The Likes of Us

by Stan Barstow

  Otterburn strolled aimlessly along the embankment, tapping the rolled newspaper against his leg. He felt now like someone who has turned up to a party on the wrong night: to a party, in fact, that was already over. ‘All dressed up and nowhere to go.’ He turned up off the riverside and into the town. A few minutes’ aimless walking found him outside the painted window of a pizza parlour. He looked at the menu. He was peckish. He went in. He’d always maintained that he didn’t care for pizzas, but now he wanted something simple and cheap which would satisfy his sudden appetite, if not delight his palate. He ordered at random from the ten or more variations on the menu and asked for a half-pint of lager. The place was busy. There were even some families with quite young children. People were coming and going all the time and the waitresses in their green aprons and matching caps hurried between kitchen and tables without a moment to catch their breath. A young woman came in, stood looking round for a moment, saw that she hadn’t much choice, then sat down at the next table. She took a small square of handkerchief from her shoulder bag and polished her glasses before reading the menu. Otterburn read his paper. His pizza came. It was enormous. He picked up his knife and fork, hardly knowing where to make the first incision. He cut a piece. The topping was still sizzling and he gasped, reaching for his lager, as it scorched his mouth. The outer door opened and shut again. A group crowded in.

  ‘D’you mind?’ a voice asked.

  Otterburn looked up. The girl from the next table had half-pulled out the chair opposite him. He didn’t understand at first but with a mouthful of pizza he couldn’t yet swallow he made noises and waved his knife about. She sat down.

  ‘If I sit here, they can all sit together,’ the girl explained. Otterburn looked past her. Five young people had taken possession of the table she had left. He swallowed.

  ‘Very thoughtful of you.’

  ‘It’s so very busy tonight.’

  ‘Is that exceptional?’

  ‘Well, no. They seem to do well most nights.’

  ‘You’ve been in before, then?’

  ‘Yes. It’s simple and convenient, and not expensive.’

  ‘Quite. That’s what I thought.’

  ‘What is that you’ve got, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  Otterburn turned the menu round. ‘Er... it’s a number eleven.’

  ‘It looks good’.

  ‘I’m not an expert on pizzas,’ Otterburn said, ‘but there’s plenty of it and it’s very hot.’ He swallowed another mouthful. ‘And quite tasty too.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  A waitress came and put a plate of spaghetti bolognese in front of the girl, then sprinkled grated cheese over it with careless haste. The girl put her fork vertically into the spaghetti, twirled it and lifted some to her mouth. Her light brown hair fell softly across each cheek as she bent her head slightly forward.

  ‘You’ve done that before,’ Otterburn said.

  ‘Yes. I lived in Italy for a while. The only reason I eat this after what I got used to there is because it’s cheap.’

  ‘It’s not a country I know,’ Otterburn said. ‘I’ve been to Spain, but not Italy.’

  ‘Do you live here?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Yes. Do you?’

  ‘I do just now, yes.’

  ‘What’s your job?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sort of in-between things.’

  ‘I suppose a lot of people are like that just now.’

  ‘Yes. What do you do?’ Otterburn hesitated. The girl said, ‘I’m sorry, if you don’t want to tell me. But you did ask me.’

  ‘I’m a writer, actually,’ Otterburn said.

  ‘Oh? That must be interesting. Would I have heard of you? Do you write under your own name or a pseudonym?’

  ‘You won’t have heard of me,’ Otterburn said. ‘My name’s Otterburn. Malcolm Otterburn.’

  The girl was frowning politely. ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t. And it’s quite an unusual name, isn’t it? I mean, not one you’d forget.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Otterburn said.

  ‘I can see now why you hesitated to tell me, though,’ the girl said. ‘It must be terribly embarrassing to say you’re a writer and people have never heard of you.’

  ‘It happens all the time,’ Otterburn said. ‘But you haven’t told me your name.’

  Now it was her turn to appear reluctant. ‘Promise me you won’t laugh.’

  ‘Why on earth should I laugh?’

  ‘Because this is where I always get embarrassed.’

  ‘You mean, you’re somebody famous whom I ought to have known?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. It’s just my name.’

  ‘Well...?’

  ‘It’s Dawn,’ the girl said. ‘Dawn Winterbottom.’ Otterburn grinned. ‘You did promise,’ the girl said.

  ‘No, no,’ Otterburn said. His smile broadened. He could not suppress a chuckle. The girl’s colour was up as she looked at her plate. Otterburn found himself reaching over to touch her hand.

  ‘Please. Don’t be offended. I’d probably have found nothing funny in it if you hadn’t so obviously expected me to. Please,’ he said again, when she didn’t respond. ‘Finish your spaghetti before it goes cold, and don’t mind me.’

  The girl took some more spaghetti onto her fork. ‘I’ve thought of changing it,’ she said. ‘But after all it is my own name and I think people should make the best of their own names. They’re part of them, after all. Aren’t they?’

  ‘Of course they are,’ said Otterburn, who saw little logic in what she was saying.

  ‘And after all it’s the quality of the personality behind the name that counts, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘And there’s nothing wrong with your personality,’ Otterburn went on. He was enjoying himself. ‘You’re good-natured enough to do a kindness for strangers, like letting those people have your table, and unself-conscious and natural enough to sit with another stranger – a man, what’s more – and make pleasant conversation without fear of being misunderstood. I’d say all those are qualities very much in your favour.’

  ‘You seem rather specially nice yourself,’ Dawn said.

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing special about me.’

  ‘Oh, but there is. Writers are special. They must be or there’d be more of them about.’

  ‘There are more than enough already,’ Otterburn said. He was sure that must be true.

  ‘Yes, the competition must be frightening. Tell me, do you actually manage to earn a living from it?’

  ‘Well…’ Otterburn looked a touch bashful. ‘I wish I could say I did. But the fact is, I have a private income.’

  ‘Lucky for you. I’m sure that must take a lot of the worry out of it. It means, I suppose, that you can write what you want to write and not just to make money.’

  ‘You’re really very perceptive,’ Otterburn said.

  ‘And what are you working on just now?’ the girl asked. ‘If it’s not too personal a question.’

  Otterburn emptied his mouth, took a drink of his lager, and said, ‘I’m writing a story about a man who comes to live on his own in this city. One day he finds a letter pushed through the door with his name on it, which is strange because nobody knows he’s there.’

  ‘What does the letter say?’

  ‘It says, “I shall be in the Ferryboat at seven tonight’.”

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all. No signature, no address, no postmark.’

  ‘Is it from a man or woman?’

  ‘He can’t tell. The handwriting may be disguised.’

  ‘And what does he do? I mean, does he just tear it up and ignore it, or does he take it seriously?’

  ‘He can’t help
being intrigued by it.’

  ‘No, I expect not.’

  ‘Someone’s interested in him, you see.’

  ‘It sounds like something out of a spy story.’

  ‘Yes, it does. But he’s just an ordinary sort of chap, who certainly doesn’t know any official secrets.’

  ‘But he must have a secret of some kind. Perhaps a guilty one from his past.’

  Otterburn looked at her with admiration. ‘You know, you really are clever. But I’m afraid that’s not the answer. He’s led a rather dull and totally respectable life.’

  ‘Hmm. So is it a man or a woman who’s written the letter?’

  ‘You asked me that before. I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, does he go to the... where is it?’

  ‘The Ferryboat. Yes.’

  ‘And what happens?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Otterburn said again.

  The girl frowned. ‘But you must know. You’re writing the story.’

  ‘But I don’t know how it ends,’ Otterburn said. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You mean, you’ve made up this, this intriguing situation, but you haven’t worked the rest of it out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve set yourself a problem, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, it’s happened before,’ Otterburn said airily. ‘It’ll work itself out if I hang on and be patient.’ He was sure he’d read this in an interview with a writer, somewhere. It sounded to him to have the ring of truth.

  ‘Well, I wish you luck with it,’ the girl said. She ate the last scraps of spaghetti, put down her fork and spoon and wiped her mouth with her paper napkin. Otterburn pushed aside the remaining third of his pizza. ‘You’ve not made much of that.’

  ‘It’s very filling. Are you having a sweet, or just coffee?’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Just coffee, I think. I’d like to buy you a sweet, though, if you could enjoy one.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ the girl said. ‘I’ll accept a coffee, though.’

  Otterburn signalled a waitress. To his surprise, one noticed him and came immediately.

  ‘Well,’ Dawn said, ‘this is very pleasant.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so. Tell the truth, I was feeling, well, a bit down, before you joined me.’

  ‘Because your story’s not going well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘I was,’ Otterburn said. ‘Still am, actually,’ he admitted, ‘but separated. What about you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Not had the time, with all that travelling?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  She reached down and brought up her shoulder bag.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a cigarette,’ Otterburn said, ‘but I don’t use them.’

  ‘Me neither.’ She took the small handkerchief and touched it to her nose. ‘There’s only one thing wrong with this town. The damp air gives me the perpetual sniffs.’

  ‘There’s always a snag to everything.’

  ‘Yes.’ She put the bag down again. ‘You must live alone, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like the man in the story.’

  ‘Yes. What about you?’

  ‘With an aunt. When I’m here.’

  ‘It’s good to have a base. Somewhere you can call home. Will you be off on your travels again soon?’

  ‘It depends. You never seem to get anywhere; always moving about. You see a lot, but you don’t get anywhere.’

  ‘And with jobs so hard to come by just now.’

  ‘Yes. My timing hasn’t been so good, coming back to England in the middle of a recession.’

  ‘You’re young enough to see it through.’

  ‘I’m perhaps older than you think.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking,’ Otterburn said.

  The coffee came. Otterburn, drinking through the froth, found scalding liquid underneath.

  ‘Damnation! I’m either burning my mouth or scalding it tonight.’

  ‘Do you feel better, though?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You said you were down before.’

  ‘Oh, I feel much better now.’

  He did. He had never met anybody like Dawn Winterbottom before. Here they were, total strangers, chatting as easily as if they’d known each other for years. He was wondering how he might prolong this evening – could he venture to offer to buy her a drink? – when she said: ‘I’ve just remembered. There is a pub called the Ferryboat, down by the river, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you always use real places in your work?’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘But couldn’t that lead to complications?’

  ‘Not until someone reads it. Maybe I’ll give it a fictitious name before then.’

  ‘You said he went to the pub but you didn’t know what happened when he got there.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmm. I never knew writers worked like that. I thought they had it all planned before they started.’

  ‘Well, now you know different.’ An idea came to him. ‘Look, if you don’t mind my asking, what are you going to do now?’

  ‘You mean when I leave here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose I was going home. I was supposed to meet someone, but it fell through at the last minute.’

  ‘Well, what I was wondering,’ Otterburn said, ‘was if you’d like to join me for a drink at the Ferryboat. It’s just a stroll from here. Perhaps you could help me to see what happens.’

  ‘In the story, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Being there with somebody else might just spark it off.’

  She smiled. ‘I must say, I’ve never been picked up with such an unusual come-on.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Otterburn said. ‘Please, you mis-understand me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve defended my honour in tougher places than this.’

  ‘You’re making it difficult for me,’ Otterburn said. ‘And it’s all been so pleasant and natural, so far.’

  ‘I was joking.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ Otterburn said, ‘there are some strange men at large, and if you’d rather not.’

  She looked at him. ‘I think I’d like to.’

  ‘You’ll come?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  Their bills were already on the table. As the girl reached again for her bag, Otterburn picked up both of them.

  ‘Let me get this.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Of course you can. It’s not a fortune, and it’s my pleasure.’

  Outside, as they strolled towards the pub, she slightly ahead of him on the narrow pavement, Otterburn could not bring her face to mind. It was, he thought, one of those faces which seem to change with the light, one whose features would fix themselves only after another meeting. While her clothes were neat and clean, like her hair and hands, she didn’t dress for effect either. She was a tall girl and her heels were not high. Over her jumper and skirt she wore a lemon-coloured light-weight raincoat which she had not taken off during the meal. And what an awkward business it was, Otterburn reflected, simply walking along pavements like this with anybody one didn’t know well. The naturalness and ease of the café had gone, leaving him self-conscious, casting about for something to say. She was silent too, now. He took her elbow and turned her as she would have passed the mouth of the alley which led to the river.

  ‘Down here.’

  The American car had gone. Otterburn hoped it meant that his wife was no longer inside. He went up on his toes and looked in through the small-paned window. He couldn’t see her.<
br />
  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Looking to see how full it is.’

  He would have to risk it. He went in first, then held the door so that she could pass him. The pub’s evening was in full swing. All the seats looked taken. The girl followed Otterburn to the bar.

  ‘What will you have?’

  ‘What are you having?’

  ‘I don’t know. A Scotch, perhaps.’

  ‘I’d like that. On the rocks, please.’ She turned and looked round the room as Otterburn ordered. ‘Is this your local?’

  ‘It’s the nearest.’

  ‘You live here, by the river?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that where the man in the story lives?’

  ‘Er, yes, it is.’

  ‘How many of these people do you know?’

  ‘Just one or two I’d pass the time of day with.’

  ‘Which one would you choose as the writer of the letter?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is it a man or a woman?’ she asked him, for the third time.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s really got to be a woman, hasn’t it? Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Otterburn said. ‘Yes, I suppose it has.’

  ‘Unless you’re building up to some kind of homosexual situation.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Otterburn said. ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘It might be worth thinking about, though, mightn’t it?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Otterburn said. He thought about it now as his glance flickered round the room. Could the author of the note still be here, patiently waiting for him but unable to make a move now because he was with someone else?