by David Lodge
There was another long pause, as Clare searched desperately for some comforting word that would bear exposure to his present mood.
‘Mark … if only you had faith …’ she murmured.
‘What kind of faith?’
‘Oh, any kind. Faith in yourself. Faith in God.’
‘I don’t inspire faith in myself. And God can’t help me, I’m afraid. My problems aren’t religious. I’ll try and explain. Look: out there is London; beyond is the world. I can’t see it because of the fog. But even if the fog cleared, I wouldn’t know what it all meant. Looking out over a city gives me a sort of sick feeling—a sense of the appalling multiplicity of life. I get a sort of dizziness—that helpless feeling you get when you read that a star is ninety million light years from the earth. I think of sewage pulsing through thousands of miles of pipes, of trains crammed with humanity hurtling through the tube, of the people who never stop walking past you on the pavements—such infinite variations of appearance, none of them alike, each with his own obsession, his own disappointment, his own set of values, his own magazine under his arm catering for his own hobby—railway engines or beekeeping. One feels that one wants to gather them all in like a harvest; or stop one, understand him, absorb his identity, and then pass on to the next one—but there’s no time, there are too many, and you’re swamped.’
He paused for a moment, thinking. Clare sat very still.
‘What gets me is that so much of life passes you by, without so much as touching you, and it’s beyond recall. Art? It’s like being asked to conserve a waterfall in a thimble.
‘Listen. As I talk to you now, a conductor is punching a ticket on a 53 bus in the Old Kent Road; down there in Bermondsey a drunken docker is getting into bed with his daughter; in Buenos Aires a beggar spits; in Pittsburgh someone puts a nickel in a juke-box; in a Chinese village they are crucifying a priest to the door of his own church; in a Paris cellar they are staring at a naked dancer; in a Birmingham hospital an old man dies on the operating table; in Germany a soldier shivers on guard; somewhere a boy wets his bed, a woman screams in childbirth, an athlete tears a muscle, a man pencils an obscene drawing on a wall, a poet finds his word; in the Grande Chartreuse a monk prays; in Delhi a legless man drags his torso along the gutter; in Baghdad an Arab scratches his stomach. And so on. And none of us knows or cares about the other. To each, all that matters is his own existence. The world is held in a state of hideous indifference and selfishness—if it weren’t I suppose we’d all go mad. But as a writer I feel painfully conscious of this infinite pullulating activity, I feel I must try and fix this multiplicity. If life was like a film which you could stop or slow down at will, you might be able to study it, to find a pattern, a meaning. But you can’t. Even as I described them, each little precious atom of individual experience had perished irretrievably, become something else. And there were countless millions of other moments of experience that I didn’t have time to mention.’
He stopped suddenly, and looked at her. He laughed.
‘D’you think I’m mad?’
‘No, Mark.’
‘Let’s go home.’
‘Yes.’
* * *
Reluctantly they dawdled towards the hated corner where they had to say good night. Len took his arm away to look at his watch. Three minutes left.
‘D’you have to look again, Len?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, cross and unhappy. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets.
‘Len, don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’
She stopped, and looked up at him in dumb misery. Her face was blue under the street-lamps.
‘Oh, Len, why does every evening have to end like this?’
‘Is it my fault?’
‘Of course it isn’t. It’s no one’s fault. But … well, what’s the use of getting worked up about it?’
‘I’m not worked up about it. You’re the one who gets worked up.’
‘That’s because you’re … like this.’
He knew that she was trying to be good, and brave, and that he was hurting her, but somehow he couldn’t help it. Because he wanted to go home with her and stay with her and sleep with her in his arms. And nothing else would do.
‘I don’t like letting you go home on your own. It worries me. It’s not safe around here.’
‘I know it’s because of me, Len,’ she said softly. ‘But just be nice to me before you have to go.’
‘There’s my bus,’ he said, looking over her shoulder.
He took her abruptly into his arms, and pressed a kiss on her lips. There was no pleasure in it.
‘Good night, Bridget. I love you.’
‘I love you too, Len,’ she whispered. But he had broken away, and was pounding after the bus. She watched his broad, heavy form thud on to the running-board and climb the stairs. He didn’t look back. She watched the bus till it turned the corner.
Across the street she caught sight of someone watching her from a shop doorway. Turning on her heel she began to walk smartly up the hill towards home. As she left the main road, the lights became more feeble and more widely spaced. She hurried across the great oceans of gloom and rejoiced each time she reached an island of light. Round the throat of each lamp-post there was a scarf of fog. Out of the dank, uncared-for gardens the great gaunt houses towered above her. Why were there always so few lighted windows in this street? A negro suddenly padded out from an alleyway, and she gasped with fright. But he passed on. Not fair really, the way you naturally expected a black man was up to no good. But she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t like them. She hurried on; the steel tips of her high heels clipped the paving-stones with a lonely sound.
Someone kicked a pebble behind her, and she glanced nervously over her shoulder. A youth. Was he following her? Of course not. Why should he? Yet he looked like the one who had watched her at the street-corner. Couldn’t you stop for two seconds on a public street without being thought one of those?
She turned sharply into the dark chasm of Dean Street, glancing casually over her shoulder again. Yes, it was him, and he was crossing the road to follow her. She accelerated her pace almost to a run, and tripped on a projecting paving-stone. Almost crying with vexation and fear, she recovered herself and hobbled on. If only she’d worn flatties that evening. Thank goodness it wasn’t far now.
Emerging from the long, blank walls of Dean Street, she took the short cut across the bomb-site as the lesser of two evils, scrunched across the freshly-laid gravel of Barn Street, and almost fell up the steps of number 46. She lost several seconds fumbling for her key in her handbag, then remembered that it was in her overcoat pocket. She let herself in. Before turning on the light in her room she tiptoed to the window and peeped out. A white-faced youth in a dark raincoat slouched past without giving the house a glance. Most likely she had frightened herself for nothing. Nevertheless she was glad to be inside. As she turned back into the room, it seemed a bit spooky, with the dark outlines of the old-fashioned furniture, and the heavy plaster relief on the ceiling which always looked about to fall, faintly illuminated by the glow from the street-lamps outside. She switched on the light and drew the curtains. Then she lit the gas-ring and prepared a cup of cocoa. She began to hum ‘Love is a many-splendoured thing’, softly, so as not to disturb Old Mother Potts. She sipped her cocoa slowly, giving the hot-water bottle time to warm the bed and toast her pyjamas. She knelt and said her usual prayers: three Hail Mary’s, an Our Father, an Act of Contrition. She couldn’t go to sleep without having said them; it was the only thing the nuns at the home had taught her which had really stuck. Good job Sister Grizelda didn’t know she didn’t go to Mass any more. Even at this distance, the thought of her wrath was scaring.
Bridget pulled back the bedclothes, and sat down on the warm place made by the hot-water bottle, which she guided carefully down into the cold depths of the bed with her feet. She turned off the light, and snuggled down, tugging the blankets over her head.
And Bridget slept.
* * *
Harry prowled on through the dark, deserted streets, hands plunged into the black depths of his raincoat, his crêpe soles sliding occasionally on the damp film of mud that coated the pavement. So the little curly-haired tart had slipped him. Bet she thought she was mighty smart. Well she would find out just how smart one day. It was healthier to let some people have their own way. Himself, for instance. He got … annoyed when people crossed him. Especially tarts. He wasn’t used to being crossed by tarts. He didn’t like it.
A giggle from a doorway startled him, but it was only somebody touching up his piece. Dirty bastard. Harry spat. A cat slunk from his approach. Harry prowled on.
At the Triangle he stopped at the coffee stall for a cup of the hot, bitter brew, and a pork pie. He ate and drank dourly on the rim of the bright circle of light, warmth and chatter that radiated from the stall, challenging with his stony glare the noisy joviality of the other customers.
‘It’s bein’ so cheerful as keep’s me goin’,’ said one of them. ‘Like our little ray of sunshine here,’ he added, indicating Harry. Smarting under their silly bloody laughter, he gulped down his coffee and stalked away. He turned down the cobbled hill that led to his house. On the river the ships were moaning about the fog. Turning into his house he fouled his shoes in some dog’s filth, and swore. He slipped the key noiselessly into the lock, and eased the door open. The smell of stale fat lay heavy on the air. The hall light wasn’t working, and he felt his way silently up the stairs. A voice sounded thickly from his mother’s room. He didn’t recognize it. The door suddenly burst open, and a fat man in long yellow underpants lurched against the banister.
‘Where do I piss?’ he demanded.
Harry pointed along the landing. His lips curled in disgust, he entered his own room and switched on the light. The raw bulb cast a harsh light on its dirt and disorder. Harry carefully draped his suit on a hanger, kicked off his shoes, and threw himself down on the lumpy, unmade bed. He found a half-smoked Woodbine on the floor, and lit it, letting the smoke drift slowly past his eyes. Christ, what a life.
Somehow he must get to the States. That was the place for a guy who wanted to make the big time. Plenty of money, cars, suits, shirts. A dame like Amber Lush. She had class all right. He would have class, all class. An apartment like the one in the film, with a bar and refrigerator. A big black Cadillac, and a bright yellow convertible for taking his dame down to the beach. Tough, unsmiling men under him, obeying his every command, ruthlessly eliminating the opposition.
Suddenly pain seared his lips. With an oath he tore the cigarette stub from his mouth and flung it to the floor. He peeled off his damp, sour-smelling socks, and took off his shirt. Shivering, he switched off the light at the door, and felt his way back to the bed. Getting in, he pulled the blankets around him, and, straddling the naked thighs of Amber Lush, grunted with pleasure.
* * *
Mr Mallory tugged at his tie until it came apart, and pulled off his jersey in the way that was bad for it. He tossed them over the back of a chair. He was glad that they had stopped in at the Bricklayers Arms for a drink. Extravagant really, drinking spirits, but so what? If it made you feel cheerful, it was worth it. Even Bett was quite good-tempered now. Made her look younger. Pretended she didn’t like gin, had to be coaxed to take it like medicine—but it took some of the starch out of her—eased the strings of her corsets, so to speak. Those corsets, underwear pink, now rested, exhausted, on a chair. His wife, in night-dress and dressing-gown, sat before the dressing-table, brushing her hair. He had wrenched one shoe off without undoing the laces, and stood now in a stork-like posture, arrested half-way through the removal of the other shoe by the beauty of his wife’s hair. Tell her.
‘That’s a fine head of hair you’ve got still, Bett,’ he said. She began to brush it with special care.
‘It’s an experience the younger generation miss you know, seeing a woman let down her hair. Why, when I married you it gave me more of a thrill the first time you let down your hair than the first time you let down your drawers.’
‘Tom!’ rebuked his wife. But there was no edge to her voice. She didn’t even reprove him when he let his trousers slide to the floor, and stepped happily out of them without bothering to hang them up. With a faint surprise he felt a stirring in his loins. What was it—the drink, or Amber Lush? Moving over to the dressing-table he put his arms round his wife’s ample body. She stopped brushing with mock annoyance. He grinned at their reflection in the mirror.
‘You ought to be in films yourself you know.’
‘Oh yes?’ she inquired ironically. ‘On the wide screen?’
‘No, honestly. I mean this fashion for buxom film-stars, with plenty of curves. Now that is a bust.’
‘Don’t be vulgar, Tom,’ said his wife happily.
‘Hallo, what’s this lump?’
‘Oh nothing.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, it’s been there for years. It’s nothing.’
Mr Mallory’s ardour wavered for a moment. He wobbled like a tight-rope walker who feels his confidence vanishing: the gravitational forces of worry began to assert themselves.
‘You ought to go to the doctor’s,’ he said uncertainly.
‘Don’t talk to me of doctors. It’s nothing I tell you. Does it show?’
Mr Mallory lunged forward on the tight-rope.
‘You needn’t worry,’ he said, pinching her affectionately on the rump where it overlapped the dainty dressing-table seat. ‘You’re still a fine figure of a woman. That Amber Lush is a bag of bones beside you.’
‘Now stop it, Tom.’
‘And maybe I could teach that Len Geste a thing or two.’ He hoisted her up from the seat, laughing and protesting in his arms.
‘Come on, let’s try one of those open-mouth kisses, all spit and breath.’
After a few seconds his wife came spluttering to the surface.
‘Oh, Tom, you are a fool, really. At our age.’
Deftly he reached out and turned off the light.
‘It’s a very nice age,’ he said.
Fifteen minutes later she said:
‘Tom, are all the children in?’
‘What children. We haven’t got any children. We were only married this afternoon, remember?’
She giggled.
‘You are a fool, Tom.’
* * *
It had been a particularly trying evening for Damien. Attendance at the meeting had been poor. Even the parish priest had been absent, and the curate didn’t command the same prestige and authority. Then on his return there had been that regrettable scene with Mrs Higgins when he complained of the way her daughter strewed her underclothes all over the bathroom to dry. He had had difficulty in making Mrs Higgins understand that it wasn’t the inconvenience he objected to, but the immodesty. Why, at home his mother and sisters would not think of even washing such garments in his presence. Then the young baggage herself had come in, and appeared highly amused by the whole affair. He had stalked angrily out of the room, leaving mother and daughter giggling impertinently. He flushed at the memory. Really he was most uneasy in this house. He deeply regretted that he had not insisted on taking the room next door which Underwood now occupied; but Mrs Mallory had said that she didn’t want to take him away from Mrs Higgins, who wa
s a widow, and hard-up. But his aunt was too soft-hearted. Mrs Higgins wasn’t hard-up. At least, she quite spoiled that daughter of hers, who must spend large sums of money on clothing and similar luxuries. Really it had been a most trying evening. And now this disturbance.
Crossing himself slowly and precisely, Damien rose from his knees, and closed the breviary with an irritable snap. He liked to read the Office every day, though it was difficult to find the necessary time and peace in the hurly-burly of modern secularized society. But it was completely impossible tonight, with the murmur of Clare’s and Underwood’s voices floating up from the street. He padded to the window, and squinted down at the steps next door. Chalky-blue in the street-lamp’s light, they stared blankly back at him. Clare and Underwood must be inside the porch. Why? Why were they there, talking? It was most inconsiderate of them. Surely they must realize that his window was just above them, and that some people might be trying to make their devotions? Clare, too, ought to have more care for her good name. Why, they might be a couple in the shadows behind a dance-hall. He strained his ears to catch the conversation below, but without success. Perhaps if he eased the window open a little …
‘We ought to go in now,’ Clare whispered to Mark.
‘Cold?’
‘No, but it’s late. And suppose someone in the house should hear us.’
‘You’re shivering. I shouldn’t have made you walk home. You haven’t enough clothes on.’
‘No, I’m all right, honestly,’ she replied, but allowed him to put his arms round her.
‘Better?’
‘Mmm. But really we ought to go in. Mummy will worry.’ She struggled feebly against the temptation to surrender to the peace and happiness of the moment—a kind of harmony of mutual exhaustion that, she felt, must exist between two people who have shared some trial or adventure, and reached a special understanding in the course of it. Love—if this was love—dealt out its rewards in an eccentric way. The moments of joy and understanding never came when you wanted them—at a home-coming or for a special occasion—but on a damp, dirty seat on top of a hill, or with a good-night embrace in a cold, draughty porch.