The Likes of Us

by Stan Barstow

  The Ferryboat was a riverside pub a couple of minutes’ walk away, a smart place with a colourful inn sign and well-kept white paint on the outside. Its rooms were small but cosy and always spotlessly clean. Its brass and mirrors gleamed. On cooler days wood fires burned in the grates. Small dishes of olives and tiny silver onions and potato crisps stood on the bar counter in the lounge. At one end of the counter at lunchtime joints of cold ham and roast beef rested on a white cloth and cuts of these were offered with jacket potatoes and a green salad or as the filling between slices of crusty bread. On warm days then, and sometimes on balmy evenings, the clientele would spill out onto the embankment, to drink at tables on the cobbles and watch perhaps a skiff with a lone rower speed upstream or a white pleasure boat glide by.

  The Ferryboat was Otterburn’s local but he had been in only a couple of times. Its food was expensive and its drinks always a few pence dearer than in the other pubs nearby, and Otterburn was being careful with his money. Otterburn’s wife would not want, because her father had money. It was only when he had won a prize in a premium-bond draw that Otterburn had finally decided to break away from his wife. His windfall had been twenty thousand pounds. His idea was to live on it until he sorted himself out; but inflation would cut into its value, and with over three million unemployed the prospects of finding another job were not good. Not that Otterburn relished the thought of working for someone else again, but he would have to earn a living in some way when the money ran out. Unless he did do away with himself. There had been times when that had seemed the only way of freeing himself from Hazel. He had thought also of leaving her, but until his good fortune he had had no money.

  Otterburn also had a daughter, but as she was a pupil at a boarding school he saw her only during the holidays. The combined influence of Otterburn’s wife and the school had given the girl a distant manner and sometimes she would treat Otterburn as though she was not quite sure who he was and wondered why he should be there every time she came home. She had certainly always been made aware that it was her grandfather’s money that, directly or indirectly, kept everything going. When Otterburn had finally fallen to wondering why Hazel had married him in the first place, he reached the reluctant conclusion that it satisfied something in her nature to be able to choose a potential failure, confirm him in that role and dominate him because of it. ‘Thee stick by thi family an’ thi job, Malcolm lad,’ Otterburn’s father-in-law had said to him early on, ‘an’ tha’ll never want for owt. Is’ll see to that.’ That the rich little business in importing and exporting specialised foodstuffs that Hazel’s father had created and built up could carry one passenger was the interpretation Otterburn came to put on the situation. ‘Sufferance,’ he had finally said to himself. ‘That’s what I’m living on. Sufferance.’

  Otterburn looked again at the note. He thought on reflection that the writing was more probably a woman’s than a man’s. Then again, it had almost a childish look. If that were so, he told himself, it was not because it belonged to a young person but because its backward slope was a disguise.

  He heated chicken soup for his lunch, the remains of the can he had opened yesterday. Otterburn had not been able to cook when he came to the house, beyond boil and fry eggs and grill bacon. Now he could scramble eggs and soon he would master the making of omelettes. He was determined, with the help of a basic cookbook, to learn how to feed himself on a simple but balanced diet. At present he fell back more often than he liked on expensive frozen foods, but he intended before long to be knowledgeable in buying the ingredients for casseroles and stews, the buying and preparation of his own fish and in making pancakes and vegetarian dishes which would cut his intake of meat. In the meantime he heated the soup and cut bread and thought about what he might have for his evening meal which would fit in with his visit to the Ferryboat at seven.

  But who said he was going to the Ferryboat? Why in heaven should he take the slightest notice of a message from someone who couldn’t sign his or her name?

  Because it showed that someone was interested in him.

  After he’d eaten, and drunk two cups of tea, Otterburn lay down on his bed which, with a woven cover over it, doubled as a divan. He had not done anything physically strenuous but he felt tired. He felt tired rather a lot lately. With no routine to shape and control his day, indolence took over. He should, he thought, make some kind of plan for occupying his time. Perhaps he might study in depth the history of the city, embarking on a programme of reading with the aid of the public library. With nothing to distract him, he could become an expert. From the trunk of the subject he could explore the many branches, political and economic, religious and secular. Perhaps he could eventually write some articles himself and publish them under a pseudonym. Or even a book.

  Mildly excited by the prospect, Otterburn dozed off.

  He woke to find himself wondering what he should wear this evening. He’d been accustomed to sports jackets and jumpers and slacks, and off-the-peg business suits of unmemorable cut and cloth. His shirts were in plain white or pastel shades, or with faint stripes on a white ground. He almost always wore a tie, feeling undressed without one unless he had on a sweater whose neck came up about his throat. He had no style. A lot of men who frequented the Ferryboat had style, even if it was only in the careless way they wore a t-shirt with patched and faded jeans. Otterburn did not want to go to that extreme. It only worked if you felt not the slightest trace of self-consciousness. But there was room for some improvement.

  He looked at his watch. It was only the middle of the afternoon. There was still time for him to catch the bank open. Otterburn had stopped using his credit card for fear that when he informed the company of his change of address his wife would trace him. His prize from the premium bond he had kept secret from her. Somehow he had realised immediately the opportunity it gave him, so he had said nothing and deposited the money in an account at a new bank, transferring it yet again when he moved to this city.

  Leaving the house, Otterburn walked briskly along the quay and up a sloping alley to emerge into the street. There were several men’s outfitters of quality, some specialising in shirts and knitwear, some in suits of clothes, others in shoes, and a couple of department stores who could equip one from head to foot and from the skin out. He stopped as he passed the windows of one such and thought that he could go in and pay by cheque when he knew what his outlay was. But then, he might this evening find himself called upon to stand drinks, or even a meal, and it would be as well to have spare cash in his pocket. So he walked to the bank, made a withdrawal with three minutes to spare, then retraced his steps.

  In the store he selected a two-piece casual suit in blue denim and took it into a cubicle. One thing, he thought as he appraised himself in the glass, was that though he was no longer a lad he still had a lean body that didn’t need forcing into slim-hipped trousers. The cubicle mirrors gave him views of his profile and the back of his head. His first thought was that he needed a haircut, his second that he didn’t. His hair at this stage in its growth waved quite becomingly in the nape of his neck. If left for another couple of weeks it would be long enough for a restyling by a barber who knew more than the short-back-and-sides Otterburn had always favoured, simply from long habit. Perhaps he could brush it forward instead of back and dispense with that neat parting he had fought so long to establish when a boy. From this, Otterburn went on to the question of his spectacles. He didn’t think he needed to indulge in the vanity of contact lenses: the appearance of many men was enhanced by their glasses. What he should try was a more modern type of frame, with larger lenses. But these were longer-term considerations. For the present he felt and looked well in the denim suit. The effect would be complemented when he added a new shirt. He chose one of wide navy-blue and narrow pale-pink stripes, with a scarlet thread running through the pink, then paid for his purchases with cash. The suit he thought quite cheap, though the shirt cost more than h
e was used to paying. He left with the goods in a large carrier bag with the name of the store printed on it and walked back to his room through the warm and slightly hazy air of the afternoon.

  Taking advantage of the quietness of the house, Otterburn went down and ran a hot bath. He lay in it for some time, watching, his thoughts in the same suspended state, his pubic hair and his limp penis floating under the surface of the water. Otterburn rarely indulged in sexual reverie. Though his intimate life with Hazel had consisted of an efficient but matter-of-fact once-a-week Saturday-night coupling, a routine relief usually initiated by her and never referred to out of the bed, it had been enough to keep him from fancying women on the street and from longing for some more intense liaison. He supposed he was undersexed. He thought, on the occasions when it crossed his mind, that he was lucky. It had seemed enough for Hazel and its absence had not preoccupied him since he had left her. Now he wondered if the letter were not drawing him to the beginning of a sexual adventure. The letter... He could still hardly believe it was real and he had opened it and read it again before coming down for his bath. The distant nudging of common sense told him he was being foolish in taking so much trouble to prepare for an assignation made in such a mysterious fashion. But is, it was distant. His mind was as languorous as his body, drifting, floating, waiting for whatever might happen.

  Someone was interested in him...

  The skin of his fingertips was wrinkled. He had not known that since he had played in his bath as a child. He pulled the plug and stood up, putting a quick steadying hand to the wall as a faint giddiness made his head spin. He had stayed in too long. He took his sponge and squeezed water from the cold tap over himself.

  Back in his room, he pulled on pyjama trousers under his dressing-gown and tucked a scarf round his neck. The squeaking groan of an unoiled pulley drew him to the window. Some men were unloading bales into a warehouse from a barge across the river. Otterburn dragged a chair over and sat down to watch.

  On his way to the Ferryboat, Otterburn strolled up the alley to the street and bought an evening paper. It would give him a prop with which to occupy his eyes and hands, should he have to wait. How would the approach be made? Would someone simply walk up to him, smile and say, ‘Did you get my letter?’ It was at this point that he wondered if he were about to be faced with some wrongdoing from his past. We could all, he told himself, feel the occasional touch of a nameless anxiety: that was a part of the human condition. Yet, as he cast his mind back over the dull march of his years, he could find no specific act of his that merited guilt. He had lived a blameless life. His trouble was that he could not imagine anyone being interested in him for his own sake.

  He had decided that it would be better if he were a few minutes early; he could watch then who came into the pub, and it would save him from feeling that he himself was being observed as he entered. The pub was at the ebb of its evening trade. The after-office drinkers were already gone or about to leave. There were some tourists, who would not linger. The late evening customers had not yet appeared. Otterburn chose the lounge. He bought half a pint of bitter, and as two businessmen left a corner table he went over to it and sat down with his back to the wall. From here he could see the door at the far end of the room as well as that at this end of the bar, through which he had entered. Yes, he must be first, for by no stretch of the imagination could he picture any of those present as the author of the note. That group in anoraks were visitors, come to look at the sights. They in their turn, as they suddenly all laughed, were being given a quick once-over by the landlord who, in check Viyella shirt and yellow tie, his glasses hanging from a cord round his neck, had just come in to join the girl behind the bar. That elderly gent sitting alone, neat grey hair, well-cut navy-blue blazer, reading the Financial Times and drinking from a half-pint pewter tankard, lived in that big bay-windowed house farther along the embankment. And that middle-aged man and the much younger woman were too absorbed in each other even to have noticed him except as someone they needn’t fear. An office romance, if he’d ever seen one. Soon they would go their separate ways, he to make his excuses at home, she to fill in her time somehow till the next snatched hour. The only remote possibility was the thin woman of indeterminate age, in tweeds, sitting at the bar, lighting a fresh cigarette within seconds of stubbing out the last, and ordering another gin and tonic, lemon but no ice. But Otterburn had seen her before too, and if she had wanted to know him she would have hailed him and drawn him into her company with the unself-conscious ease with which she chatted to the barmaid and the landlord and whoever of the regulars stayed long enough at the bar. You could find her counterpart, Otterburn reflected, in pubs and hotel bars all over the country: the woman who gave the impression of having seen it all, who had settled for a secure but boring marriage to a dull but tolerant husband, to whom she would return each mid-evening, ever so slightly tipsy, after a couple of hours steady drinking.

  In any gathering Otterburn merged with the background, but he prided himself on missing little. He observed and speculated and remained uninvolved. It occurred to him now that this was probably the ideal make-up of a writer. Except that he couldn’t write. But how did he know that? There he went, dismissing himself before he had even tried. Wasn’t that something else he might explore in his new-found freedom? Of course, while he might be good at noting people’s appearance and mannerisms, his speculations about their character and their private lives could be wildly wrong. But did that matter? His guess was that, while a writer might use real people as starting-points, he very soon found himself casting their personalities into the mould of his own. And there was an obvious snag. Had he himself enough personality, did he care enough, to be able to draw characters who could make a reader care? Yet Otterburn felt excitement stir again at this second new prospect. He could do no more than try. It amused him, gave him even a strange feeling of power, to think of himself going about noting people not simply from a habit of his nature, but as a collector. If he couldn’t think of plots all at once, he could at least keep a written sketchbook and train himself after each outing to record, as objectively as a painter or a photographer, what he had seen and heard.

  Otterburn had lifted his newspaper and was looking past it with renewed interest at his fellow drinkers when he saw his wife coming into the room. Intensely startled, he raised the paper higher until his head and shoulders were hidden as Hazel glanced round the room then half-turned to speak to the man who was following her.

  There was nowhere for Otterburn to hide. If he got up now, it was unlikely that he could reach the door before she turned again and saw him. But what was she doing here and who was that she was with? From his first startled glance Otterburn couldn’t recall ever having seen him before, though he supposed he could have met him and forgotten. In which case the man might remember him, especially if there was something irregular going on.

  Otterburn risked moving his paper slightly to one side. His wife had taken a seat at a table in the middle of the floor and now had her back directly to him, showing him a quarter-profile as she removed her gloves and spoke to her companion, who was ordering drinks at the bar. Hazel was looking particularly smart. She had on her best black suit and a white blouse with a jabot, black nylon tights and high-heeled black patent-leather shoes. Her hair was newly washed and set and she had had that blonde rinse which restored its fading colour. He supposed she was, to some eyes, a handsome woman. It was amazing the improvement brought to her legs by the right shoes and stockings. Her hips and her breasts were ample but still shapely, only hinting yet at the excess another few years might bestow. To his surprise, Otterburn felt his flesh stir; as though he didn’t know all too well the briskness and lack of finesse with which she despatched sexual appetite. Not that he had had any direct experience to compare that with, but he did read, and today’s explicit novels left him in little doubt that there were prolonged delights to which they were both strangers.


  In his contemplation of his wife’s back, Otterburn had, he suddenly realised, let the paper down until his face was completely visible. And at that moment the man Hazel was with turned with the drinks and looked directly at him. His stare hardened. Otterburn lifted the paper again. After a moment’s consternation, he felt himself grinning broadly. Of course the man didn’t know him. Otterburn had just been given warning that he was not to ogle his own wife! How rich! Whether or not Hazel and her companion were any more than just good friends, the man was obviously jealous and possessive. What a joke, Otterburn thought, if he were to stare at Hazel until the man felt forced to do something about it. How their faces would fall when Otterburn then went over and let Hazel see him. A pity it wasn’t worth it. But it wasn’t. Once Hazel knew where he was, she would give him no peace.

  She was looking over her shoulder as she picked up her handbag. Her companion nodded to a sign on the wall. She got up and crossed the room without looking at anyone and went out through the door nearest to Otterburn. Otterburn knew where the Ladies was. He gave her a moment to find it herself, then stood up and emptied his glass. The man was staring again. Surprised at his own boldness, Otterburn grinned at him and winked before walking out through the same door.

  There was a huge pale American Ford parked on the cobbles outside. For some reason it reminded Otterburn of an enormous double bed. He knew instinctively that it belonged to Hazel’s companion. Ownership of such an opulent and extravagant car, parked where no one was supposed to park, fitted exactly that arrogant stare and that black moustache, so thick and neatly trimmed it looked like something glued to the fellow’s upper lip. So, Otterburn asked himself, was Hazel having an affair, and if so was it one which had started since he left her, or had it been going on before? Further, did it help or hinder him in his new way of life? More to the immediate point was that Hazel’s appearance had ruined his own assignation. And what could he do now except wait for them to leave? And by that time might it not be too late?