Really, sometimes she thought that if she had enough money she would go back to the Highlands: but she didn’t have enough money, she had only the pension, and the fares were going up all the time. In any event, she wouldn’t recognise the Highlands now. She had heard that the people had changed and were just as bad as the Lowlanders. You even had to lock the door now, an unheard-of thing in the past. Why, in the past, you could go away anywhere you liked for weeks, leaving the door unlocked, and, when you came back, the house would be exactly as you had left it, apart from the dust, of course.
It was hard just the same, being on your own all the time. All you got nowadays was closed curtains and the blue light of TV. It was just like a desert. Sitting there at the window all day was not a life for anyone. But what could she do about it? She must put up with it. She had been the fool and now she must put up with it. No use crying.
So she rose late in the morning, for time was her enemy, and took in the milk and made the breakfast (she always had porridge) and then went down to the shop in the council house scheme, for bread, meat and vegetables. In the adjacent newspaper shop she bought the Daily Express. When she had had her dinner she sat at the window until it was time for tea. After that she sat at the window again unless it was a Wednesday or a Sunday for on these evenings she went to church. She used the light sparingly in order to save electricity, and sometimes she would walk about in the dark; she was afraid that the lights would fuse and she would be unable to repair them. Her son had left her a small radio to which she listened now and again. What she listened to was the news and the Gaelic programmes and the sermons. The sermons were becoming very strange nowadays: sometimes, instead of a sermon, they had inexplicable discussions about all sorts of abstruse things. Trying to get down to the juvenile delinquents, that’s all they were doing. Another programme she sometimes listened to was called The Silver Lining. She only used the one station, the Home: she never turned to the Light at all. She was frightened if she moved the hand that she would never get back to the Home again.
But the worst was the lack of visitors. Once or twice the Matron would come in, the minister now and again, and apart from that, no one except the rent man, the milkman and the electric man. But the only thing the last three came for was money. No one ever came to talk to her as a human being. And so the days passed. Endlessly. But it was surprising how quickly they passed just the same.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, on a fine summer’s day (that morning she had been to the Post Office to collect her pension as she always did on a Tuesday). She was sitting by the window knitting: she had got into the habit of knitting many years ago and she couldn’t stop even though she had no one to knit for. The sideboard was full of socks – all different colours of wool – and jerseys. Everyone said that she was good at knitting and that she should go in for prizes, but who wanted to do that? It was really a bright hot day, with the sun reflected back in a glitter from the windows of the houses opposite. Most of them were open to let in the air, and you could see the curtains drifting a little and bulging.
Looking downwards like a raven from its perch, she saw him trudging from house to house. He was pressing the bell of the door opposite, his old case laid down beside him, dilapidated and brown, with a strap across it. She saw him take a big red handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wipe his face with it. The turban wound round his head, he stood at the door leaning a little against the stone beside it, waiting. He seemed to have been carrying the case for ever, pressing doorbells and waiting, with an immense patience. The windows of the house opposite were open and she could see Mrs whatever-her-name-was moving about in the living room, but she didn’t come to the door: probably she had seen him coming and didn’t want to let him in. After a while he turned away.
As he did so he happened to glance up, and saw her sitting at the window. It was just pure chance that he saw her, but he would probably have come anyway since he would go to all the houses. On the other hand, on such a hot day, he might not be willing to face the high stair. He bent down, picked up the case and crossed the road, a slim man. She was looking down directly on to the turban. Strange people these, they had a religion of their own.
She listened for his foot on the stairs as she often listened for the step of the postman, who reached her house about eight o’clock in the morning when she was still lying in bed. Most of the time he would have nothing but bills, and she would hear him ring the bell next door, and then his steps retreating down the stair again. Sometimes she would even get up and watch the letter box with bated breath waiting for a letter to drop through on to the mat below.
In a similar manner, she waited this afternoon. Would he come up to the top or wouldn’t he? There was the sound of steps and then they faded. That must be someone going into the house on the middle floor, perhaps the woman coming in from her shopping. Then silence descended again. It must have been another five minutes before the ring came at the door. She hurried along the passageway trying to keep calm and when she opened the door on its chain, there he was, his dark face shining with sweat, his red bandana handkerchief in his hand. His case was laid down on the mat outside the door.
‘Afternoon, missus,’ he said in a deep guttural voice. ‘Wish to see dresses?’ He seemed young though you couldn’t tell with them. He smiled at her; you couldn’t tell about the smile either. It seemed warm enough; on the other hand, to him she was just business. She led him along the passageway to the living room which was at the far end of the house, and he sat down in a deep armchair and began to open the case as soon as he had sat down. He gave the room a quick, appraising look, noting the polished side-board full of glasses of all kinds, the copper-coloured carpet, the table in the centre with the paper flowers in the glass.
The case looked very cheap and cracked and was stuffed to the brim. It amazed her to see how much they could cram into their cases and how neat and tidy they were.
‘Fine day, missus,’ he said, looking up and flashing his white teeth.
‘Would you like a glass of milk?’ she asked.
‘Thank you very much, missus.’ He pronounced his consonants in a very strange manner: of course, they didn’t know English well, goodness knew where they came from. She handed him a tall cold tumbler of milk and watched as he took it delicately in his dark hand, the blackness contrasting very strongly with the white of the milk. He drank it very quickly and handed it back to her, then began to put stuff on the floor.
‘Silk scarf. Blue,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’ He held it up against the light in which the silk looked cold.
‘It is very nice,’ she said in her precise English.
He stopped.
‘You no from here?’ – as if he had heard some tone of strangeness in her voice.
‘No. No from here,’ she half-imitated him.
‘I am from Pakistan,’ he said, bending down again so that she could only see the bluish turban. ‘I am a student,’ he added.
She could hardly make out what he was saying, he spoke in such a guttural way.
‘Are you a student?’ she said at last.
‘Student in law,’ he said as if that made everything plain. He took out a yellow pullover and left it on the floor for her to look at. She shook her head: it was very nice wool, she thought, picking it up and letting her hands caress it, but she had no use for it. She supposed that Pakistan must be very warm and yet he appeared hot as if the weather didn’t agree with him. What must it be like for him in the winter?
‘Where you come from then?’ he asked, looking up and smiling with his warm, quick, dark eyes.
‘I come from the north,’ she said slowly.
‘North?’
‘From the Highlands,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ he said, as if he did not fully understand.
‘Do you like here?’ he asked innocently.
‘Do you like here yourself?’ she countered.
He stopped with a scarf in his hand.
‘Not,’ he said and
nodded his head. ‘Not. Too cold.’ His eyes brightened. ‘Going back to Pakistan after law. Parents got shop. Big shop in big town.’ He made a motion with his hands which she presumed indicated the size of the shop.
‘Do you come here often?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t seen you before.’ Nor tinkers. She never saw any tinkers. Up in the Highlands the tinkers would come to the door quite often, but not here. Drummond their name was, it was a family name.
‘Not often. I’m on vacation, see? Sometimes Saturdays I come. I work in shop in Glasgow to make money for law. For education. This vacation with me.’
She nodded, half understanding, looking down at the clothes. She wondered what the women wore in Pakistan, what they did. She had seen some women with long dresses and pigtails. But was that India or China?
The stuff he was selling was pretty cheap. ‘Men’s handkerchiefs.’ He held up a bundle of them. She shook her head. ‘Men’s ties,’ he said, holding up a bundle of them, garish and painted. He looked quickly round the living room, noting the glass, the flowers . . .
‘You live alone, missus?’ he said. She said yes without thinking, wondering why he had asked. Perhaps he would come back later and rob her: you couldn’t tell with anyone these days.
‘Ah,’ he said, again mopping his brow.
‘City no good,’ he said. ‘Too hot. Too great traffic.’ He smiled warmly, studying her and showing his white teeth. ‘Parents go to mountains in summer in Pakistan.’
He placed a nightgown on top of the pile: it had a blue ground with small pink flowers woven into it.
‘Nice nightgown,’ he said, holding it up. ‘Cheap. Very cheap. Bargain. For you, missus.’
She held it in her hands and studied it. ‘Too small,’ she said finally. She had one nightgown already she had received from her sister in Canada; it had frills as well, but she never wore it.
‘Dressing gown then,’ he pursued. ‘Two pound. Good bargain. Nice quality.’ It was far too expensive.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she said at last.
‘No today, missus. Perhaps next time if I come.’
If he came! That meant he might not come again. Of course if he didn’t sell much he wouldn’t come, why should he? And it didn’t look as if he had sold much, what with the case crammed to the top, the children’s stuff still there, panties, jerseys, little twin sets. They were all intact. The young wives had been avoiding him, that was clear. But they would buy sweets and cakes all right though they wouldn’t buy clothes for their children. It was scandalous.
‘Knickers,’ he said. ‘Silk knickers.’ He held them, very cool, very silky, letting them run through his fingers, his black fingers.
There was hardly anything else there that she could buy, except for the ladies’ handkerchiefs but she had plenty of these already, some even from the best Irish linen. One always gathered handkerchiefs, though one hardly ever used them, not these delicate ones anyway.
‘Do you ever go home to Pakistan?’ she asked.
‘Not to Pakistan since I came to this place two years ago. No money.’ He smiled winningly, preparing to return everything to the case. ‘Some day, perhaps. Two year from this time.’ He held up two fingers. ‘When law finished.’
She watched his black hands busy against the whites and reds and greens. She noticed for the first time that his own clothes were quite cheap; a painted tie, a dirty looking collar, a dark suit and scuffed shoes, shoes so dusty that it looked as if he had been walking for ever. She was standing by the window, and as she watched him she could see a big red bus flashing and glittering down the road.
He was really quite young when you studied him. For some reason she thought of the time that Norman had come home drunk at two in the morning after the dance, the sickness in the bathroom under the hard early-morning light of the bulb, his refusal to get up the following morning for work . . . She wondered if this young man drank. Probably not. There would be some law against it in their religion. They had a very funny religion, but they were clean-living people, she had heard. They didn’t have churches over there as we had. It was more like temples or things like that.
As he was putting all the clothes back in the case, she put out her hand and picked up the silk knickers, studying them again. She stood at the window looking at them. Lord, how flimsy they were! Who would wear such things? What delicate airy beings, what sluts, would put these next to their skin? She wouldn’t be seen dead buying that stuff. It wouldn’t even keep out the winter cold. Yet they were so cool in your hands, so silky, like water running, like a cool stream in the north.
‘How much?’ she said.
‘Fifteen shillings,’ he said looking at her devotedly, his hands resting lightly on the case.
She put them down again.
‘Have you any gents’ socks?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘How much are they?’
‘Five shilling,’ he said. ‘Light socks. Good bargain. Nice.’ He handed over two pairs, one grey, the other brown. As she held them in her hands, stroking them gently, she realised how inferior they were to her own, she knew that no love had gone into their making. She had never bought a pair of shop socks in her life: she had always knitted Norman’s socks herself. Why, people used to stop him in the street and admire them, they were so beautiful, so much care had gone into them! And she knew so many patterns too, all those that her mother had taught her so long ago and so far away. In another country, in another time, in another age.
‘Five shillings,’ she repeated dully. Still, that was about the cheapest thing he had. She said decisively, ‘I’ll take them,’ though her heart was rent at their cheapness.
She went into the bedroom and took the five shillings out of the shiny black bag, shutting the door in case he might follow her. That left her with three pounds five for the week. Still, in summer it wasn’t too bad, she didn’t have to use so much electricity and she could save on the coal.
She counted the two silver half-crowns coldly into his warm black hand, and he gave her the socks.
‘Thank you, missus,’ he said. Could she detect just a trace of Glasgow accent behind the words? That displeased her for some reason. He bent down, strapping the case tight, and, when he was ready to go, he smiled at her radiantly.
‘Will you be coming again?’ she asked, thinking how quickly the hour had passed.
‘Every Tuesday while vacation is on,’ he said, looking out of the window at the traffic and the children playing.
She followed him down the lobby.
‘You sit at window much?’ he said, and she didn’t like that, but she said,
‘Sometimes.’
‘See you Tuesday then,’ he said. ‘Maybe have something else. Something nice.’
She closed the door behind him and heard his steps going downstairs, and it was almost as if she was listening to Norman leaving. She went back to the window, looking down, but she couldn’t see him: he must be keeping to this side of the street. Later on, however, she saw him crossing the road. He stopped and laid the case down and waved up at her, but she couldn’t make out the expression on his face. Then he continued and she couldn’t see him at all.
She got up slowly and put the socks in with the pile of the ones she had knitted herself, the loved ones, as if she were making an offering to the absent, as if she were asking for forgiveness. She hoped that next week he would have something cheap. She continued knitting the socks.
Close of Play
‘Well, Neil, aren’t you going to write the letter?’
He couldn’t see her, as he was lying face down on the bed, from which position he said,
‘Mother, please go away. I’m listening to the cricket. I’ll write it later . . . ’
‘But they said . . . ’
‘I know what they said. Just go away, will you?’
‘All right, Neil, but they said that the application has to be in tomorrow, and if you don’t write the letter tonight . . . ’ Her voice trailed
weakly away.
He shut the door on her and went back to lie down on the bed again, the transistor beside him. It was right enough, they had to know tomorrow, but supposing he didn’t want to go? To go would mean working for the rest of the summer at his Latin, which he had failed the first time, and it would take a lot of energy to pile into the subjunctive in this weather – even to get into university – when you could go for a lazy swim and to a dance in the evening.
His mother’s voice came faintly from the kitchen:
‘I don’t know what you can see in that cricket . . . ’ And, true enough, he had never played cricket in his life, but he listened to it just the same, hour after hour. As now.
‘This is a really interesting duel we’re witnessing at the moment between Illingworth and Redpath.’ That Australian drawl. Funny thing, they said ‘sundries’ instead of ‘extras’. He scratched his face: he’d have to shave soon and he wasn’t looking forward to it.
‘There are twenty minutes left of this Test and the game is poised on a hair. With twenty minutes to go, the Australians have one wicket left. I feel sure that the Australians are not going to play any daring shots at this stage of the game. They’ll be happy to force a draw. And now here is Illingworth. A short run, and he straightened that one up. Redpath had a bit of difficulty with it. He came forward and then he went back again. Now he’s going out to prod at a spot on the wicket. It’s an interesting duel of wits, this, isn’t it, John?’
Then there was this job he’d been offered in London, working in an airport office. He didn’t really know what it involved, but it might be quite exciting. In any case, he had never been to London. Never. And people were always telling him about it. And then there was that book he had read about Soho, by Frank Norman. He had been in prison or something, hadn’t he? An interesting book, not at all like the usual guide, a good, clean, unhypocritical style. A good lot in it about strip clubs too, all about these young girls setting out to ruin themselves. Well, let him get down there and help them to do that. Fifteen pounds a week; not much, but then it would probably go up. By increments, as they laughingly said. And then there was this Latin drag. He was all right at English literature, but Latin – all that grammar and stuff, and Ovid, and all these perverts. What use were they anyway? Just a ticket. Why, once he got his Latin – if he ever got it – he would never read a Latin book or poem or conjugation again. What sort of education was that, when it turned you against a subject? And he’d already failed it once. And probably would again. How could one concentrate on the stuff? It had no contact with the present, all memory work, that was all it was.
The Red Door Page 9