Listening in the Dusk

by Celia Fremlin

  Which, in the early days, he had quite often done, as befitted a friendly colleague as yet unaware of his passenger’s girlish and unrequited passion.

  It was Alice who had noted the symptoms first. She’d been walking up the road with the weekend shopping one Saturday morning when she’d encountered — slightly to her surprise, for the quiet residential road with its bright front gardens and flowering cherry-trees didn’t really lead to anywhere — this colleague of Rodney’s whom she knew at the time only very slightly.

  “Hello,” she’d said, with the small polite smile one gives to near-strangers; and was about to pass on without further exchange, when the woman came to an awkward and jerky halt right in front of her, gulped uncomfortably and burst into rapid speech.

  “I … I’m just on my way to post a letter,” she gabbled, displaying the envelope with a flourish as if it was a key exhibit for the Defence. “I only meant … That is, I thought if I could maybe catch the midday post …”

  Vaguely puzzled by the gratuitous volley of information, Alice was at a loss for a reply. Why on earth should the woman find it necessary to explain to a near stranger her reason for walking peaceably along a public highway?

  Oh, well. No business of mine, Alice had reflected, and passed on with a vague smile. She had thought no more about it until the following Saturday, when, looking out of the bedroom window she noticed once again this same woman, strolling, this time, at a leisurely pace as if waiting for someone to catch her up. But no one did, and not many minutes later, back she came again. Her pace was that of someone out for a stroll in the spring sunshine, and yet there was something intent and purposeful about her, an air of expectancy. The day was warm, and she was wearing a short cotton dress from which her muscular thighs projected like roof-supports, while her arms, scarlet with sunburn, hung from the sleeveless garment heavily, and somehow helplessly, as if they didn’t know what they were supposed to be doing. No handbag. No load of weekend shopping. Just two thick, freckled arms with hands on the end of them.

  “That woman from the Fine Arts Department,” she remarked to Rodney at lunch-time, “Ivy somebody — the one you sometimes give lifts to — has she come to live in our road, or something?”

  “Ivy Budd? The one with the legs? No, I don’t think so. Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Well, I keep seeing her around, that’s all. It seems funny, if she still lives over in Fulham. I saw her last Saturday, she said she’d come to post a letter. Can you credit it, travelling all the way from Fulham to post a letter in our pillar-box instead of in her own!”

  Rodney shrugged. He didn’t seem very interested, and merely murmured that there were no zoning regulations about pillar-boxes, were there? Anyone could post anything anywhere they liked, and anyway it takes all sorts, especially in the Fine Arts Department …

  The next Saturday, there she was again, hanging about on the other side of the road watching Rodney cut the front hedge; and finally when she crossed the road to ask him, blushing furiously, for a spray of the cut privet to take home with her, at this, even Rodney was a bit taken aback.

  “A spray of privet,” he speculated over lunch. “What on earth can she want it for? I started asking her, does she keep stick-insects? — but she seemed terrified. She just gave a great gulp, and ran off down the road. Ran! Did I say something wrong, do you suppose? Is ‘stick-insect’ the latest rude word, or something?”

  Alice laughed. “She’s potty about you, darling, that’s all it is,” she explained. “She’s going to press that privet spray between sheets of blotting-paper, and keep it for ever! She’s got a crush on you, like a lovesick teenager.”

  “Teenager. She’s fifty if she’s a day,” protested Rodney — though actually she wasn’t, she was only forty-four, as Alice was to discover later. “Are you seriously suggesting that a grown woman …?”

  “Yes, I am,” Alice insisted. “It’s not as extraordinary as you seem to think. A crush isn’t peculiar to teenagers, you know. It’s a kind of loving that people go in for when the object of their love is unattainable. It can happen at any age, in fact it’s quite common, to judge by what one hears. Middle-aged women and their doctors. Vicars and devoted female members of their congregations …”

  “Well, I’m not a bloody vicar,” Rodney grumbled. “Vicars are paid to be pestered, the topping-up of half-empty souls is their job. But it’s not mine, and I’m damned if I’m going to be press-ganged into it! I’ll take out an injunction against her if she’s not careful!”

  But very soon irritation gave way to amusement, and he and Alice spent many an odd minute giggling over the excesses of his undeclared admirer. Indeed, it would have been difficult to be other than amused by some of the antics the love-lorn lady got up to in her attempts to engineer an “accidental” meeting with her beloved. Popping out from the shelter of some doorway as he came by; lurking in the nearby telephone box watching for him to come out into the front garden so that she could happen to walk past and say “Hello”, in the tremulous expectation of hearing him say “Hello” back. Which, of course, he had to do; and though this was usually the extreme limit of the exchange, it seemed to suffice. On such insubstantial nourishment can an insubstantial passion thrive, Alice used to reflect, watching the ungainly figure fairly prancing down the road after one of these encounters, all lit up with unspeakable joy, with the sound of that perfunctory “Hello” still echoing in her ears.

  Part of the fun was the way Alice would tease him about his “conquest”, and he in his turn would appeal to Alice, in mock-terror, for her protection.

  “Go and have a dekko, darling,” he would urge, with exaggerated wariness. “See if I can mow the front lawn this morning without getting raped!” and Alice, with barely suppressed giggles, would peer up and down the road and report that the coast was clear, or otherwise.

  “She’ll be writing you anonymous poems next!” Alice laughingly predicted one Saturday; and lo and behold, that was exactly what happened.

  They would arrive by post, and Rodney and Alice would find themselves in fits of laughter, reading out to one another lines about love so true being spurned by you, or about hearts still yearning and passion burning.

  “And stomachs turning,” Alice remembered improvising, and together they had leaned back against the cushions and laughed until they cried.

  Was this the last time — the very last time — that they had laughed like this? Laughed in such an ecstasy of shared mockery that it was almost like an ecstasy of love?

  It was hard to believe now that it was this same Rodney, this same beloved husband who, not many months later, had been leaning back against those same cushions, explaining gravely to Alice that he was in love with Ivy, that she was a very wonderful person, and that he wanted to marry her.

  Chapter 4

  Oh, but it was cold, cold! The thin army blankets with which the bed was supplied seemed to help not at all. Even with her winter coat still on, even with her boots, the dank chill of the room was getting to her very bones. Draughts whistled in from the winter blackness outside, not only through the ill-fitting dormer window, but through mysterious cracks along the skirting-boards; the ancient bridal drapery over the motor bike stirred and quivered, showing up the rusty stains of long ago.

  Such cold was not to be endured. She must go down all those stairs and look for her landlady in the basement. Ask for more blankets. For a hot-water bottle. Some kind of heating, an electric fire, or something.

  Oh, and a hot bath! How wonderful that would be! Mention had been made of a bathroom, albeit two or three floors down.

  “A bath? But of course, dearie. Any time. As many baths as you like. The only thing is, Alice, the geyser seems to be in one of its moods this evening. It gets like that sometimes, it won’t light straight away, and then you get this great big pop, makes you jump out of your skin. I’d better come up with you dear, and see how it’s doing. Sometimes, you know, it won’t light at all, and then we have to wait for
Brian to come in, he does something to it with a knife, and then it’s all right for a bit. Mare—ee!” she yelled suddenly, turning towards the stairs. “Mare—ee! Where’s Brian? Is he coming back tonight?”

  A distant voice, incomprehensible to Alice, could be heard answering at somewhat greater length than the question would seem to warrant; and though Alice could not make out the words, the peevish tone in which they were uttered was unmistakable.

  “OK, dear, OK! I’m not trying to pry!” yelled back Hetty; and then she turned with a sigh to Alice: “No dice, never mind, well have a go at it ourselves.” Then, in a lower voice as they set off up the stairs: “I don’t mind who they have up there, boyfriends and that, or who they don’t. Love and let love is what I say. But she’s so touchy, that girl, you wouldn’t believe. The simplest question, and she jumps down your throat like you were accusing her of murder. Never mind, let’s see what we can do.” And continuing on the way up the stairs, she pushed open the bathroom door, revealing an untidy barn of a room containing an ironing board, several suitcases and a roll of carpet as well as a bath.

  “You stay there, over by the door, dear,” Hetty warned; and herself tiptoed warily across the floor towards the ancient geyser, like a cat stalking a rather large rat.

  “Pilot’s off, I’m afraid, Alice,” was her verdict, straightening up after a prolonged inspection of the thing’s internal organs. “I daren’t light it myself, not without Brian here, I just daren’t. I’ve known the flame jump three feet into the room, I’m not exaggerating, and I wouldn’t like that to happen to you, dear. Not your first night.”

  Alice felt that she could do without it on other nights too; but she tried not to seem hypercritical.

  “Well, never mind,” she said, clutching her coat yet more tightly about her. Then: “Do you think — perhaps — if there is an electric fire to spare? If I could have it up in my room? Just for tonight? I’d pay, of course.”

  “Of course, darling!” cried Hetty, in tones of such impassioned liberality that one could only assume that the words related to the request for the fire, and not at all to the offer to pay. “Of course, darling, you must have a fire, it’s terrible up there, a night like this, all those draughts. The only thing is …” here she cast her eyes anxiously up and down the stairway, as if hoping that an electric fire just might spring out from somewhere, come hopping and rattling to their feet, and thus solve the problem. “The only thing is … We want one that works, you see. That’s the problem.”

  That this was indeed a major consideration Alice could not but agree, and she watched in suspense while her landlady frowned and bit her knuckles.

  “I know!” Suddenly Hetty’s face cleared. “We’ll take the one from Brian’s room, that’s sure to work, everything of Brian’s always does. I don’t know how he does it, I really don’t. And his eiderdown too, you could do with that, I’m sure. Those miserable blankets you’ve got up there wouldn’t keep a rabbit warm.”

  “But won’t … This Brian, won’t he mind?” Alice was beginning, but Hetty interrupted her.

  “Mind? Of course he won’t mind. He’s out. I told you,” and lumbering gamely on up the next flight of stairs, she launched herself against one of the doors opening on to the landing just below Alice’s attic floor.

  “Hell! He’s locked it! And he probably won’t be in till all hours! I wish he wouldn’t do that, I’ve asked him no end of times, but he doesn’t seem to understand how inconvenient it can be.” Here she rattled the handle again impatiently. “It’s funny,” she continued, “because he’s such a nice boy really, but he does have this possessive streak about his things. I don’t know what he thinks might happen to them, I’m sure.

  “Oh well. Never mind, I’ll give you the one from the kitchen, nobody’ll be using the kitchen this late, and if they do they can light up the oven and give themselves a good warm with their feet in it. I’ll give you a hot-water bottle too, Alice, that’ll make a difference, won’t it, and then tomorrow we’ll get you rigged up right and proper, blankets, pillows and all sorts. Oh, and what about something to eat, my darling? You must be starving. Come on down, and I’ll see what I can find for you. Then, tomorrow, we must think where to fit you in, for cooking and that.”

  Sitting at the scrubbed wooden table, gratefully consuming the remains of a still-warm shepherd’s pie, Alice listened attentively while Hetty expounded the system by which she apportioned the use of her kitchen among her various tenants.

  The core and essence of the system, it soon became clear, consisted in not upsetting one Miss Dorinda.

  “She’s in the beauty business, you see,” Hetty explained. “She likes everything to be just so; and so when she comes in at six thirty she has to have the kitchen entirely to herself until she’s finished. The best part of an hour it can be, all her bits and pieces and stirring up little messes on the cooker. She’s into health, you know, and that takes up a lot of space, no use anyone trying to do anything else while she’s there, so we all just keep out of her way till she’s done. Or before she starts, of course, before six thirty. But if you choose the before six thirty time, Alice, do for goodness sake get yourself cleared up before she gets in! If there’s so much as a teaspoon left on the draining-board she’ll go through the roof! Actually right through it, I’m not exaggerating …”

  While Alice’s tired mind was grappling feebly with this vision of the unknown Miss Dorinda, Hetty was continuing (aware, perhaps, that she had slightly over-stated her case) in a more sober vein: “It’s the nature of her work, you see,” she explained. “She’s manageress at the hair and beauty salon in the High Street. Just beyond Marks, you’ll see it when you go to the shops, Alice, you can’t miss it, nearly opposite Tesco’s, on the corner. They get like that in the beauty business,” she went on reflectively, “I’ve seen it no end of times. I had a manicure young lady once, and she was the same. It’s beauty, you see, it brings out a funny streak in them somehow, and that’s the truth …”

  Beauty is truth, truth beauty … Alice realised she was almost falling asleep; she roused herself with an effort.

  “What about the others?” she asked. “There was a ‘Brian’ you mentioned, and ‘Mary’. Do they have an hour each too?”

  “An hour? My goodness, no! Listen, my dear, if everyone in this house had an hour to themselves like Miss Dorinda has, there’d be no end to it, the clatter and the clutter, and in-ings and the out-ings, the smells and the boilings-over and the clutter-up round the sink. It’d be midnight before I could set foot in my own kitchen. No, they fit in as best they can, the rest of them. They don’t make a fuss, you see, not like Miss Dorinda does. Not fair? Listen, dear, one thing I have learnt in this job is always to give in, straight away, to the fuss-pots, let them have everything exactly the way they want to right from the beginning, and you save yourself no end of bother. The others will always fit in somehow. Like Brian, I mean, he’s a sweetie, no trouble at all, just brings in his takeaways and pops them in the oven, and is off up to his room with them before you hardly know he’s there …”

  Here she paused, glancing speculatively at her new lodger, and for an uneasy moment Alice felt herself being weighed in the balance: was she going to rate as a fuss-pot, and thus entitled to extra privilege? Or as a sweetie, who could be relied on to be in and out of the kitchen before you hardly knew she was there?

  To postpone this issue, she continued with her queries: “And the girl — Mary — when does she eat?”

  At this Hetty shook her head sadly. “That’s one of my worries, you know. The truth is, she hardly eats a thing, just a bit of toast and a cup of tea, and not always that. I’m quite bothered about that girl, Alice, I really am. She eats like a sparrow, and always in bed by ten. Such a pretty girl, too, can’t be much over twenty. She ought to be out gallivanting till all hours. I always say, if someone in their twenties is getting enough sleep, then what on earth are they going to be like at forty?”

  A difficult question; and
one on which Alice felt unable to comment just now. Weariness was once again overcoming her, she felt almost light-headed with tiredness, and so she ventured, as politely as she could, to draw her landlady’s attention to the urgent matters which had originally brought her down to the kitchen. Blankets. An electric fire. A hot-water bottle.

  Hetty was all compunction. Of course Alice must have these things. Heaving herself from her chair, she began pounding around the kitchen and adjoining scullery assembling such adjuncts to Alice’s comfort as she could lay hands on. Then, carrying some of the load, she accompanied Alice up the first flights of stairs, switching lights on as they went, and apologising for the speed at which they switched themselves off again. You’d have to be one of those Olympic chappies to beat them to it, and one day Brian was going to do something about it, when he’d finished his cantata. Cantata? Oh yes, he was a musician, Brian was, a composer, though that wasn’t how he made a living, my goodness no. He taught at the Adult Education Centre most days, and the odd private pupil too, evenings and weekends. It was nice to hear the old piano tinkle-tonking away, Hetty felt, kind of cosy, a bit of life going on; but unfortunately Miss Dorinda didn’t see it that way, and so on and off there could be a bit of trouble. Artistic in her way, Miss Dorinda was, but just not the tinkle-tonk type, if Alice took her meaning. Well, there you are, dear, you’ll be all right now, won’t you. I’ll be getting on down, if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to see to …

  By the time she reached her attic room, Alice was feeling quite bemused with cold and tiredness. Thankfully she dumped the hot-water bottle under the meagre blankets, plugged in the electric fire, and cowering close in front of it she began to undress. The fire glowed red: the growing warmth played on her bare shoulders, and then, with a sudden ‘phut!’ it spat at her like a furious cat. The brief warmth died, trickled away and became one with the icy draughts whistling in from every shadowy corner.