by Tim Jeal
She hadn’t been a perfect mother, but so much better than he had ever felt till now. Remembered presents, smiles and kisses broke the words from him unsummoned: ‘Mummy, oh Mummy.’ How would he be able to speak to her again without pain if he didn’t say what he knew? The remorse less jolting and clattering of the train dulled his thoughts. There seemed no possible answer.
*
Some minutes later the guard saw him from the corridor, small and crumpled in his corner seat. He slid back the door.
‘Nothing wrong is there, son?’
‘Nothing,’ said David looking away trying to hide his tears. ‘I’m going back to school.’
‘Somebody meeting you at this hour of the night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we’ve all had to go to school, like it or not. You’ll feel better when you’re back with your mates. If you want to sleep ‘I’ll wake you. Where are you getting off?’
‘Exeter, thank you, thank you very much.’
Gently the guard shut the door again. David’s tears started once more. Why did he have to be so kind?
The train was coming into Reading, hardly a third of the way. Opposite David was a map. The track ahead of him stretched on for miles under its deepening cover of snow.
*
It was just after three o’clock in the morning; George was sitting in the flat opposite a ratlike-looking man. Between them on the carpet was an empty bottle: on top of the neck a pile of matches rested precariously. The rat was speaking nasally.
‘Your turn, old man.’
George jerked out of his chair. He picked another match out of the open box; holding it gingerly by one end, he lowered it slowly towards the matches on top of the bottle. Just as he was about to let it go, he faltered, flicked his hand away again. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. The bottle was quivering too much. He held his hand out in front of him. Funny, that seemed firm enough. He sensed his opponent’s eyes on him, willing him to make a mistake. He looked beyond the bottle to where an alien pair of black shoes rested on the carpet; above them rose a pair of trousers. George looked no higher than the knees. His eyes fell back to the bottle again; taking a deep breath, he once more lowered his hand. Lower, lower, until the match was touching the pile. He dropped it and let out his breath in a long hiss of disappointment. The pile slipped slightly to one side before slowly toppling to the floor. George’s hand groped blindly in his breast pocket. Another pound note was extracted and handed over.
‘You don’t want to stop, old man?’
Never, never. George nodded violent disagreement. Of course it was ludicrous to be gambling with a total stranger on a night like this. The man had given him a number of drinks at the club, but that hardly explained the indignity of his present position. How the hell had he been talked into it? All that brandy and now this, ‘Just to see who’s got the steadiest hand.’ My God. Yet to stop now …
‘I’ll go on,’ came his proud if indistinct words.
They repeated the exercise several times more, alternately placing matches on the bottle-neck. George lost another three times.
‘Just the luck of the game,’ said the man complacently.
Giving money to strangers; must be out of my mind. George angrily splashed out another whisky for himself. A lot went on the table. Didn’t even know the fellow’s name. If he knew what that money meant, what robbery it was, it would burn a hole in his suit. Like robbing a child, no better than that.
Both men were sitting in silence now. The chair gave a warning jolt under George. Mustn’t doze. At least that bloody game had made him forget how drunk he was. He fixed his eyes on one of the flower prints to steady the room. The floor steadied but the wall still pulsated intermittently like a living thing. George looked at the hairs on the backs of his hands as they rested on the arms of his chair. His feeling of nausea grew: disgust with himself, disgust with his body, disgust that he’d asked such a little worm back. And what had they done at that club? Drunk too much and talked about women like a couple of sex-starved adolescents. Absolutely nothing in common. What did he want to know about anybody else anyway? Wasn’t what he knew about himself bad enough? He took another gulp from his glass. A bit dribbled down his chin. He looked across the room: the little sod wasn’t even drinking. George got up with difficulty. He forced his features into a smile. The result was diabolical.
‘Have another, won’t you?’ he leered.
‘Think I’ll pass this time actually, old thing, if that’s all right. Doctor’s orders and that sort of thing.’
‘As you like.’ George gritted his teeth. Namby-pamby little swine. His own glass was empty; uncertainly he stumbled over to the drinks table. He sensed a cold pair of piggy eyes following him.
‘I hope I’m not being an old busybody or anything like that, but do you think you ought to have any more?’
‘Yes.’
George’s head was throbbing, his eyes felt as though they were being pressed forwards from inside his skull. Wouldn’t be able to hold it back much longer. What right had he got, wasn’t his drink. Anyway why the blazes shouldn’t he know? It’d make him feel the worm he was for taking that money. He looked at his small, dark, darting eyes, and his thin little nose. Nothing generous or big-hearted there. Even his mouth was mean. Lips like a thin pair of rubber pincers … pretty good that. George dwelt on the neatness of his tie knot. Bet he has his nails done too. No dirt anywhere, no revelations. Just a tidy mistress somewhere and a bit of vicariously prim sex in night clubs as a change. Only silence now. Silent night, holy night, even down to the snow. What a marvellous final celebration. Tell him; that would make him sit up a bit. George’s mouth opened; slowly but distinctly the words formed,
‘I suppose you think I own this place?’
The man looked puzzled.
‘Or rented it. Look, I’m afraid I don’t quite see what …’
‘Well, I can tell you; I don’t, not one thing. Everything’s paid for by her. Tables, chairs, curtains, teaspoons; she doesn’t know it, even the lavatory seat’s hers.’
George dimly heard him cough. Must have embarrassed him. He was probably thinking gents don’t say things like that. Damn fine specimen him … having his nails done. At last the answer came.
‘Terribly sorry.’
George hardly heard. Sorry for what anyway? Hadn’t told him; must have guessed. What did he know about it? About the long-tolerated familiarity that didn’t even breed contempt.
‘It was just the money. Seduced by silks and satins. Despicable isn’t it?’
The man seemed sunk in contemplation. George was beginning to feel sleepy. Everything was slowing down now. No more surprises. Anger seemed so unreasonable. He heard the man speaking.
‘Looking at it realistically, what have you and I got?’
‘Twenty years.’
‘More, more I’m afraid. Depressing but true. Thirty years of fatty degeneration and restraining garments if you care. And have you ever thought of making it less? … Well, exactly. When it actually comes to it the ground looks too far away, the water too cold and the sleeping-pills too cowardly.’
The sing-song sadness of his voice made George feel more sympathetic. Wasn’t that how he felt? Even the most unlikely humans had a mystical bond. Everybody ought to try and help his neighbour.
‘I suppose one must try and learn to start again.’
‘Would we could. No, oh dear me no; not a chance of that. Far too late. No good running after the last bus ten years after it’s gone. Just a matter of waiting. Somebody might die possibly, if you wait long enough. You could even try somebody else if you felt up to it. You’ve retained most of your teeth and lost little of your hair.’
‘But I’ve lost my initiative. I’ve been tamed.’
‘Even domestic animals have a remarkable talent for finding new homes and new feeders.’
George nodded his head sadly. How nice it would be to agree.
‘But they can get up on t
heir hind legs and beg. What can I do? I’m not black so I can’t be a bus conductor.’
‘How about starting a prep. school?’
‘Can’t even do that without capital. And when there’s nothing else left I won’t even be able to listen to the Daily Service on the radio.’ The petals of his self-pity opened still wider. He didn’t notice the growing look of disdain on the other’s face. Lugubriously he went on: ‘If you’d been tempted as I was, lived through what I did, you’d have done the same. A hero’s reward, a place in paradise for the asking with no strings attached … a country house, the chance of a London flat and money, money, money. No more worrying. Would you have refused in my place?’
‘I’m not you and nobody offered.’
‘I can’t even drink without money.’
‘Look, about that money; I’m quite prepared to give it back.’
George hesitated before refusing.
‘Quite out of the question,’ he murmured sadly. There were limits after all. Limits to what? To suffering, to indignity? He felt suddenly poetic.
‘I loved and was abused,’ he said loudly.
‘Better than never to have loved,’ came the softer answer.
‘I gave, but my gift was rejected.’
‘There was nobody to whom I could give.’
George heard his voice at last ringing with the wisdom of ages:
‘To have something and then to see it snatched away is the worst that any man can suffer.’
‘Worse than never to have and never to hope for?’
‘Only words,’ George muttered from his great eminence. Suffering did things to a man, it was true; ennobled him. There was no point in saying more. He hiccupped slightly.
‘I think I’m going to bed now,’ he said.
‘Mind if I stay the night?’
‘Do, please do,’ George’s smile was almost seraphic as he rose before leaving the room.
As soon as George had gone, the man got up and went over to a suitcase that had been intriguing him for some minutes. The feminine name on the side could hardly be that of the occupant of the flat. Yet there was certainly nobody else around. Deftly he opened it. On the top was an envelope: ‘To darling George from Sally.’ He frowned. George had told him his name was Simon at the club. Next he fished out a brassière. The woman it belonged to was clearly not a fat one. A pair of frilly black pants seemed to indicate that she was not an old one either. He pursed his lips and started to whistle. Idly he flicked the brassière into his hand with his toe.
At that moment George reappeared in the doorway.
‘I’d rather you put that down.’
‘I don’t think you’ve been quite fair you know, telling me that lie about your name. For all I know everything you’ve said may have been part of an enormous practical joke.’
‘I can assure you it was not at your expense. Good night.’
George had spoken wearily, and it was with an effort that he went back to his bedroom. He felt numbed rather than drunk. He didn’t want to see or hear anything else for a long time. Laughter and tears both seemed so unlikely now. He sank down on to the bed fully dressed and for that brief moment before sleep came he knew what it was to feel and understand nothing.
Sleep came in the drawing-room too. Two hours later the man woke up feeling cold and stiff. He stretched and laboriously heaved himself out of his chair. The sound of George’s regular breathing was the only noise in the stillness. He crossed the room to the windows and drew the curtains. The snow had stopped, but even in the darkness he could sense that the sky was still heavy. Not a single star shone through. The snow had settled on the street lamps too, dimming their light. He shivered slightly, then turned away from the window and went out into the hall. On a chair he saw an overcoat. It was too dark to gauge its colour. He couldn’t remember bringing a coat, except of course with it being so cold he would hardly not have done so. His arms slid easily into George’s silk-lined sleeves. Soon he had quietly closed the flat door behind him and was walking noiselessly away down the muffled street.
*
Sally was wearing a blue cape with a large buckle that fastened just below the chin. Her knee-length otterskin boots effectively kept out the cold dampness of the snow underfoot. Eagerly she scuffed her way towards the tube station.
Sitting in the train she caught sight of her reflection in the window opposite. The cape and the boots were only a few days old. She looked around her at the other women in the carriage; there was no doubt about it, she was better-looking than any of them; perhaps better than any woman in the train. A man standing on the other side of the carriage was looking at her tartan-stockinged knees. Demurely she covered them with her handbag, lowering her eyes at the same time. The cape really suited her enormously.
How lucky it was that George had never been able to marry that woman, she thought with satisfaction. There would be no divorce or anything squalid like that. They would be able to go away at once for a nice long rest. Rome, Paris, New York, the names sounded so much better than they ever had before. Stewards, and pilots, take-off and touch-down, crowded streets, sunshine, parasols, piazzas. She smiled with this new delight in her situation. Nobody else in the train on a Sunday morning would be able to entertain such thoughts.
She looked up to see that they were coming into a station. She had missed the right one. But what did it matter if she missed the next?
In her otterskin boots the distance did not deter her. As she left the station, she slipped on a pair of dark-blue gloves that matched her cape.
It was almost eleven o’clock; George was bound to be up. She hurried along clean white streets, not yet dirty grey with churned-up slush. Each individual railing spike had a little cap of snow. She crossed a road; on the corner was a pillar-box; playfully she scooped some snow off the top. Her gloved hand left a neat cut of red. She threw the snow on to the ground hastily. Might mark her gloves. She could see a pale sun shining behind the trees of a garden to her right. One more street to go.
*
In the flat George lay on his back in bed snoring softly. His mouth was hanging open. He hadn’t drawn the curtains the night before, so the wan sun softly lit the room. George’s clothes were lying in an untidy heap on the floor. An open cupboard door revealed a number of suits and a cluster of ties on a rail.
His snoring was still the only noise in the flat. Church bells were ringing in St. Cuthbert’s at the end of the street.
George woke up suddenly. He shook his head violently to try and get rid of the noise; but it went on. Another second and it had stopped. He pulled himself up into a sitting position. His mouth felt terribly dry. The bell was ringing again. He swung his feet on to the floor and looked around helplessly for a dressing-gown. Where the hell was it? Useless. If he could only find a coat to cover his nakedness. He had vague memories of having left one in the hall. He went out but there was no sign of it. The hall felt unbearably cold. He could go into the bedroom and cover himself with a blanket. George looked at the door of the flat. He only had to walk a few feet and open it. That was all. He stood in the middle of the hall as though turned to stone. No, he wouldn’t answer it. She could ring and ring and ring, till the bell gave up or her finger froze to it. He went back into the bedroom and got into bed. The bell rang once more and then all George could hear was his breathing and the bells of St. Cuthbert’s. Sleep was impossible now. He lay there warm but restless.
*
Sally’s boots flipped through the snow as she ran on, slithering, sliding. She ran past the gardens, this time to her left, she raced past the pillar-box where the little red wound showed as clearly; the white-capped railings blurred in a continuous line of white and black.
At last she saw a taxi, she gave an address and then, throwing herself down on the seat, burst into tears.
‘The bastard, the bastard.’ But it wouldn’t be the end of it, oh no. He couldn’t go crawling out of it like that. She had trusted him and he had deceived her; deceived a
simple unsophisticated girl. She beat the leather seat with her small clenched fists. Her feet drummed on the floor of the cab. She looked down at her otterskin boots, ‘Horrid things, I’ll never wear them again. I’ll burn my cape and my gloves.’
She was nearly home when she had an idea. Once again she was smiling and this time it was not with innocent joy and anticipation.
EIGHT
FRANTIC exertions with brushes and spades had ensured that the Finals of the House Rugby Competition would take place.
Crofts was standing on the touchline in front of a dirty bank of slush and snow. His overcoat was pulled up well round his neck. He opened his mouth as wide as he could.
‘Co——me on, Greville,’ he roared hoarsely. It had been seven years since the house had got to the finals and even then they had been beaten. Winning the competition would be extremely good for house morale and might well be the beginning of better things. Crofts’s mouth opened again.
‘Let’s have another try, Greville.’
He looked around him with disapproval at the ranks of junior boys in his house. Perhaps it had not been a good idea to make it compulsory to watch the match. So far he had been the only person to cheer.
Cold hands had meant fumbled passes and to date David had not touched the ball. He was wishing that he had put on two vests. Patiently he waited for another scrum to form. Almost all sensation seemed to have left his fingers. Suddenly the scrum-half had the ball away. David saw it coming down the line towards him. He took it well on the run. Three of the opposing forwards were running round to cut him off. He swerved and went on running. His breath was coming in rushes. One of them got a hand to his vest but he wrenched himself free. He handed off another in the face with all his strength.
Ahead of him he could see the posts and the solitary figure of the full back (full back for the school). David ran straight at him. Not much further if only he could get past. He glanced behind. Nobody there. Have to go on. At the last moment he pretended to slip, swerved and he was through.