The Way We Were

by Marie Joseph

  And then, at last, the tour completed, Irene walked out with them to their car, a dignified black saloon.

  ‘We’ll let you know,’ said Mrs Farley-Jones through an inch of open window. ‘Through the agent of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Irene, and stood quite still by the gate as the car glided slowly down the avenue and turned the corner out of sight.

  Back inside, she wandered from room to room, touching things. Back in the red-and-white kitchen with the house quiet all around her, she found she was trembling with an irrational and unpredictable anger.

  How dared Mrs Farley-Jones find fault with the house! It was as though, in her sensible shoes, she had trampled on all Irene’s dreams. So much living, so much love had made the house what it was. Angrily Irene brushed away a solitary tear.

  When Don came home she was calm again, but chose the right moment before saying what she knew had to be said.

  She gave him his meal, then saw him settled into his favourite chair, his pipe and tobacco, and the heavy glass ashtray conveniently to hand.

  ‘I’ve been thinking all day about what you said this morning,’ she began.

  And Don, who had no idea what it was he had said, pressed the tobacco down in his pipe, clenched it between his teeth, and struck the first match of the evening.

  Irene sat forward in her chair.

  ‘This house isn’t really all that big. The girls will want to come back for Christmas and holidays, and a modern flat isn’t really a suitable place for grandchildren to romp around in. They need space, and a garden with a swing underneath a lilac tree.’

  Don seemed to disappear behind a cloud of smoke.

  Irene sighed. ‘It would be nice to have central heating, but I’ve never really liked the idea of having nothing to sit round,’ and she stretched out her hand towards the glowing fire.

  ‘And the waste-disposal fitment?’ Don asked quite seriously. ‘Do you think you might find the strength to totter out to the dustbin for a few years yet?’

  Irene glanced at him suspiciously, but he was puffing away, apparently having difficulty in getting his pipe to draw.

  ‘You were right you know,’ she told him softly. ‘Sometimes we need to have our blessings counted for us. One by one.’

  The pipe was behaving beautifully now, and above it Don’s dark eyes twinkled with hidden laughter.

  Irene went over and sat on the arm of his chair, ruffling his thinning hair. ‘You knew this would happen all the time, didn’t you?’

  And Don blew a perfect smoke ring straight up to the ceiling.

  ‘Let’s just say I look at things in a more practical way, and leave it at that, shall we, Lovey?’ he said, and together they watched the smoke ring waver and dissolve away into nothing, as though it had never been.

  Research on Love

  FOR ABOUT THE hundredth time that rainy morning in early March, I asked myself was it worth it? Surely there was an easier way for a dancer who was ‘resting’ to earn a little money to supplement her dwindling resources?

  It wasn’t quite eleven o’clock, and already I had been rebuffed by a housewife on her way to keep what she made sound like a life or death appointment, a mother with a baby son crying for want of urgent attention, a wife with a sick husband calling down for his elevenses, a pensioner who said the only thing she’d sign would be a petition to increase her pension, and a whole block of flats in which every single occupant was just on the point of dashing out to the shops . . .

  Perhaps the new row of town houses would yield more positive results? I crossed the road, and stopping to wipe the mud splashes from my nylons, I pressed the bell on the first door, arranging my face back into what I hoped was a friendly, encouraging smile.

  ‘I wonder, could you possibly spare just five or ten minutes of your time?’ I asked a harassed mum with a tow-haired little boy clinging to her jeans, and a baby yelling its head off somewhere in the background.

  Not really surprised that the answer was in the negative, I passed on to the next house, wished hard, and pressed my finger against yet another doorbell.

  ‘I’d be most terribly grateful’, I told a willowy blonde wearing a luscious Chinese housecoat, ‘if you could spare me a few moments of what I’m sure is your precious time to answer a few simple questions?’

  ‘About what?’ said the willowy blonde from behind a mammoth yawn.

  Trying not to sound too desperate, I said, ‘My firm would like your valued opinion on one or two of these new products.’ I consulted the sheaf of rather damp forms clipped to a piece of cardboard.

  ‘We arrange our answers in age groups.’ I smiled a big, false smile. ‘You, of course, would come in our under-thirty age group.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the willowy blonde smoothly. ‘Any free samples?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ I told her, lowering my voice as if imparting valuable information. ‘These products aren’t exactly on the market yet, they’re only in the embryo stage, and the manufacturers merely want to ascertain whether their ideas would be acceptable to the general public. Specially selected members of the general public,’ I added quickly, seeing the familiar expression of noncooperation.

  Scarlet fingertips ran themselves through candyfloss hair, and it appeared there was a hairdressing appointment to be kept in less than ten minutes.

  Once again I found myself on the wrong side of a firmly closed door.

  Was it worth it, I asked myself for the hundred-and-first time as I climbed a flight of stone steps to the third floor of yet another block of flats. I’d try once more, and then give up for the day. I thought longingly of my own little flat with its Swedish sofa, long coffee table, and much-prized central heating.

  Wishing hard again, I pressed a bell on the first floor, and heard it chime up and down the scale.

  ‘I wonder, could you possibly spare just a moment of your valuable time –’ I began, then stopped in mid-sentence.

  The man standing in the open doorway looked about seven feet tall. Dark eyes twinkled down at me from underneath dark eyebrows, and a rather bristly chin was thoughtfully stroked by a large hand.

  ‘Depends what it is you want to know,’ a deep voice told me seriously, ‘but I must warn you that some of my views are considered to be rather avant-garde.’

  To my annoyance I felt the beginnings of a blush, and held my breath; it works sometimes. Then, to cover my embarrassment, I began to fiddle with the strings of my shiny sou’wester. When I left the flat that morning I had felt reasonably smart, clothed in black PVC from throat to the fashionable two inches above my kneecaps, but now, two hours later, bedraggled and dripping, I knew that I resembled a rather shrunken lifeboat-crewman . . .

  The enormous young man was holding wide the door, the first really open door I’d seen that day, and almost without volition I stepped inside.

  ‘I won’t keep your wife more than a few minutes,’ I told his broad back as gratefully I followed him down the hall. I flicked a trickle of rain from the end of my nose. ‘Just a few answers to a few very simple questions.’

  He led me into a room lined with books, strewn with newspapers, and with a battered-looking typewriter dead centre of a table piled high with sheets of typing paper.

  ‘Fire away,’ he said, indicating a shabby armchair. ‘But first take off your fisherman’s gear.’ Then he sat behind the typewriter, and started to fill the bowl of an outsized pipe.

  ‘I really want to speak to the lady of the house,’ I told him. ‘These questions are of a domestic nature.’

  He puffed out an enormous cloud of smoke. ‘I am the lady of the house – head cook, bottle-washer, and sole occupant of this flat.’

  I stopped unbuttoning the fourth button from the top, my all too vivid imagination clicking into action.

  ‘You got me in here under false pretences,’ I told him warily, remembering that one never roused a potential murderer’s anger. ‘So now I’ll go, but thank you all the same for trying to help.’r />
  He grinned at me through the smoke screen. ‘Is there anything in that very impressive folder to indicate that the persons you interview must necessarily be of the feminine gender?’

  ‘Well no,’ I said slowly, the warmth from a flickering gas fire lulling me into a false sense of security. ‘But the products are a washing-up liquid and a new kind of paper towel.’

  ‘Fire ahead,’ said the large young man. ‘Do remove that ridiculous hat, and let’s get down to business.’

  Surprising myself, I did as I was told. After all, he was right. There was nothing in my instructions to indicate that I couldn’t interview a man, especially if he turned out to be, as he said, the ‘lady’ of the house. I felt a giggle rise in my throat.

  ‘Name?’ I began, clicking my ball point pen to the ready.

  ‘Simon Grey.’

  ‘Anything you say will be treated as completely confidential,’ I told him. ‘The name and address and telephone information is just a routine precaution. Some more unscrupulous interviewers have been known to sit at home and fill in a whole sheaf of totally imaginary answers from fictitious addresses, so my firm check the odd one to safeguard themselves.’

  ‘What an absolutely fascinating idea,’ said Simon Grey. ‘Wouldn’t mind having a go at that myself. I bet I could think up some really hair-raising replies . . .’

  ‘No doubt,’ I said, trying to keep my face straight. ‘Now, would you mind reading the description of this new washing-up liquid, and then answering a few questions on it?’

  He stretched out a hand for the folder. ‘I guessed that your hair would be red,’ he said without looking at me. ‘I bet your nose freckles in the summer, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Are you ready to answer the questions?’ I asked, feeling like an inexperienced schoolteacher addressing a wayward pupil. ‘Has what you have just read made you eager to try out this new product?’

  ‘Can’t wait to get my hands on it,’ he said. ‘I feel it would revolutionise my whole life; in fact I can’t think how I have existed without at least half a dozen bottles of it on my kitchen shelf.’

  Would try it, I wrote down.

  I went on to the next question, too conscious of his quizzical expression resting on me, and the amused lift of his dark eyebrows.

  ‘Does the fact that the new product contains a germicide have anything to do with your interest in it?’

  He pretended to consult the ceiling. ‘Absolutely,’ he said at last. ‘Next question?’

  ‘Would you recommend this product to your friends?’

  He struck another match and puffed away seriously for a few moments. ‘But of course. I would ring them all up, and maybe throw a party to spread the good news. Would you like a coffee?’

  I sighed. ‘We’ve hardly begun yet. The answers should be short; that way we’d get through them very quickly, and I wouldn’t be wasting so much of your time.’

  ‘Black or white?’ he asked. ‘And are you partial to arrowroot biscuits?’

  When he’d gone out of the room, I stared round it. It was clean in a slipshod way, but so untidy that I wondered how on earth he could ever find anything. There was a sheet of foolscap paper in the typewriter, and unable to restrain my awful curiosity, I went over to the table and started to read:

  RADIO BOOK TIME: MURDER BY MOONLIGHT

  by HOWARD PLEASANCE

  ADAPTED BY SIMON GREY

  EPISODE I: ‘THE BEGINNING’

  ‘Sugar?’ asked a deep voice from behind the door, and I jumped a mile and scurried back to my chair. ‘Yes please,’ I said, ‘but only just a little.’

  Simon Grey. Was it a name I ought to have known? How awful if he turned out to be a famous scriptwriter, and I was bothering him with questions about washing-up liquid, and double-wet-strength paper towels.

  The coffee was hot and strong, and handed to me in a thick white mug. I curled my hands gratefully round its warmth and took the first comforting sip.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ said Simon Grey, his eyes twinkling at me, ‘now that I’ve revealed my most intimate likes and dislikes to you. Why, for instance, is a pretty girl with your –’ he paused ‘– your potentialities, for want of a better word, doing this door-to-door lark?’

  ‘It’s no lark,’ I assured him. ‘It’s a means of ensuring that I have enough to eat in between jobs.’

  ‘An actress?’

  I shook my head. ‘A dancer. I did four years at ballet school, then I grew too tall, and was thrown out. Now I freelance. I’ve just finished in pantomime in the provinces.’ I mentioned the name of a well-known comedian. ‘He has a television show coming up in the summer and has promised me a solo part in that, but until then . . .’ I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘You’re resting.’

  I nodded. ‘For want of a better word.’

  He laughed. ‘And what about that impressive-looking ring on your left hand? Indicative of a faithful fiancé lurking in the background?’

  ‘Martin doesn’t lurk,’ I told him. ‘He is merely waiting patiently for me to get this dancing bug out of my system. We were to have been married this spring, then this chance of a television break was offered to me, so we’ve postponed the wedding again.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Twice.’

  ‘Then you don’t love him,’ said Simon Grey.

  So I went home without my questionnaire completed after all, and it was only as I was letting myself into my flat that I discovered I had left my identification card behind. I kept it in my pocket ready to convince suspicious householders that my business with them was perfectly legitimate, and it must have slipped out when I took my coat off and hung it at Simon Grey’s suggestion, on the floor.

  Now I would have to go and see that disconcerting, embarrassingly frank young man again, unless . . .

  Martin wasn’t at all keen on the idea. ‘You mean to say that you actually accepted a cup of coffee from a strange man, alone with him in his flat, and now you want me to go round and pick up your identification card?’ His forehead creased into little tramlines of anxiety. ‘I must say it’s a bit much. Why did you go into his flat in the first place, knowing he was alone? You’re much too friendly, Claire. One of these days you’ll regret the trust you place in people willy-nilly.’

  Dear Martin. I stared into his worried face, and noticed for the first time that our eyes were almost on a level. I remembered how I had had to look up into Simon Grey’s face as, dripping with dignity, I had bade him goodbye. And I wished Martin wouldn’t say ‘willy-nilly’. It was one of his favourite expressions, and had begun to irritate me intensely.

  ‘All right then, I’ll go,’ he said reluctantly, ‘but I must say I feel a bit of a Charlie . . .’

  Hardly had I closed the door behind him when the bell rang.

  ‘You left your credentials on my hearth rug, Claire,’ said Simon Grey, with that disconcerting twinkle in his dark eyes. They were blue, I noticed with surprise, and not brown as I had thought at first.

  I sighed. ‘You must have passed Martin on the way up. He was coming round to collect them – I mean it.’

  ‘A fair young man with deadly earnest written all over him?’ asked Simon Grey, peeling off his driving gloves. ‘Somehow I knew it must be the patient Martin.’

  I dashed over to the window, just in time to see Martin climb into his car, and extricate it with difficulty from where it was sandwiched between a wall and a cream sports car. Without being told, I knew to whom that car belonged.

  ‘If you go now,’ I told him, ‘you’ll be in time to stop Martin from climbing the stairs to your flat. He always takes a long time to park his car,’ I added as a disloyal afterthought.

  Simon held out his hand, and much to my surprise I found myself shaking hands with him. His clasp was firm and warm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I had no right to say what I did . . .’

  ‘You shouldn’t pry into people’s personal affairs,’ I said, trying, but not very hard, t
o get my hand back.

  ‘No,’ agreed Simon, ‘that’s true, but being a writer I find people’s private and personal affairs fascinating.’

  ‘To use as copy?’ I suggested.

  He grinned, and I noticed that a tiny piece was missing from the corner of his front tooth. ‘Maybe. I’ve already started a story about this beautiful girl. Doing market research on digestive biscuits she is, and she knocks at this struggling, young, handsome writer’s door.’ He pretended to chew reflectively. ‘You see, it’s the background that often sells a story, and I don’t believe I’ve ever read a story about a beautiful research worker on digestive biscuits, and a struggling, handsome writer . . .’

  Almost hypnotised by the intense expression in the incredibly dark blue eyes, I said, ‘And what happens next?’

  ‘They fall madly in love,’ said Simon Grey, and bent his head and lightly kissed my mouth.

  For the second time that day I found myself bidding him an abrupt goodbye.

  When Martin came back he took it quite well about having missed Simon, and urged me to hurry as he was taking me out to celebrate.

  ‘Celebrate what?’ I asked stupidly.

  He beamed all over his pleasant face. ‘My rise in pay,’ he said, and told me how he had been called into the inner sanctum that morning, congratulated on his sales output for the past year, and been given quite a substantial rise.

  In my bedroom, I smoothed my already smooth eyebrows, added an unnecessary touch of lipstick, and touched my wrist and throat for the second time with perfume.

  I stared at my reflection: smooth, pale skin, with an almost invisible dusting of freckles across high cheekbones, and a frankly retroussé nose. Auburn hair – I preferred that description to red – worn long and smooth, and flicked up into the merest semblance of a curl at the tips. Eyes the dark green of a glass bottle, and a mouth too wide for beauty. Not a face to launch a thousand ships, but passable. I picked my coat up from a chair and went to join Martin. He gave a low wolf whistle, quite out of keeping with his character, and bowed me out of the door.