The Likes of Us

by Stan Barstow

  ‘They can’t call it... murder, Brian. Not after what he said.’

  ‘Who’s to know what he said?’

  ‘You’ll have to make ’em believe you. Get her to tell the truth. She’s the one who’s led you into all this.’

  ‘There you and him, isn’t there?’ Brian burst out. ‘And us in the middle.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He subsided, unable to carry the thought through. ‘I don’t know. There’s always somebody onto you. They won’t leave you alone.’

  ‘You’re not without friends, y’know.’ She looked at him as he got up without answering. ‘D’you hear what I say, Brian?’

  He wrested his mind back to her. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not on your own.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  Her gaze wavered then fell. She half-turned her head.

  It was the first time he had ever seen her outfaced. For the first time it also occurred to him that she might want him. But not simply: in other circumstances she would have contained him in her mould, shaped him to her design. For his own good.

  ‘I should have thought you’d be glad of anybody who could speak for you,’ she said in a moment.

  ‘What could you say?’

  ‘I could tell ’em what sort of man I think you are. I could tell ’em all you’ve told me about what kind of a dance she’s led you.’

  ‘That’s your own idea, what you think. You never did understand about us.’

  She was recovered now and she faced him with the old assurance. ‘It doesn’t look like it, does it?’ she said.

  He stood in silence for a time, then shrugged. ‘It’s no use talking.’

  ‘No. You should be thinking about what you’re going to do.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do.’

  Whatever Mrs Sugden was going to say then was cut off by the sound from upstairs: a cry that trembled on the edge of becoming a scream.

  ‘That’s Gloria.’ Brian hurried out. A pair of small metal ornaments danced on the mantelshelf as he pounded up the stairs.

  Joyce was in the hospital corridor when the trolley came through the double doors. The doctor walking beside the trolley took her arm as she moved forward.

  ‘I’ve got to talk to him.’

  ‘Are you the one who brought him in?’

  ‘I got the ambulance yes.’

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘No, I work for him. I found him.’

  ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘No, that’s why I want to talk to him.’

  ‘He’s in no state to talk to anybody. He’s been very severely manhandled.’

  He let her forward sufficiently to lean over the trolley and look at Leonard’s face. It was heavily swathed in bandages and the eyes were closed.

  ‘If I waited till he woke up...’

  ‘He won’t talk to you even then,’ the man said. ‘His jaw’s broken.’ He nodded to the porter who pushed the trolley on and into a lift. Joyce turned away as the grille was pulled across. ‘Have you spoken to the police?’

  ‘Yes. It wasn’t robbery, though. There was nothing missing.’

  She had rung the police after calling the ambulance. It was between her putting down the telephone and their arrival a few minutes later that, wondering where Brian and Gloria had got to, she began to connect Brian with what had happened. She telephoned his firm, phrasing her enquiry so that they would have no cause for alarm, and found that he’d not been there since lunchtime.

  There was nothing to do now but go home and wait. She had been there for nearly an hour, smoking one cigarette after another in short nervous puffs, her eyes on the television screen but taking in hardly anything, when she remembered that Brian had once written down for her the address and phone number of his lodgings up north.

  She found the slip of paper among some letters in the rack on the fireplace and, putting on her coat and counting her loose change, she went out of the house again and walked to the telephone kiosk on the corner.

  Brian got Gloria settled in the cab of the lorry, with the help of the rug and the cushion which Mrs Sugden had loaned him, then went back into the house.

  ‘She’s all right now she knows she’s going home.’

  ‘It’s goodbye for a bit, then?’ Mrs Sugden said. She grasped his hand. ‘You’re a good man, Brian. They must see that.’

  ‘I’d better be off,’ Brian said. ‘If she starts getting upset again...’

  ‘You won’t forget, will you? What I said about friends.

  Perhaps it won’t be long…’ She reached up and kissed him on the mouth then let go of his hand and turned away.

  She heard the door close behind him and the engine start. She had gone out and was watching the tail lights of the vehicle moving away along the road when the telephone began to ring in the hall.

  ‘I thought I’d killed him.’

  He had said it before, in the same slow disbelieving way, and the stupid wonderment of it angered her.

  ‘You bloody fool, Brian, for believing what he said.’

  ‘It wasn’t true, was it?’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t true. I’ve told you it wasn’t.’

  ‘Why should he say a thing like that? Why should he make it up?’

  ‘How do I know? To cause trouble. Because he’s evil-minded. He made a pass at me; said he wanted me. When I turned him down all he could think of was making trouble.’

  ‘And I thought I’d killed him.’

  You didn’t even get that right, did you? Taking Gloria and running away like that, and all for nothing. You’re a fool, Brian, a bloody useless fool.’

  ‘Don’t keep saying that, you selfish bitch. I spent nearly twelve hours thinking he was dead; thinking I’d have to do ten years for him. And all you can say is “you bloody fool”. Well, you’re right: I am a fool, a fool for putting up with your rotten, selfish ways. I did it for her. It was her I was thinking about. If I thought I could keep her he could have you tomorrow.’

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?’

  He reached out and took her by the wrist, dragging her to her feet. ‘I know who I am, and you’ll listen when I talk – bitch.’

  It was the first time he had ever laid a finger on her in anger and for a moment the shock of it took her voice.

  ‘God! I hate you, you big useless–’

  ‘And I hate you, so what are you going to do about it?’ She swung her free arm, aiming to strike him across the face, but he caught that wrist too and held her there in the grip of both his hands. The glare of outrage in her eyes was akin to that of desire. She was beautiful in her anger. He knew that to bear her down and take her now, on the floor, quickly and without tenderness, would be a greater satisfaction to him than striking her, and a more searing humiliation to her.

  The moment held. She stared him out, defying him to do what he liked. Another thought slid into his mind and was expressed before he could decide its wisdom.

  ‘Do you ever think about him?’ Brian asked. ‘The one who did give you the kid?’

  Her eyes narrowed as though she did not instantly understand. Then, ‘Yes,’ she said. She threw her head back as she saw his face, and screamed. ‘Yes. Bloody yes!’

  He pushed her away from him on to the sofa and went across to where he had left his donkey jacket on a chair. She watched him put it on.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m taking the lorry back to the yard and leaving a note for the boss.’

  ‘Will you want anything to eat when you come back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you going to work today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘
What are we going to do?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Us.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Go on living.’

  ‘That’s all we can do, isn’t it?’

  He went out, closing the inner door after him. She stared for a long time at the fire and then went upstairs and brought down her clothes, turning on the radio before she left the room. She had undressed once she had known he was on his way back. Now she slowly began to dress again, uncovering and reclothing one part of her body at a time as a voice read the early morning news bulletin...

  ‘…Miss Forrest is one of the most sought-after stars in the film world today. Travelling with Miss Forrest was her husband, Mr Ralph D. Packenheimer, whose business interests in the United States include motels and drive-in cinemas. They were married a month ago and London is their last stop on a round-the-world honeymoon tour which has taken in seven countries. Mr Packenheimer is Miss Forrest’s fourth husband.

  ‘Arriving on the same flight at London Airport was the Prime Minister of the newly independent African state of Kandaria, Mr Walter Umbala, who is here on an unofficial visit. Our reporter asked Mr Umbala about recent unrest and disturbances in Kandaria. He said that in a nation of mixed races and religions there were bound to be disagreements from time to time, but they only became serious when exploited by outside agencies for their own ends. “We must be ever vigilant and resist these outside elements with all our might,” Mr Umbala said. “Only then shall we go forward, united and strong, to our destiny among the free nations of the world–”’

  Joyce gave a small exclamation of impatience and turned the tuner till she found some music. She lit a cigarette and sat down, looking at the fire and hearing under the sound of the wireless the soft shift of the hot coals, as she waited for Brian to come back.

  This Day, Then Tomorrow

  Something out of the ordinary had happened in the Hatton household. Ruth, at twenty-two the youngest of the Hatton girls, had got a novel accepted for publication. The publisher’s letter was on the breakfast table when she came down, and the sudden joyful spring of colour to her cheeks as she opened and read it betrayed her to Mrs Hatton, so that she was forced to break the news not at a moment of her own choosing, but there and then.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds advance on royalties!’ Mrs Hatton said. ‘And what’s this novel about, ever?’

  Ruth made a movement of her hand. ‘Oh...’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds?’ Mr Hatton took the letter in his turn. ‘I didn’t know you were writing a novel, Ruth.’

  ‘She’s been going to that literature class in the evenings for nearly two years,’ Mrs Hatton said, as though he were somehow more remiss than herself in. not knowing what their daughter was up to. ‘And she’s always scribbled in her room.’

  ‘I thought she was studying people like Shakespeare and Dickens,’ Mr Hatton said, ‘not writing books of her own.’

  ‘Why ever shouldn’t Ruth write a novel, Bernard?’ Mrs Hatton said. ‘She’s had a good education.’

  Mr Hatton was too used to his wife’s instant allotting of their roles in any situation – her own one of perception and concern, his that of a neglectful obtuseness – to become irritated.

  ‘We study literary composition,’ Ruth said, ‘and we’re expected to do some original writing.’

  ‘But a novel!’ Ruth’s older sister Celia said. ‘You can’t deny you’ve kept it quiet, Ruth. It must have made a fair-sized parcel to put in the post.’

  ‘Well... I didn’t know whether it was any good or not, so there was no point in saying anything yet.’

  ‘But we’re here to share your disappointments as well as your successes, surely, Ruth,’ her mother said.

  Some of them, anyway, Ruth thought. She had prepared herself for their knowing if the manuscript were returned, but she could not have endured the initial waiting period except alone. Once her mother had seized on such an event outside the normal life of the household she would not have let it drop. There would also have been the necessity of letting her read and comment on the book. Now, of course, when it had acquired a cachet of a publisher’s acceptance, it was different. Or was it? The contents were still the same, and soon now they would become public property. For the first time Ruth felt a tiny tremor of anxiety.

  Her father was more concerned with the business aspects of the matter. ‘They say they’ll send you a contract to sign,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you ought to get legal advice on that.’

  ‘It’s a standard procedure.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t want to sign your rights away.’

  ‘Dad, they’re among the most reputable publishers in London.’

  ‘You don’t think they’re going to cheat the girl, do you, Bernard?’ Mrs Hatton said.

  ‘Of course not. But they’re businessmen and it’s their job to make a profit.’

  ‘Perhaps you can let Mr Astley glance at it, Ruth,’ her mother suggested.

  Mr Astley had acted for Mr Hatton in the purchase of their house and in a number of other routine matters. Ruth didn’t think that he, or any other solicitor in the district, would know much about authors’ rights in a literary agreement.

  ‘I’ll show it to my tutor at the class,’ she said. ‘He’s had poetry published, and some stories.’

  Mrs Hatton’s mouth pursed in an expression that was almost a smirk. ‘What a feather in your cap when you walk in and tell them about it!’

  Mr Hatton, leaving first, patted Ruth’s head and twinkled at her from the doorway. ‘Well done! It looks as

  though we’re going to have a celebrity in the house.’

  She was called to the telephone in her free period that morning. The male voice at the other end of the line belonged to a reporter on the local weekly newspaper.

  ‘I understand you’ve had a novel accepted for publication.’

  ‘Well, yes. How do you know?’

  ‘Your mother rang the editor, I believe.’

  Ruth felt a spasm of irritation. She had wanted to savour the good news privately for a while; to ponder this development in her life and come to terms with it before speaking of it to anyone. But already she was being pushed along at someone else’s pace.

  ‘I wondered if I could come along and talk to you about it. It’ll make a very interesting item for our readers.’

  ‘Our readers.’ Everybody. Common knowledge. That Hatton girl’s written a book. She suddenly became acutely conscious of how many people who didn’t read a novel from one year’s end to the next would read this one because she was its author. And how, of course, they would presume to judge it. With that thought came a keen desire to put this man off, to make any excuse to avoid having to talk to him. But wasn’t all this part of the process? She had written a book and offered it for publication. So now the public would read it, and what they made of it and her were factors over which she had control. She ought to be flattered and pleased by this instant opportunity of publicity, but instead she felt something more like fright. Oh, Lord! Why had she done it?

  ‘Well, then?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought I might call round this evening. We go to press tomorrow.’

  ‘But it’ll be months before the book’s published.’

  ‘Oh, we can do a follow-up piece nearer the time, but we’d like to be first with the original story.’

  First? Who else could be interested?

  She said, ‘All right. Will seven o’clock be convenient?’

  ‘Righto, seven. I have the address.’

  Arthur Debenham, who taught Senior English, passed by as she left the telephone cubicle. He glanced at her and nodded. Ruth turned her head and watched him stroll along the corridor with his long slow stride and curious swing of the shoulders. Debenham was in his fifties and
given to occasional caustic denunciations in the staff room of contemporary trends in the arts. What usually provoked him were newspaper reports of a new play or novel by ‘the latest back-street genius from Bradford’ or ‘Bermondsey’. ‘We’re living in the age of the literate illiterate,’ was Debenham’s line. Everybody’s writing novels or plays. They’ve none of them anything to say, and they don’t know how to say it anyway, but they’re so full of their own insignificant – and usually grubby – feelings, they have to share them with the world.’

  What would he make of her adding to the number? Because soon he would know. Everybody would know.

  ‘A few biographical details first, I think.’ The reporter was a young man about Ruth’s age. It was raining outside and his gingerish suede boots were darkly wet on the toes, but he had gauchely declined to remove the blue anorak which he wore over a grey roll-neck sweater and Mrs Hatton glanced at him from time to time as though apprehensive that he would lean back and stain with damp the lime-green cover of the chair in which he was sitting. But he remained forward on the edge, a cheap throwaway ballpoint poised over the open notebook on his knee. Beside him on the arm of the chair the cup of tea Mrs Hatton had pressed upon him stood untouched and cooling, with a biscuit soggily absorbing the liquid slopped over into the saucer.

  ‘You’re, er, how old?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘You were educated at the local grammar school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then... ?’

  ‘I went to a training college.’

  ‘And now you teach, what, domestic science? Why didn’t you study a subject connected with writing?’

  ‘I’ve always been interested in housecraft and so on. The writing thing’s comparatively recent.’

  ‘Even as a little girl Ruth was handy about the house,’ Mrs Hatton put in. ‘Of course I encouraged her and taught her all I could, purely for the sake of it. That kind of ability’s never lost.’