go off in the hall and fade in the pane above the door as she went back to the room.

  He watched the house a little longer. All round the square were sons and daughters, husbands and wives, settling down, without him, for the night.

  When he reached his room he knelt on the floor.

  He lay down eventually on the carpet.

  Towards morning he fell asleep, woke, the light forming slowly behind the curtains.

  He dug down to some deeper oblivion.

  It was as if he had vanished: his hands, his arms, his feet, his clothes; it was as if all their familiarity had been subtracted. They belonged to no one: no one he knew or had any memory of at all.

  Ten

  In the evening he returned to his post at the corner of the square. Since he was now invisible – to everyone, that is, as well as himself – he took no precautions, walking openly up and down, watching the house and the cycle of lights going off and on. No one appeared either at the door or the windows; it was scarcely conceivable, since he had arrived so early, that Fowler was already inside.

  He stamped his feet and rubbed his arms. It was surprising how slowly the time passed. He walked down the road from the square and back again. The house was still in darkness, with just the faint glow escaping from the pane above the door.

  He walked round the square again.

  He watched the house, gazing across at its darkened windows, walking back round the square in the opposite direction, gazing up very carefully at its door, inviting recognition.

  Then, feeling sure that it was too late to expect any callers, he set off back towards the bus stop.

  Coming down the road towards him, her arm in Fowler’s, was Kay. At least, he suffered from this illusion several times before with a rush of blood he realized his mistake.

  He was relieved to reach his room, collapsing in a chair, gazing blankly before him, no longer aware of any of his actions. It was as if he were once again a child, unable to give himself any kind of credibility. Lost, he had severed all connections. He felt hardly any grief at all.

  On the Sunday, as she was leaving, with her white gloves and – he now saw – her creamish coat, a white ribbon in her hair, ignoring with the same inexplicable good grace the demands and remonstrations of the children, she had glanced up from the door and said, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, a bit under,’ he said.

  ‘Will you be able to manage?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘If you can’t I can ask Marjorie or one of the other mothers to pop in.’

  He looked up at her quite blankly.

  He realized even the sight of his home made him feel sick, the walls and floors and ceilings which, once, he had repaired and decorated with such care.

  ‘I see no reason why you should go out,’ he said, ‘whenever I come.’

  ‘I think it’s better,’ she said, watching him from the door.

  ‘I’m sure there are plenty of occasions, apart from this, when they have to do without you.’

  ‘It’s as much for your sake,’ she said, ‘as theirs. In any case, I’ll have to hurry. I’m late already.’

  She glanced up at him again, then added, ‘There’s no reason, you know, why you shouldn’t take them to your flat. They could even stay the night if you liked.’

  ‘There aren’t any facilities there for children.’

  ‘Well, I must be going,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to talk about this another time.’

  ‘Kay,’ he said.

  ‘Honestly,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to go.’ She waved to the children and closed the door behind her.

  ‘Have you brought some chocolate?’ they said.

  He sat by them without speaking.

  Some time later the boy began to cry, the girls sitting down to watch him then, one by one, they too succumbed, gazing numbly at one another.

  He felt nothing about them. He sat in the chair, staring at the wall.

  They appeared, finally, to forget about him completely, going off into another room, returning occasionally to retrieve a toy, to stare at him a moment: then they vanished once again, their feet crashing on the stairs and in the room above his head.

  With the same lack of feeling he prepared their meal, watching them devour it, subsiding once
more into a chair so that, when Kay returned, the plates were still on the table along with the piece of meat which he had sawn at and finally hacked in two.

  ‘How are they?’ she said, glancing at the plates.

  ‘Much better.’

  They had returned upstairs to play and hadn’t heard her arrival. A great deal of crashing and shouting came from the room above.

  ‘If you don’t want to spend the day with them,’ she said, ‘you’ve only got to say.’

  He watched her removing her gloves, laying down her bag, taking off her coat, alert, perhaps antagonistic.

  ‘Why not make it the morning, or just the afternoon?’ she said.

  She glanced round at him, then, receiving no answer, turned her attention to the table. She began to pile together the various plates.

  Beneath her coat she wore a light blue dress threaded through with ribbon.

  ‘I’d better get this cleared,’ she said. ‘I take it they haven’t had any tea?’

  His body began to vibrate, his arms to tremble.

  The next moment, as she turned from the table with a pile of plates, he had got up and stepped forward and knocked them out of her hands.

  He seemed more alarmed by the incident than she was.

  For quite some time, it seemed to him, he listened to the sound of the plates cascading and shattering about the room.

  Overhead there was a sudden silence. Then, from the stairs, came the sound of running feet.

  ‘I think you’d better go,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask Marjorie to be here next week to hand over the children.’

  ‘It’s them I’m thinking about,’ he said. ‘The sort of people they come into contact with through your naïvety.’

  ‘I don’t think my concern,’ she said, ‘is any less than yours.’

  The children crashed into the room. They stared down at the crockery scattered across the floor.

  He stood trembling in front of her, his fists clenched, shaking. ‘I’d prefer you to be here with them,’ he said, ‘when I come.’

  ‘That’s not your decision.’

  ‘I think you’d better be. And I think, too, I’ll call round during the week. If I’m maintaining all this I see no reason why I should be left hanging around out there, freezing, in the cold.’

  ‘If you’ll tell me the time I’ll arrange it,’ she said.

  ‘Any time.’

  ‘Then you’ll find the door fastened.’

  ‘I’ve still got a key,’ he said.

  ‘The lock’s been changed,’ she said. ‘A little while ago.’

  He watched her then in silence.

  He couldn’t think what to add.

  ‘Is there any legal justification for that?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve no idea. There’s a great deal of moral justification, which is probably more important.’

  ‘Who’s put you up to this?’ he said.

  ‘No one’s put me up to anything. You’d be silly to expect anything less.’

  He continued to watch her with a curious kind of fascination, reluctant to go, feeling only now, in opposition to her, a slow sense of reality intruding.

  ‘I may find it unethical, in that case,’ he said, ‘to continue to provide for the upkeep of the place. At least, to the extent that I do at present.’

  ‘Well, all that,’ she said, ‘I don’t propose to go into. Not in front of the children.’

  She had turned to them and sent them to collect various brushes and a dust pan, moving them away from the cracked and crumbled plates.

  ‘What are you trying to do, Kay?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Your motives.’

  She seemed, suddenly, very calm. Behind her the children had begun to sweep up the plates. ‘Don’t touch it,’ she said. ‘Just sweep it. You’ll cut your fingers.’

  ‘It all sounds,’ he said, ‘these arrangements, too practical to be true.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’ She turned away then, taking a brush from the boy. He was looking at his finger. A spot of blood had appeared at the tip.

  She began to sweep together the broken pieces.

  It was like another person, nothing to do with his wife. She, like himself, had vanished. This new person, somehow, out of the dissolution, had acquired more than either of them had ever had before.

  He went into the front room and sat down, facing the window.

  Methodically, from the kitchen, came the sound of sweeping.

  After a while she appeared at the door. ‘I think you’d better go,’ she said. ‘This sort of thing: I don’t think it’s necessary for them to see.’

  ‘They see a lot already, it seems.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s hideous.’

  ‘That’s for you to judge.’

  The children had come in the door behind her.

  ‘I think it’s better you go,’ she said again.

  He got up, looking round.

  Wide-eyed, the children parted in the doorway. He got his coat, pulled it on and went to the front door.

  ‘There’s no one,’ he said, ‘wouldn’t feel revolted.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘about that you can’t be sure.’

  He crashed the door to behind him.

  The whole house vibrated.

  He waited several days before he rang Newsome. He waited because during that time he could do nothing at all except stare at the wall, appalled that anyone, not least someone who knew him so well, could be so immune to his suffering.

  Finally, when he rang Newsome, he found he was out.

  ‘He’s at the studio,’ Marjorie said. ‘Can I give him a message?’

  ‘Would he mind if I went there?’ he said.

  She thought about it a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’ll ask him to ring you.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll leave it,’ and put the ’phone down.

  A short while later Newsome rang.

  ‘How are things?’ he said. ‘I’ve been meaning to ring you for some time. Ever since our chat about the divisibility of nature.’

  ‘The what?’ he said.

  ‘Why don’t we have a drink sometime?’ he asked him.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll come round one evening. I don’t think I’ve got your address.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll come round to you.’

  The thought of anyone in his room reduced him to tears.

  ‘Well, let’s make it this evening,’ Newsome said. He sounded incredibly cheerful. He waited, then said, ‘Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘All right.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you,’ he said. ‘Let’s say about eight.’

  It grew dark.

  The room was soon illuminated by the lights which vaguely penetrated the curtains from the street outside.

  The ’phone rang, then stopped.

  It rang again a little later.

  When he answered, Newsome said, ‘Will you be able to make it tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a quarter to nine already.’

  ‘I don’t feel too good,’ he said.

  ‘How about tomorrow night?’

  Newsome waited.

  ‘Yes. All right,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s say seven,’ Newsome said. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to make it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll get there.’

  ‘The studio.’

 
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘All right.’

  He slept throughout the next day. When he woke the stalls were being wheeled away in the street below.

  Beneath the lamps the same dark figures had emerged, sifting through the piles of rubbish. From the opposite end came the line of men with the brushes and shovels.

  Soon all the rubbish was mounded in the gutters. The crowd lingered round the last remains, following it as it was loaded into the lorries, arguing briefly beneath the lights, opening bags and bits of paper; then, just as silently, they disappeared.

  When he went down the street was empty. He followed the water cart to the opposite end, walking behind the jet of water, standing then and watching it turn and work its way back along the opposite pavement.

  In the bus he was carried past the stop. He could no longer co-ordinate his movements. Though he could recollect the studio, recall, even, its brightness, the size and bareness of its walls, the shape of its windows, he couldn’t in any way relate it to his actions or to the possible destination he had in mind. He sat, gazing numbly from the windows, watching the district pass by.

  Only at the unfamiliarity of the buildings did he rouse himself and, getting up, ring the bell. For a while he walked on in the direction the bus was taking, turning quite arbitrarily at a street corner and walking back the way he had come.

  Much later he recollected falling on his bed. He heard the door bell ringing, then, a short while later, a knocking on his door.

  He heard Newsome’s voice, calling.

  The door handle was turned slowly. The door yielded, slightly, against the lock.

  It was tried more firmly.

  After a while Newsome’s steps retreated. Then he heard him trying the kitchen door.

  He heard the light switched on and Newsome’s steps as he moved around.