by David Storey
He beat the bed in frustration, looking round.
‘Millions have died,’ he said, ‘in order to bring into existence a state as intransigent as that.’
‘Why don’t you,’ Coles said, ‘go and see Kay?’
He laughed after a moment.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Why not?’ Coles said.
‘Arthur,’ he said. ‘You must be mad.’
Coles shrugged and didn’t mention it again. He asked him instead about his father.
There was little Pasmore could recollect.
‘I may have been mistaken,’ he said, ‘but I had the impression when I stood there, screaming, that his look was one of embarrassment rather than anything else. No doubt he imagined that to have been my intention. That is, as opposed to my behaviour being in any way a reflection of my distress.’
Coles had smiled, puffing out a cloud of smoke.
‘I can’t find it now, but I had a letter recently from my sister telling me he was ill. His ego’s suffered a blow which the digging of coal won’t, on this occasion, quite distract. I envy him that. It must be a novel experience. Vulcan, you know, split his father’s skull in order to liberate his soul.’
‘With an axe.’
‘Well, we make some progress, Arthur. You’ll have to grant me that.’
Invariably he was in bed when Coles arrived. ‘Don’t you ever get up?’ he asked him.
‘I’m only in bed, Arthur,’ he said, ‘because usually at this time I’m sleeping. I can’t sleep at nights for some reason. I find I get up and try and work.’
‘Perhaps you should leave it for a while,’ Coles said, ‘and not try and force it.’
He got up and went to the table and began to examine the sheets strewn there beside the typewriter.
‘How’s it going?’ he said.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s not so bad.’
The following weekend, however, he went out and ’phoned Kay.
He rang from a call-box in the tube-station at the end of the street and got no reply.
He presumed she was out shopping – it was a Saturday morning – and waited a little while, standing in the mouth of the tube, in the sun, before he called again.
There was still no answer.
He returned to his room and sat on a chair to wait.
He rang the following weekend from the same box. A woman’s voice he didn’t recognize answered and after asking for Kay the ’phone was put down, abruptly, and he heard faintly the sound of children’s voices, anonymous, perhaps not even his own.
Suddenly Kay’s voice said in his ear, ‘Yes? Who is it?’
‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘I wondered if I could come up and see you.’
Perhaps she had thought never to hear his voice again.
‘When?’ she said.
‘Any time,’ he said. ‘I’ll fit in. I don’t have to stay long.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Tomorrow’s Sunday,’ he said. ‘I’ll come up like before.’
‘We’re going out,’ she said, ‘in the afternoon.’
‘Is the morning any good?’
‘There’ll be someone here in the morning.’
He wondered, then, if Fowler actually lived at the house.
‘Was that Marjorie who answered the ’phone?’ he said. ‘I didn’t recognize the voice.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘A neighbour.’
For a moment he was silent. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t look as though you’re free.’ He turned away, covering his face. ‘I’d like to come,’ he said.
‘We’d better make it next week,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘All right.’ He had, to his dismay, begun to cry. ‘Well, next Saturday,’ he said.
‘Sunday is much easier,’ she said.
‘Could I come round one evening?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, then, next Sunday,’ he said.
‘Have you anywhere you can take them?’
‘I haven’t anywhere,’ he said. He wasn’t sure. ‘Can’t I keep them in the house?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. She waited, then added, ‘Next Sunday, then.’
The ’phone clicked in his ear; he put it down.
Coles came again during the week. He could measure out his sickness now in the regularity of these visits. There had been times in the past when, waiting for Helen, he had felt imprisoned: the gaoler who came with those meagre rations: the whole ritual of outside sounds, of feet ascending, of handles turning, of doors being opened, the long derangement of waiting.
Coles was no gaoler; a provident, bespectacled angel, he came round the door with a glinting, glaring anxiety, ready to smile from the moment he appeared, keen for his pleasure to be recognized and known.
He helped him prepare his meals in the kitchen, sitting across the tiny table, a celebrant of the same victory, or defeat, he wasn’t sure.
When he’d gone he felt his loneliness rising. There was a lot he wanted to talk to Coles about, but he didn’t know where to begin. He was aware only of the things he couldn’t do, of what it was in his life he had never attempted. From Coles he wanted some sort of confirmation of this, of his disabilities: something which Coles refused to give. He didn’t believe it. Coles tried to talk about his visit home, saw the agitation it aroused, and left perhaps a little earlier than he had intended.
He wrote Coles a letter the following day and went out and posted it. It was the first coherent message to have emerged from the turmoil of the past few months. He watched it disappear into the mouth of the letter-box with a kind of disbelief, sceptical of its significance.
The next day he wrote to his father and, after some hesitation, posted that too.
He bought several small toys for the children at the weekend, and some flowers which he kept overnight in a vase.
He set off early the following morning, walking to the house, even then arriving so early that he had to walk to and fro across the end of the square, filling in his time. His excitement grew, the feeling that something familiar and specific was about to happen, the antithesis to the weeks of confusion and alarm.
When he finally stood on the doorstep and rang the bell he felt the blood rushing to his ears: the flowers, the little packages he had carefully tied up the night before burned in his hand.
He gazed rigidly at the door.
He heard the children’s voices shouting, the sound bursting dully inside as the inner door was opened. Their hands, then, slid against the front door, the bolts were drawn, the lock turned and the door was pulled clumsily back.
They seemed older, stranger, their hair longer, their looks more curious and remote: a composure in their lives which had scarcely anything to do with him at all. They had been carried now some way beyond him.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
Kay had appeared at the end of the passage. He was aware, vaguely, of her silhouette.
He glanced up, briefly, then looked back at the children.
They stood as if waiting to be introduced, their looks uncertain and surprised.
‘Can I come in?’ he said to them.
He leant down to lift the boy.
He backed away, frowning, then glanced round for Kay.
‘Oh, dear,’ he said, more to himself. ‘They don’t know me.’
He didn’t try and lift the others. ‘I’ve brought something for you,’ he told them, and stepped into the passage.
Kay had turned round and gone back to the kitchen.
As he entered he saw that the furniture had been rearranged. Outside, the lawn had recently been cut. The borders either side were full of flow
ers.
‘I’ve brought these,’ he said, holding up his own.
‘Are they presents?’ one of the girls had asked.
Kay looked brown. Some time, recently, she had been in the sun. He couldn’t help noticing the colour, an almost sombre look of health.
Her eyes were heavy with suspicion, a kind of shock. The only medium of recognition seemed to be the objects he had brought.
They took the parcels and, their heads bowed, began to tear off the paper. The coloured tissue and the coloured string, the immaculate knots and strips of ribbon, were soon crumpled on the floor.
Kay had taken the flowers, glancing round to look for a vase, then putting them on the table. Their heads lay pressed together, resting on their sides.
‘How are you feeling?’ he said.
‘All right.’
‘I’ve been seeing a bit of Arthur,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He told me.’
Unmistakably, then, he saw this to be a place of which he no longer possessed any part. The room, the house, the garden, it had a momentum of its own, self-contained, self-sustaining. All those marks of his own occupation had vanished. On the wall hung one of Newsome’s paintings: curved, crisply-edged wedges of bright colour. At the back of the room was another painting, leaning up against the wall. On the mantelpiece stood a small piece of sculpture, dull-green, bronze, abstracted, a shape he couldn’t recognize at all.
The whole place now was a kind of abstraction. The familiar and specific event he had looked for no longer existed. It was as if the room had been pushed out into some vaster existence: no longer was the place his home. Its smallness and intimacy had vanished.
‘Are you feeling any better?’ she said.
It was like some formality which had to be pursued, rigorously, to its conclusion.
‘I think so,’ he said.
‘How long are you staying?’ she said.
‘I’m not sure. As long as you like.’
‘If you’re staying for the day,’ she said, ‘I’d like to go out.’
The children, having examined their presents, had come back to Kay, standing behind her, holding to her dress.
‘I don’t want to drive you out,’ he said.
‘It’s not that,’ she said.
‘I’ll just stay for an hour or two,’ he said.
The boy had gone back and picked up his present, a small car, glanced at it, then put it down.
One of the girls went to the French window, to the steps leading into the garden.
Yet the room refused to release her. She stood there, looking back at them. Only the eldest girl remained by her, looking up at him with her pale eyes.
‘You’ll go before lunch, then?’ she said and, perhaps recognizing his look, added, ‘It’ll be much easier that way.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘All right.’ He went to the window and looked out. The younger girl retreated into the room. He wondered, then, if he might break down; present them with something that couldn’t be avoided, that couldn’t be ignored.
He gazed out at the garden, aware of the silence behind him.
Aware too, he thought, of Kay watching him. When he turned round, however, he saw she was clearing up the paper left from the parcels.
‘Shall we go into the garden?’ he said to the eldest girl.
She shook her head, frowning.
The boy picked up his toy again, sitting on the floor, gazing up at him, his eyes screwed against the light.
‘I’d like to come round one evening,’ he said, ‘and have a talk.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you like.’
He cheered up slightly.
‘I could come round this evening,’ he said.
‘I’ll be out this evening.’
‘How about tomorrow?’ he said.
‘I think later in the week would suit me best.’
The eldest girl had begun to play on the floor, the boy arranging dolls on a chair with his sister. The atmosphere in the room was one of waiting, for an event to begin, or end, he couldn’t be sure.
He sat down after a moment. He wondered to what extent Fowler had taken his place: the pictures, the sculpture, the rearranged chairs and table, the garden, the flowers. Some vaster spirit inhabited the house.
Kay had gone to the cooking-range at the side of the room. She stood by the sink, lifting in pots from the breakfast. He could see the outline of her cheek and brow, the edge of her eyelid as she gazed down.
She waited, her hands poised on the sink.
The two younger children began to quarrel. The eldest girl got up from her chair and joined them, stooping over a tiny canvas pram, her hands pressing in a cover against its sides. She still wore the same expression, aggrieved, her hands fisted.
‘If you’re going to see the children again,’ Kay said, ‘in future, we’d better fix a regular time.’ She looked up. ‘I mean a time when you leave. And decide before you come what you want to do with them.’
‘All right,’ he said.
She had half-turned, gazing at him.
He was alarmed himself that he should have revealed anything at all.
After a moment it was uncontainable.
He was aware, then, of the children looking up at him; then of Kay still standing by the sink, half-turned.
He saw too, more certainly, any ground he might have gained slipping away.
He got up and went to the door, shutting it behind him.
He felt the same coldness rise about him. He leant against the wall, his head in his hands.
From the kitchen came the voices of the children.
He went, finally, into the front room and sat down. It was like a waiting-room. He sat with his hands between his knees, staring at the floor, searching now for some device that would make this room, any part of it, his own. His whole body was ignited.
A little later the door opened and Kay came in. She didn’t close it behind her.
‘Are you going?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I’d better.’
He fought, then, for some tiny hold, looking up. The children had come into the passage outside.
He shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said.
‘If you like,’ she said, ‘I’ll ring up Bill and he can drive you back.’
‘I can’t leave,’ he said. He had begun to cling to the furniture as if already he were being torn away.
He was aware, too, of her fear. Some extension of his own, it seemed to peer down from the room about him.
He heard the children come in, their sudden silence; then he heard too his own voice call out. It came from a distance, across a chasm.
The door was shut. The ’phone was picked up.
Almost the next moment it seemed Newsome came into the room. The children had vanished.
‘Look, old man, how are you?’ Newsome said. He had leaned down, his hand on his shoulder.
‘I’ll be all right,’ he said, yet he felt nothing leave him.
Newsome’s face came down to his. ‘Let me get you something,’ he said. ‘Will you have some tea?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘All right.’ Yet he shook his head. He couldn’t move.
‘Let’s go in the kitchen,’ Newsome said.
He felt his hand tap at his shoulder. ‘Let’s give you a lift up, then,’ Newsome said.
He glimpsed Kay’s face as he stood up. ‘No, I’m all right,’ he said.
He walked to the door and through into the kitchen. The children had gone.
On the floor were the toys.
Still on the table, unwrapped, were the flowers.
He began to cry.
‘Come on,’ Newsome said. ‘
What is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. He shook his head.
He leant on the table, looking at the floor.
‘Come on. Let’s hear it,’ Newsome said.
‘I can’t,’ he said. He added, ‘I don’t know what to do. I’ve nowhere to go.’
‘Haven’t you your room?’ Newsome said.
He didn’t answer.
‘Haven’t you the room, then?’ Newsome said again.
‘Yes,’ he said.
He nodded.
‘Let me drive you back.’
‘I can’t,’ he said.
‘Why? What is it?’ Newsome asked him.
‘I can’t,’ he said again and shook his head.
‘Let me take you back,’ Newsome said. ‘I’ll stay with you if you like.’
He suddenly looked round, vaguely, unsure where he was.
Kay stood a little distance away, behind.
He moved away from the table and began to wipe his face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Let me drive you back,’ Newsome said.
‘All right,’ he said. He couldn’t stop shaking. Odd intimations of the room came back.
He felt it sinking beneath him.
‘I just want you to know,’ he said, ‘that I’m sorry for what I’ve done.’
‘Now, that’s all right, old man,’ Newsome said, as if it needn’t be mentioned, as if he had been the one to suffer.
He held his face in his hands. ‘I can’t go back,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ And as if this wasn’t clear even to himself, he added, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
Kay said nothing.
Any signal from her and he would have rushed back, into himself.
Otherwise he was like a ghost. He couldn’t let the room go. His spirit was wrapped around it. It was the one thing he knew; the one thing, it seemed, that he remembered.