by Tim Jeal
‘You must understand, I can’t leave you here in this state. You’ve already hurt yourself badly enough … I should never forgive myself if something worse happened to you.’
‘David, I beg you to leave me.’
David looked at him dubiously. These flashes of sobriety were almost more worrying than his drunken writhing.
George saw what he was thinking as clearly as if he had spoken it. In despair he said:
‘Will you help me to bed?’
With luck Sally might be able to escape while they were upstairs. He would throw the bedclothes about and make as much noise as he could. It would be expected of him.
‘I think you’d better stay here and rest a bit before we do anything else. I’ll tidy up a little while you sober up.’
He could make a dash for the door. David saw the direction of George’s gaze. He saw there was no key in the lock. Instead he moved a chair in front of the door and sat on it. He had seen what George did when his mother got drunk, so the situation, short of violence, presented few problems.
George sank back deeper into his chair, his heart-beats seemed to be coming slower. At last there really was nothing he could do. David picked up an empty glass; suddenly his eye lighted on another. Not surprising; when he was this bad he might keep glasses at opposite sides of the room to save him the effort of moving. He righted the upturned chair and straightened the rucked-up carpet. A cushion lay on the floor just in front of the sofa. He went across and replaced it. He looked round the room to see if there was anything else … wait a second wasn’t that a black cushion with lace trimmings just behind the sofa … without bothering to move he leant forward and plucked at it … funny… must be caught under one of the legs. He took a couple of steps and bent down … Sally’s face was about six inches from his.
For a moment neither of them moved, but remained staring at each other crouched on their hands and knees. George buried his face in the side of his arm-chair. If only he could be struck blind and deaf. In the following seconds he would rather Sally had been struck dumb. Slowly she got up, awkwardly balancing on one high-heeled shoe. Her hair had fallen down over one eye, on her left cheek there was an ugly purple swelling, and the lace had come adrift from the bottom of her skirt where David had pulled it. George’s hands were over his face now, through a gap in his fingers he could see that she was trembling. Her high-pitched laughter was far worse than the abuse that George was expecting. Her whole body was shaking as each new wave overcame her. From the floor David looked up at her flung-back shoulders and the overhang of her quaking breasts. He remained immobile as in a nightmare. The first view of those green-shaded eyes still lingered before him. The shattered silence might have been his mind. Suddenly his strength returned, his legs jerked straight under him, his back unbent. As the tears started to blind him, he leapt towards the door. He half saw George’s hunched form in the arm-chair as the room raced by. In his nostrils the smell of cheap scent almost stifled him. In the corridor the laughter was fainter; in front of him was an open door, he ran through it and fell in the darkness on to a large double bed. The sheets were already pulled back.
*
In the sitting-room, Sally had stopped laughing. She wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. At last George spoke.
‘I think you’d better go.’
‘I don’t think it will make much difference.’
‘I’d still rather you did.’
‘So you’re going to try and stop him running back to Mummy, is that it?’
‘I just think it’s only fair on the boy for you to leave us alone tonight.’
‘Anybody might think it was your son the way you’re going on. If he’s old enough to wear long trousers, he’s old enough to know about the birds and bees. Or does he think his mother and you talk about the state of the nation when you’re in bed?’
‘I don’t know what he thinks. I just want you to go.’
All traces of Sally’s laughter had disappeared.
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that it was all my fault in a minute, that I’ve ruined fifteen years of adulterous bliss. Did you think I was going to pretend to be your washer-woman playing a quiet game of hide-and-seek with little Georgy Porgy before beddy bies? I really think you want to go back to that old bag.’
‘I don’t know what I want to do, except that I want to be left alone.’
‘You may not realise it, but this evening’s little romp has set you free. You didn’t even have to lift a finger.’
She was smiling at him now. George wondered what she was thinking. Better not disillusion her now.
‘I’ll have to see how things work out.’
‘You astound me, you really do. Little Lord Fauntleroy has met the wicked fairy so Prince Charming misses his cue.’ She moved across the room towards his chair and knelt down on the floor next to him. ‘Think of what we’ll be able to do now. It won’t be once a month but every day. It isn’t too late.’ She leant over intimately and slipped a hand into his shirt. Playfully she started to stroke the hairs on his chest.
George smiled back. There was no alternative he would have to play along if he was ever to get her out.
‘We’ll be able to go to the Riviera and Italy. I’ve never been abroad.’ Her eyes were shining. Streaks of eye shadow lined her cheeks where she had wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
George saw visions of a fat man in Bermuda shorts walking across crowded beaches, following his typist love. They wouldn’t even be able to afford Margate. Thoughtfully Sally picked the rose out of her bosom and put it in her hair. Or was it to be sunny Spain with the gay clicking of castanets? Was she thinking of the ideal bikini or dry martinis under large multi-coloured umbrellas? There’d be snapshots to show her friends, or perhaps a ciné camera. Pictures of George swimming, lounging, drinking, driving, George draped over a crumbling pillar by the Parthenon. Of course he’d take pictures too, of her. Sally bronzed, Sally half-naked, Sally eating caviare.
‘Darling, why don’t you come round tomorrow and then we’ll plan something definite?’
She nodded assent. George hurried into the hall to find her coat. He scrabbled under the other arm-chair for her missing shoe.
The taxi only took three minutes. She kissed him before she got in,
‘George darling, I can’t remember ever feeling happier.’
*
Hastily George shut the front door and hurried back into the flat. He was relieved to see that David had shut the bedroom door. At least he would be saved convincing him that he had merely been trying to get rid of Sally.
David was sitting on the edge of the bed. He seemed to have partially recovered. But his face was tight as a skin-stretched mask. Neither of them spoke for several minutes, then like a triggered machine David stuttered:
‘How could you, how could you, how could you?’
George didn’t reply.
‘She was so common, so awful. How could you do it when you knew that?’
How to explain to somebody barely fifteen that proletarian flesh felt the same and young proletarian flesh sometimes better. How could he ever be judged by his peers? Who but over-sexed and fattening men dependent on elder women had a right to condemn? Hadn’t he paid the price with his freedom? Shouldn’t there be some reward?
‘Did you love her? Could you ever have loved somebody like that?’
What to say? I lusted hopelessly?
‘Once.’
‘But mummy, you didn’t tell mummy. Then back at home she still thought that you loved her, while all the time you hated her.’
‘How could I tell her?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know. I only wish that I’d never come, that I’d never seen this.’
Why couldn’t it have been Steven? Then it would have been straightforward damnation. There would have been no attempts to understand.
‘I’ve always loved your mother most. I’ve just been weak.’
‘Did you ev
er try and stop seeing that woman?’
‘Yes, but I loved her too, in a different way. When you’re older perhaps you’ll understand that there are different kinds of love, some more beautiful than others.’
‘So you knew you were harming a more beautiful love?’
‘I couldn’t help it. But now I promise you it’s over.’
‘You’ll never see her again?’
‘Never.’
‘But how will you ever be able to talk to Mummy without feeling guilty?’
‘I have got to learn to try again. If she ever knew, it would kill her.’
‘Can you do it, though, after what’s happened? Don’t you want to go away with that other woman?’
‘I can’t cut off fifteen of the most valuable years of my life because I’ve been stupid once.’
‘So I’ve got to forget tonight?’
George nodded.
‘How can I? How can I?’ David started to cry again. ‘And you may only be saying all this for her. You want to leave us, you want to, I know you do.’
‘I swear I don’t.’
‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t …’ his sobbing increased, ‘I may have to tell her.’
‘She’ll never get over it. My suffering, if I go back, would be nothing to hers if I don’t.’
George heard the telephone dimly, he walked over to answer it. Soon the sound of Mrs. Crofts’ voice jarred his ear.
David half-listened; nothing mattered any more. But George made no mistakes. Snatches of broken conversation came to David.
‘… well as can be expected … time will tell … back in a couple of days … no trouble having him … David’s visit has meant a lot … being a bachelor is a lonely business … tell him you called … phone his mother myself … Good-bye.’
George turned back to David.
‘I don’t suppose it matters why you didn’t tell me you were coming. I think I can guess. And Steven gave you the address, it would have to be Steven, wouldn’t it?’
‘I don’t see how you can blame him. How could he have known about this?’
‘I’m sorry David, I’m very sorry.’ George paced over to a chair and sat down. No more to be said. He glanced over the carpet towards the edge of the bed and David’s feet.
‘You’ve torn your trousers.’
‘In the park coming.’
‘Shuts at six.’
‘I climbed.’
‘Ah.’
They heard the noise of some people in the street slamming car doors, and laughing. A long silence followed. Finally George got up and said quietly, as though pained at the sound of his voice.
‘I’ll get a bed ready for you.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Only eleven.’
All that in half an hour. A life ruined in half an hour. Just thirty minutes of hysterical indignity. George got up and moved slowly towards the door. His feet felt strangely detached.
When he got back David looked embarrassed.
‘You see, after what’s happened, I don’t feel I can stay the night here. I’d rather catch the last train for Exeter.’
The ultimate rejection … Oh Absalom, my son, my son. George said: ‘But where would you stay?’
‘There’s a fairly cheap hotel near the station.’
Birds have their nests … The whole situation was getting too ridiculous to be taken seriously. With an effort George returned the answer expected by reality:
‘You can’t possibly do that.’
‘If you won’t take me I shall have to catch a taxi.’
Reality was clearly not to be taken seriously. George went to collect his overcoat.
*
As they drove towards Paddington a thin sleet started to fur the windscreen.
‘It usually does something when I go back to school.’
‘This is the first time we’ve ever had sleet.’
David didn’t answer. George went on:
‘My wiper isn’t working as well as yours.’
He looked anxiously at David; he thought he saw a weak smile.
‘You mustn’t tell her, really she’d never get over it.’
George hoped that David’s silence was consent. A slight thread of hope seemed held out before him. Perhaps if he walked carefully, very carefully, he might survive.
They arrived at the station with five minutes to go.
‘Do you want anything to read?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Anyway, I expect the bookstalls are shut.’
‘Do you mind if I get in now?’
‘Yes, but I suppose you must.’
As George watched the train spinning out its twin spidery threads of gleaming metal, he wondered whether he ought to have felt like crying. Perhaps just one tear would redeem him, blot out what had happened. ‘Blood from a stone, blood from a stone,’ he muttered as he walked towards the barrier. Must be shock. He felt momentarily reassured of his humanity.
‘Can I see your ticket, please?’
‘I’ve been seeing somebody off.’
‘That’s what they all say.’
‘How much?’
‘Fourpence.’
‘They’ve gone up.’
The ticket collector nodded and once more ducked back behind the barrier of his evening paper. George wandered towards the main exit. Not even the ticket collector wanted to talk to him. No cause for anger though; only shouldn’t wounds like his leave some mark, some visible proof of suffering that elicited instant sympathy? A severe shock could change the colour of a man’s hair overnight. Involuntarily, he raised a hand to his head. A truck carrying heaped-up mail bags passed a few feet in front of him; he hardly noticed it. Although there was barely a handful of people left in the station, piped music still echoed spongily over the microphones across the dank emptiness. George halted for a moment. How could he go back to the flat now to see the cushions just where David had replaced them? How could he bear to inhale the still-lingering fragrance of Sally’s scent? Only with company could he lighten the burden. How many hours, how many minutes till he would be able to find a temporary solution in sleep? He looked hopefully around him for a protective confessor and comforter. To his right a tramp was being turned off a near-by bench. A man with a watering-can was sprinkling the ground in front of the Ladies’ Room. Nobody else was visible in that normally crowded vastness.
No good staying here. Mechanically George’s feet moved under him. The pubs would be shut by now. Nothing for it but a night club. Hadn’t been to one for years; Sally didn’t like them … Sally—he thought of the morning and the inevitable breaking of his promises. There really was worse to come. When he had reached the entrance and walked out into the covering night, he felt safer. Tomorrow might come, but now, now at least in the few hours of tranquillity that remained to him, couldn’t he live a little still? By himself probably not, but with assistance it should be possible. He had a right didn’t he, as much as any man did, to forget the inevitably sobering dawn? What’s done is done, no good crying over … crying, out of the question, too numbed, too cold for that sort of thing. But why not? Because he was the real victim? A wave of acute self-pity made George shiver. David would get over it; but he might very well never recover, certainly materially it would be the end of the road if the news reached home. His teeth were chattering, grimly he fixed his jaw. The snow felt cold and wet on his forehead. On the streets in weather like this without even the consolation of being able to play the violin. Visit Father Christmas in his fairy cave under the railway bridge. There wouldn’t even be the money for the uniform. The cold seemed to seep with a slow and agonising numbness through his shoes. But inside in the warmth, in the dark, with a large deep glass of brandy … while David was alone in that train … when tomorrow Sally would come and after that when he had been rejected … Was it the melting snow or were they, could they be tears? If so, tears of what? George didn’t think, as he blundered on towards the car. Inside the club the warm
th would be so warm, the darkness so protecting, the brandy so forgetful.
After almost eight years’ absence, George had not forgotten the way to The Naked Angel. As soon as the windscreen wipers had pushed aside the snow, he let out the clutch and accelerated.
*
In his empty third-class compartment, David gained small consolation from the feeble reading lights muffled by their dusty faded shades. Outside the countryside fled by in its cold and dark indifference. At last he got up and pulled down the blind. Still standing, he reached into his coat pockets and produced a crumpled ten-shilling note and a few coppers. Not enough for a hotel and there was no chance of going back to the school in the middle of the night. He flopped down into his seat and tried to sleep. But closed eyes were no defence against the pictures of the mind. Sally was still with him, her eyes, her smell, but worst of all her laughter. And all the time he was returning to the unfeeling world of ’flu and football boots, half-eaten sardine tins and echoing corridors. Then there would be the unenthusiastic bickerings of Hotson and Chadwick. Whom could he tell? The morning’s sunshine seemed as far away as the previous term. His walk through the park might have happened to somebody else. How could anything ever be the same again for any of them? And yet it would have to be. Perhaps George was right, to say nothing might be the only way. But was it possible not to break down and tell her everything. If only there were somebody else to ease the load, but there was nobody … nobody … nobody … The rattling of the train seemed to re-echo the word over and over again.
If only she had been a little like Mummy, only a very small bit. But she had been so terrible, vulgar and common. Her voice, everything about her had been awful. He could still almost hear the harshness of her laughter. How would he be able to go on living at home seeing his mother deceived? If George couldn’t see how much better she was, then he didn’t deserve going on being near her. Perhaps he really didn’t want to. But what would she do without him, what could she do? His thoughts turned to the night in front of him in the cold of an unknown waiting-room. What did I do so wrong to deserve all this. What did I do? His breath began to come in starts. With his head cradled in his hands he gave in to the rhythm of the train as the tears came. Bent almost double, he felt his chest swelling until the bursting pain wrung each individual sob from the centre of his body.