The Picturegoers

by David Lodge

  She had come to the refreshment hut, a crowded, sticky bee-hive. She stood in the queue for some minutes, till she was served by a sweating, grimy woman, who sprayed from a height a tray full of cups, and slapped the change down on a counter awash with various fluids. Clare levered the coins off the counter, and carried her cup out into the small enclosure, where she balanced it on an unsteady iron table, her feet cushioned by a carpet of litter. An unwholesome little boy, his face smeared by jam and snot, stared up at her, writhing slightly, with one hand between his legs, and one finger poked up his nose. Clare looked away. When she looked back, he had mercifully disappeared. She took three aspirins from her handbag and swallowed them, grimacing, with the last tepid mouthful of tea. Then she rose, and walked towards the park gates.

  Yes, already the numbness of shock was fading, and she felt the first spasm of the enormous pain that awaited her, and she was frightened. Self-pity welled up in her. I’ll never be nice to anyone again, she vowed, like a child in a tearful rage. It’s trying to be nice to people that gets me into trouble—and it doesn’t help the people either. First Hilda, then Damien, then Mark. Hilda’s life was ruined—she was a complete neurotic. Damien was all queer and twisted because he had thought she liked him when she didn’t. And Mark—he would never make a priest. He would end up as another frustrated religious failure like herself and Damien. Religion had ruined him. Religion had ruined them all. Making them think there was nothing they couldn’t do with their own lives, and other people’s. Love thy neighbour as thyself. It was dangerous advice. Love was like a bus driven by a child: the more passengers, the more fatalities. Mark wouldn’t suffer too much though. He was lucky, he couldn’t really love. He came from a loveless home, where the emotions were sterilized to avoid infection. But her own home was a hot-bed for the emotions. The strain of living there in the weeks to come would be intolerable. You couldn’t be alone with your tragedy, you were expected to bring it into the living-room with you, as the others brought their newspapers, knitting, homework.

  She increased her pace, anxious to get to the cinema quickly, to distract her mind from too clearly visualizing life without Mark. She stepped off the pavement, and a car with squealing brakes drove her back again, frightened and flustered. The driver yelled something at her as he passed, and the bystanders regarded her disapprovingly. She crossed the road, and continued walking a little unsteadily. Thank God the Palladium was just round the corner. It was a pity perhaps that the car had not knocked her down. She saw herself, wan and bravely smiling in the hospital bed, with Mark grave and repentant at the bedside … Oh, don’t be so stupid. Forget him.

  She turned the corner and glanced up at the hoarding above the cinema’s portico, to see what was to be her fate for the next three hours. Just about the last thing she wanted to see—a noisy film all about Rock ’n Roll. Oh well, she couldn’t drag herself as far as the Rex. As she made for the doors she was suddenly halted by the realization that she had no money with her. She had spent her last sixpence on the tea. She had a cheque-book, but the banks were shut. Oh fool! What could she do? She couldn’t go home for money.

  A noisy group of young people passed her as they turned into the cinema. They were singing, and one couple executed some jive steps on the pavement. The girl was wearing a tight, white sweater with ‘ROCK’ embroidered across her bosom. Clare moved on purposefully, as if it was necessary to disguise the fact that she had no money. But she had no purpose either. She was tired, hot, upset. She felt foul. She wanted to die. Or sit down, anyway. But where? To sit down in a café you had to buy a cup of tea. The park was too far away. She experienced for the first time the frightening inhospitality of city streets. You couldn’t just sit down in a street. There was only one place left to her.

  * * *

  Mrs Mallory stepped out of the doctor’s into the sunlight and bounded down the hill, scarcely able to contain her glee. For the first time in her life London—Brickley—seemed beautiful. The tall Victorian houses, propped against the side of the hill, the railway lines shimmering in the heat even the pungent odour of the Marmite factory, seemed transformed by her happiness. She beamed at two scruffy little girls who were pushing a doll’s pram, grotesquely shod in their mother’s high-heeled shoes. Lovingly, as if repeating one of the poems she had learnt as a girl, and never forgotten, she crooned to herself the doctor’s words, ‘Nothing to worry about, Mrs Mallory. Just a lump of surplus tissue.’

  ‘But the pain, Doctor?’

  ‘Probably a touch of heartburn which you associated with the lump because you were worried about it. Or may have been completely imaginary. How long has it been there?’

  ‘Oh, years, Doctor.’

  ‘There you are. You’ve been worrying about it for years. Why didn’t you come and see me before?’

  Why indeed? How glad she was that Tom had finally badgered her into going. And how glad he would be when she told him. It would be about seven o’clock when he got back from the cricket match with Patrick.

  It would do Patrick good to get a bit of fresh air. He had been off form lately. He had probably been worrying about his vocation. But it was too soon to worry about that. He had asked if he could go to the seminary school at once, but he had seemed relieved when Tom advised against it. As Tom said, both Clare and Damien had tried their vocations too early in life. As he said, you ought to know what you were giving up before you gave it up.

  She crossed Maple Road to get into the shade. It was very hot. Perhaps they would have a good summer this year. It was time they all had a holiday. The whole family together. Perhaps Mark would come with them. He was looking washed out after his exams, and Clare would like it.

  She let herself into the house, and made herself a cup of tea. Everyone was out, and she was impatient for them all to come in. She was so happy she wanted to be especially nice to everybody. They would have salmon for tea, she decided. She went to the larder and opened two tins. She laid the table, but it was no use preparing the salad yet. She would go and clean Mark’s room.

  It was a shambles as usual. Boys’ rooms always were. The desk was a chaos of open books—she never understood how he could read so many at once. She had difficulty in dusting the desk. An exercise book slithered towards the edge of the desk and she just managed to grasp one cover. The book flopped open, and a loose page fluttered to the floor. She recovered it and was about to slip it back into the book, when she realized that if she put it back in the wrong place, Mark might think she had been snooping. As she hesitated, she glanced at the loose page to see if it offered any clue to its rightful position in the book. What she saw made her read the whole page carefully. As she read her right hand strayed up to her left breast.

  * * *

  Mark wearily climbed the steps of number 89, and let himself in. The hall was deliciously cool and dark. He decided to go upstairs and pack. How on earth was he to explain his abrupt departure to the family?

  ‘Is that you, Mark?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Mallory.’

  She came out of the kitchen, looking oddly grave. Perhaps this would be the ideal opportunity; but he didn’t feel prepared.

  ‘Could I have a word with you, Mark?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They didn’t go into the kitchen, but into the front parlour which was rarely used on weekdays. It was the room that Mark liked least. Cheap, ugly furniture acquired a certain character when it was battered and well-used. Here it was in an artificial state of preservation. But what was all this about anyway? He began to feel rather uneasy as he sat down on one of the hard, rexine-covered arm-chairs. Mrs Mallory sat down on an upright, wooden chair.

  ‘Mark,’ she began, ‘you’ve been with us for some time.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Mallory. It must be at least nine months.’

  ‘You’ve become one of the family. You eat with us, go to church with us, though how you can … You take my daughter out …’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Mallory?’ This could only be leading up to on
e thing: when are you going to marry my daughter? He was surprised and annoyed by Mrs Mallory’s lack of tact. And what was that bit about church, anyway? She looked away from him, and went over to straighten a picture on the wall.

  ‘What I mean is, that what I have to say to you, I wouldn’t say if you hadn’t been one of the family. If you were just a lodger, coming and going in your own way, I’d say it was none of my business.’

  He took out a cigarette and lit it.

  ‘What are you trying to say, Mrs Mallory?’

  She pulled a piece of folded paper from her overall pocket, and handed it to him.

  ‘I found this in your room, Mark. You must take my word for it that I saw it by accident. But I’m not ashamed of having read it. I call it filth, and I want an explanation.’

  He unfolded the paper, and recognized it as a page from his note-book. It must have come loose after he had torn out his diary of Student Cross. He glanced at it. It comprised a number of jottings, recording odd thoughts about Clare early in their relationship:

  ‘Clare is still a respectable girl. You can always tell a respectable girl. Their bodies can be mapped out like butchers’ charts … Touch one of the forbidden areas—breast, rump or loin, and you encounter resistance …’

  He turned over the page.

  ‘In the cold light of day it seems incredible that I toppled to my knees in so abject a manner. But it was the frustrated libido seeking spiritual orgasm … if I could have copulated with Clare, or merely stroked her breasts a bit …’

  There were several other pieces, including the first stanza of the unfinished Ode On His Beloved’s Urination, but he didn’t bother to read it all. He folded the paper, and put it in his pocket.

  ‘Well?’ said Mrs Mallory.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Mrs Mallory.’

  He really didn’t. He could probably clear himself with Mrs Mallory if he really applied himself to it. She was a reasonable woman, and he knew that she liked him. He could explain that this had been written a long time ago, when he was quite a different person. He could even show her the diary of Student Cross, which had once, ironically, been attached to the offending page, to demonstrate the sincerity of his change of heart. But would this solve any problems? Any such explanation must inevitably end with a declaration of his honourable intentions towards Clare. God, what a situation!

  Then suddenly, he came to a decision, and plunged on before he had time to reconsider it.

  ‘Mrs Mallory, I haven’t got any excuses.’

  She looked troubled.

  ‘I’m very disappointed in you, Mark.’

  ‘You have every reason to be. I’m sorry. Obviously I can’t stay here any longer. I’ll leave tonight.’

  ‘Leave? Tonight?’ She seemed frightened and bewildered.

  ‘Yes. I’ll go and pack now. I don’t think it would do any good to go on talking.’ He rose, and moved towards the door.

  ‘Mark.’

  He stopped.

  ‘I shouldn’t have looked at the paper—’

  He looked into her troubled eyes, and saw that the consequences of her act were beginning to dawn on her.

  ‘You said it was an accident,’ he said gently.

  ‘It was—but—’

  ‘Don’t worry about Clare, Mrs Mallory. We broke it off this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her evident relief pained him, and it was an effort to continue:

  ‘And, Mrs Mallory. You’d better not tell Clare why I’m leaving.’

  She looked at him sadly.

  ‘I shan’t tell anyone, Mark.’

  * * *

  When Clare got to the church, Father Kipling was standing in the forecourt, looking about rather anxiously. His face registered relief when he saw her.

  ‘Clare! You’re the answer to my prayer. Would you mind very much witnessing a marriage? It won’t take long.’

  ‘All right, Father.’

  She felt mildly perplexed, but too punch-drunk to care. Jilted, nearly run over, penniless, witness to a marriage of strangers—so what? All in a day’s hell. Mallory can take it.

  ‘I feel sorry for the couple,’ said Father Kipling confidentially, as he ushered her into the church. ‘She’s a foundling, and his people are opposed to the marriage, so there aren’t any guests. His aunt and uncle promised to be witnesses, but were dissuaded by his mother at the last moment. But they’re determined to go through with it. As he’s a non-Catholic it’s worse. They haven’t much money, and he’s in the Army. I hope they’re doing the right thing. I can’t remember having seen them in church before. Still, there’s nothing I can do. They’re both over twenty-one, and he’s signed all the papers.’

  Clare muttered vague replies to these remarks.

  Our Lady of Perpetual Succour was a church that contrived to be acutely uncomfortable under all climatic conditions. Thus it was both dark and hot that afternoon: the tall buildings on either side causing the one, and the low ceiling and tightly shut windows the other.

  Clare helped herself liberally to holy water at the entrance, but it was warm on her forehead. At the back of the church knelt Mrs Duffy, the school caretaker, saying her beads. In the front pew the couple sat waiting to be married. Father Kipling stooped and said a few words to them as he passed into the sacristy to vest, and they turned round and looked at Clare. She smiled, and the girl smiled back. The man looked grave and worried. How absolutely awful to be married in this way. The girl—it seemed sarcastic to call her the bride—was wearing a cheap costume in lilac that looked stiff and new. The man wore a rough, uncomfortable-looking uniform. His hair had been cropped cruelly short, and a piece of plaster covered a boil on his red, raw neck. She was kneeling; he sat stolidly, hands on knees.

  Father Kipling emerged from the sacristy with a small, intrigued acolyte. He motioned them all up to the altar rails. With a twinge of horror, Clare realized that Mrs Duffy was her fellow-witness. She scuffed up to the altar in her carpet slippers, and stood next to Clare, with the ill-tempered, tight-lipped expression she always adopted when in church or in the presence of the clergy.

  The service was curt and joyless. Clare had planned so often the details of her own wedding, so often pictured herself, radiant in a long, white dress with train, leaning on her father’s arm, advancing with a slow, fragile step down the aisle towards Mark, handsome and smiling in morning dress, while the organ pealed and the candles and flowers blazed, and the guests beamed and whispered in the crowded pews—that she felt a surge of pity for the girl who would have nothing to remember but this sordid little ceremony. The sentiment backfired at once with a sharp reminder of the hopelessness of her own dreams. However, it was true that there were other people as unfortunate as herself.

  But were they, this pair? At least they would lie in each other’s arms that night … She grabbed her train of thought just in time and hauled it back. She forced herself to listen to the service, the man’s responses firm and gruff, the girl’s scarcely audible. Almost imperceptibly, they were married. Clare and Mrs Duffy followed them into the sacristy and signed their names as witnesses. As the couple left, Clare smiled and mumbled something about ‘Good luck’. The girl smiled back and murmured a reply; her husband didn’t smile, but he shook hands with Clare and Mrs Duffy, and gravely thanked them. They walked out into their new life, and Clare didn’t know whether to envy or pity them. It was strange that their paths had crossed at this crisis in all their lives. Would they ever cross again?

  Mrs Duffy left at once, but Clare felt it would be more polite to linger for a while, rather than rush out after the couple, as if the wedding had been an annoying chore. Father Kipling seemed anxious to chat also.

  ‘It was lucky that you happened to drop by,’ he said, as he tugged off his surplice.

  ‘Yes it was, Father. I nearly went to the pictures.’

  Father Kipling looked momentarily disconcerted, and a second later Clare remembered his sermon.

  ‘I—I didn’t feel v
ery well—the heat I suppose—and I just wanted somewhere to sit down,’ she explained hurriedly, trying to smooth over her faux pas. ‘But I found that I hadn’t any money with me, so I came along here instead.’ That sounded worse than ever. She just couldn’t cope this afternoon.

  ‘Well, it was the good Lord who directed you to supply my need, no doubt,’ said Father Kipling, a trifle mechanically. He was in his shirt-sleeves now, and went over to the sink to wash his hands, rolling up his sleeves over thin, white clerical forearms, covered with black hairs. She had never seen him engaged in such mundane activity, and yet he did not seem to find her presence an embarrassment.

  ‘Do you go often to the cinema, Clare?’ he asked. ‘You can be quite candid,’ he added with a wry smile, as he perceived her hesitation. ‘I shan’t preach at you—my last sermon on the subject was pretty disastrous.’

  ‘I think there was a lot of truth in what you said, Father. It needed saying.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to say so. The bishop didn’t share your view. I wonder—I’ve wondered for a long time—was I right, or was I wrong? I must have been wrong I suppose. The crusade was certainly a failure.’

  He stooped over the sink, leaning heavily on locked arms, and staring at his hands, flattened against the bottom of the bowl. The sense of failure that haloed his bowed head made Clare conscious for the first time of his identity as a person. He had never been an impressive priest—dispensing sacraments, sermons and whist-drive announcements with the same patient ennui, like a weary shopkeeper who has forgotten why he ever started to sell. But now, at this moment, she understood his inadequacy in personal terms, realized what it meant to him not to be able to move people, not to be able to find the encouraging word, the inspiring slogan.

  ‘I had a very enlightening conversation about the whole subject with the young man who’s staying with you at the moment.’