He sat down at the table and wrote: ‘I have been given an invitation to go out to see the Fleet. The son of an old friend. He’s a sub-lieutenant.’ He signed it ‘Henry’ instead of ‘Harry’. The room seemed to get on his nerves when he was in it alone; its emptiness appeared menacing and dull. It was the absence of Sarah’s nagging that did it; by God, she was a missile for the Fleet all right! He put the note in an envelope and placed it on the mantelpiece so that she would see it immediately she came in.
As he was descending the stair he met his next-door neighbour who was mowing the lawn.
‘Off again, Harry?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I have been suddenly invited out, to see the Fleet. An old family friend. He’s a lieutenant in the Navy.’
The man looked at him seriously through thick glasses, grunted, then bent down to do something to a rose.
Harry limped on to the level and returned to the shore. He sat in a shelter looking out at the brilliant sea, watching the ships which he would soon see close to.
A fat woman sat at the far end of the shelter. She said,
‘It’s a grand sight, isn’t it?’
‘A grand sight,’ Harry agreed, and then added, ‘I know one of the lieutenants on board.’
‘My son’s a priest, you know,’ she said, ‘across the water.’
He didn’t know at first whether she meant that her son was aboard or in a parish on the other side of the firth. She continued,
‘But we Scots have a soft spot for the Navy, don’t we?’ She seemed to have a compulsion to talk.
‘I come here every day,’ she said. ‘Every day. I used to be a conductress in my younger days. I remember the days when the trams had no roofs on them. People used to grab at the branches of the trees as we went past. That was at the time of the fair, you understand. My niece now, she’s a student teacher. Wouldn’t look at the pay of a conductress. But is she any happier, is she? Do you think they’re any happier?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Harry. ‘I suppose they’re not.’
‘I used to scrub floors before that,’ she said, ‘and after that, too, during the Depression. We had seven of a family. The poorest of the poor, you could say. But my niece will take me to a hotel now, and they charge you for rubbish. I know what they do. I said to one of the waitresses, “You bring me more beef than that.” And my niece was red in the face, but I got it. They think if they stick a piece of cardboard in the middle of the table that they can charge you double. No honesty in anybody these days. No honesty. My son, the priest, he’s as honest as the day is long. You should see what he’s done for the boys.’
‘What boys?’ said Harry.
‘The hooligans. The juvenile delinquents. He works with them, you know. And they think the world of him. Mind you, he doesn’t get much money, but he’s happy. And that’s the main thing, I think.’ She added, ‘Look at the poor sailors, there.’ And true enough, there they were parading up and down in pairs following the giggling girls.
In the distance, Harry saw Sonny walking along with his stick. The fool. He should have stayed at home instead of showing that all he had been saying about his son-in-law was a lie. But no! He saw that Sonny had stopped at a café and was talking to a little bald man and a harassed looking woman who was probably his wife. A boy with a lollipop in his hand was dancing up and down between the two of them. So they had come to see Sonny after all. But then again, perhaps they hadn’t gone to the hotel for their dinner, perhaps they had only been to the café, for sausages and chips, tea, and pieces of stale soggy bread. And he was glad again till he saw them going into a small green car which was parked just in front of the café. So Sonny had been telling the truth: he felt desolated.
‘I was saying that priests nowadays don’t get the respect they deserve,’ said the woman, ‘nor teachers either. My niece was telling me the other day about this little boy who spat at her. Imagine it. He just spat at her. The wee hooligan.’
Harry got up, and, excusing himself, limped down to the shore. There was no wood to be seen, just waves coming in across wiry seaweed. A little dog panted for a ball which his master held in his right hand.
Harry made his way along to the café and ordered a cup of coffee. There was a play on the TV set, but he couldn’t hear a word, he could just see figures gesticulating. It seemed to be a western, set in a sandy desert. He toyed with his coffee for a long time, and nibbled a Blue Riband when he caught the waitress looking at him. Who was she anyway? This was his town, he had lived here much longer than she had. He felt the anger rising in him as he looked at the café owner, that greasy Italian. Why was he making money hand over hand while he, Harry, a native of this place, was destitute? After fifteen minutes he went into the lavatory and sat down.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Capaldi,’ he said as he was going out, but the florid proprietor, who was engaged in composing a slider, didn’t answer: perhaps he hadn’t heard. In the far corner the coffee machine was hammering away.
It was now quarter to five. He walked down slowly to the pub, making his way along the crowded pavement. He bought an evening paper at the corner from a man with a green bag, and opened it out. The headlines were still about the fire, though it mentioned the visit of the Prince to the Fleet. It now looked as if some people had been burned in the fire; the shop was about three hundred yards from where they used to live. He remembered going past it often when Sarah was in hospital having Helen. As he stood there among the drifting crowd studying the photographs, the area they represented seemed to be more real to him than the town in which he was staying now. It symbolised his youth when he was whole both in body and mind.
At five o’clock the rating rushed up. He had a girl with him; he had picked her up somewhere. She wore thick violet lipstick and smoked glasses, and she went careering on, giggling, hanging on to his hand.
‘Will you slow doon?’ she shouted in a young gale of laughter.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I promised this gentleman we’d take him out to the ship. What time is it? Is that clock slow?’ he asked Harry.
‘I don’t know,’ said Harry.
‘Have you got a watch?’
‘No, I’m sorry . . . ’ He wished he had more time to invent an explanation as to why he had no watch, but the rating was already in motion.
He rushed them down to the pier. They had to cross the road, and there was a big traffic jam with a policeman, in white gloves, standing there directing operations. Car after car passed, loaded to the gunwales with luggage or trailing caravans.
‘It’s always like this,’ said Harry.
The girl regarded him curiously though he couldn’t see her eyes because of the glasses. Her face was very white and she was wearing a necklace of big stones shaped like miniature loaves.
‘Could we no get across noo?’ she said. The rating looked down at her as if not understanding what she was saying, but then tightened his grip as if in compensation. They got across and rushed down to the wooden pier where the boat was lying. Her heels made a staccato beat on the wood as she went flying along, clinging to the sailor’s hand, Harry panting gamely behind the two of them. They passed the lavatories and reached the end of the pier. The launch was just about ready to go.
‘Thank God,’ thought Harry. ‘Thank God we’re here in time.’ The girl stood at the edge of the pier, looking down at her shiny black shoes; she seemed like a figurehead staring out across the glittering water.
from the boat below they heard a voice: ‘Where the f—— hell do you think you’ve been, Green?’
‘I’m sorry, Petty Officer, there’s something wrong with that clock.’
‘Come on then. Hurry up.’
The rating looked at the two of them, swallowed, and said,
‘He seems to be in a bad mood today. It doesn’t look as if . . . ’
‘Who are these people, Green? You’re not going off to Vietnam you know. Get a f —— move on.’
Green looked at the two of them and then
at the boat, and then said,
‘Sorry, I’m afraid it’s no go.’ Then he was gone, dwindling down the ladder, leaving the girl in the smoked glasses and Harry staring after him.
The girl leaned over the edge, tottering slightly, and said,
‘You bastard,’ watching behind her smoked glasses her spit floating towards him.
Then she turned away and said to Harry,
‘The bastard. I was in the flicks with him all afternoon, and he was all over me, and he promised that he’d take me out to the ship. The bastard.’ Her heels clicked decisively back down the wooden pier. Harry saw the people at the pier staring at him, and he waved feebly out to sea.
Then he trudged away from the pier towards home.
At eight o’clock, three hours or so after he had destroyed the note, Sarah came back. She laid her bag down on the table in the hall and went into the room, collapsing in a chair and passing her hand over her brow.
‘Made any tea?’ she said at last.
‘Yes, I’ve made tea.’ She looked at him, sensing something in his voice, but then swept on. ‘The day I’ve had. Have you been telephoning again?’
‘No, not today.’
‘I should hope not. The bill will be coming soon. That Fête. So many people. And there was nothing one could buy. Even if I had the money. Just mouldy old stuff.’
He put the cups down on the table quietly, almost said something but then didn’t. He lay in the chair like an exhausted boxer.
‘Was Milne there?’ he asked in the same chastened voice.
‘Yes. And his wife too. Wearing lemon.’
‘What happened?’
‘Let me tell you. First of all I met Miss Melon and her friend. This was a big bony woman. By the way, all the people at the Fête were asking for you. They were all saying, “Where’s Harry?”, and asking about Helen, of course, and Robin. I couldn’t very well tell them that we didn’t know, that we never heard from them. Once I was standing there looking at a book and this snooty woman came round and said, “That’s my book, you know. Do you mind? I’ve just bought it.” So I gave her a piece of my mind. Anyway, I went for lunch with Miss Melon and her friend, and Miss Melon was talking about Robin and how clever he was with his job in Africa an’ all. And we had lunch. We had chicken soup and braised steak and trifle and coffee with Danish cheese. And by the way, Sonny was in, with a wee woman and a bald man and a very badly behaved child. They had a look at the menu, and then they went out again. Perhaps the place was too crowded or perhaps the food was too expensive.’ By this time she had removed her stockings, and he had handed her the cup of tea. She looked very old and tired by the fire, wearing her glasses with the blue demon frames.
‘And, Harry, that Miss Melon, she was called out. It was a phone call. And so I was left with that big-boned woman who hardly spoke all the time we were there. As well as being a teacher, she owns a block of tenements, you know. And the long and the short of it was that I had to pay for the whole dinner. Two pounds, ten shillings and sixpence. This woman, Harry, she had eyes like stones, and what she was doing at a Conservative fête I don’t know, what with her tenements and all. She looked half Russian and the only thing she bought all day was a bunch of violets. Anyway, I had to pay for everything. And Miss Melon came back full of apologies, and she kept on talking about Robin. She set my teeth on edge. So I just left them there. I couldn’t stand them talking about Robin.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not, Harry, why not? That’s all Robin’s been to us, an expense. And Helen too. We brought them up and they forgot us. They don’t think about us any more. It’s high time we thought about that, it’s high time we realised it, Harry. And Helen’s just as bad as Robin. She’s probably as bad as that slab-faced woman now. She never was a beauty. I saw someone like Robin today. He was walking along with Milne, he had bright eyes and glasses that glitter, and he was talking to people but he wasn’t really listening. I’ve seen that with Robin too. I’ve seen the day I would talk to Robin and he would bend down, but he wasn’t really listening. I’ve seen it, Harry.’
‘What do you mean, you’ve seen that with Robin?’ Harry shouted angrily.
‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘You know it. He doesn’t care. If we still had the shop he might recognise us. But not now. Not Robin.’
‘He’s away in Africa. You know that.’
‘I know, but does he ever send me a present at Christmas, does he, Harry? Don’t think I don’t feel that. He sends a Christmas card, and it’s written by his wife. But does he send me a present? No, he doesn’t and he never will. Robin only thinks about himself. We’ve bred two monsters, Harry. He sends us a card, when he’s away on holiday somewhere, with a lot of Xs. What’s the use of that? But does he ever spend any money on us? Does he ask us out? We’ve never seen his children. He sends us photographs and tells us about their IQs, Harry, and how much they weigh, and he tells us about the house and the new gadgets, but that’s all, Harry. He doesn’t give us anything of himself. We came up the hard way, Harry, but he doesn’t care. We’re on our own, Harry, that’s what we are. We’re on our own.’
He looked down at her and shouted in an unreasoning frenzy as if part of him were being squeezed to death.
‘What are you talking about? We’ll see him again. He won’t stay in Africa forever.’
‘Why not, Harry?’
There was a silence. ‘What happened today?’ she asked him. ‘I know something happened. I can tell. We’ve been too long together for me not to know.’
So he told her about the lieutenant he’d met.
‘Are you sure he was a lieutenant, Harry?’
‘Of course he was a lieutenant. I saw the pips, didn’t I? And he invited me to the ship but I couldn’t manage. I had to come back, all because of you.’
‘Is that true, Harry?’
‘It’s as true as anything you’ve been saying about Robin,’ he shouted.
‘No, Harry, it’s not. What I’ve said about Robin is true. If you’d been going out to the ship, you’d have gone, only you’d have left a note, because you want to do what’s right. Do you think I don’t know you after forty years?’
She looked in the wastepaper basket and there, sure enough, was the note, crumpled up.
‘Why didn’t you go, Harry? Was it really a lieutenant? It was a rating, wasn’t it? If he had been a lieutenant, you’d have made him a commodore. It was really a rating. Tell me, Harry.’
So he told her, half rending himself in the process. He hadn’t realised how hard it was to tell the truth. She had to prompt him over silences and direct him away from lies.
When he had finished, she said,
‘I see. It was very bad of him, wasn’t it? Just to get a beer and a whisky. It was very mean. That’s why we’ve got to realise we’re on our own, Harry. No one’s going to fly in from Africa or from Canada. Do you see that, Harry? We were young once, and now we’re old and we’re on our own. We’ve got to muddle through somehow and be as humble and as proud as our circumstances permit. Have you had any tea?’
‘No.’
‘Drink it now, then, while it’s still warm. We’re still thinking of ourselves as boys and girls. I’m an old woman and you’re an old man, Harry. And there I am just as bad as you, going to a Conservative fête.’
He drank his tea. She went next door and he followed her. She took down the photographs of her son and daughter from the top of the piano and put them in a drawer. She put all the music away into a drawer. The last one he saw was ‘Silver Threads among the Gold’.
Then she drew him over to the window. It was getting dark, and she didn’t put the light out. Out in the bay they could see the lights of the ships, very bright, twinkling like a bracelet, the lights of the British Navy. Not really all that many, he thought, when you came to think of it. And after all they couldn’t beat the Americans and the Russians, and these were the countries that mattered. In the half light he could imagine Sarah as young aga
in. His voice became tender when he spoke to her. Sensing this she went over and switched on the lights. The room was now so bright he could see her, loved and pitiless, but he couldn’t see the lights of the ships so well. So he thought he might as well draw the curtains. So that the two of them could learn to be alone, for that was the way it was going to be.
Survival without Error
I don’t often think about that period in my life. After all, when one comes down to it, it was pretty wasteful.
And, in fact, it wasn’t thought that brought it back to me: it was a smell. To be exact, the smell of after-shave lotion. I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror – as I do every morning at about half past eight, for I am a creature of habit – and I don’t know how it was, but that small bottle of Imperial after-shave lotion – yellowish golden stuff it is – brought it all back. Or, to be more exact, it was the scent of the lotion on my cheeks after I had shaved, not the colour. I think I once read something in a Reader’s Digest about an author – a Frenchman or a German – who wrote a whole book after smelling or tasting something. I can’t remember what it was exactly: I don’t read much, especially not fiction, you can’t afford to when you’re a lawyer.
So there I was in the bathroom on that July morning preparing to go to the office – which is actually only about five hundred yards or so away, so that I don’t even need to take the car – and instead of being in the bathroom waiting to go in to breakfast with Sheila, there I was in England fifteen years ago. Yes, fifteen years ago. Exactly. For it was July then too.
And all that day, even in court, I was thinking about it. I even missed one or two cues, though the sheriff himself does that, for he’s a bit deaf. I don’t often do court work: there’s no money in it and I don’t particularly care for it anyway. To tell the truth, I’m no orator, no Perry Mason. I prefer dealing with cases I can handle in my office, solicitor’s work mainly. I have a certain head for detail but not for the big work.
The Red Door Page 6