The Likes of Us

by Stan Barstow

  ‘Your character’s not gay, then? The one who gets the letter.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You could always make him gay.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s got latent homosexual tendencies that he’s never known about, or kept firmly suppressed.’

  ‘Ye-es…’

  ‘And the writer of the letter recognises that.’

  Otterburn felt uneasy and offended.

  ‘I don’t think I’d like that.’

  ‘Do you find it distasteful? I thought writers were men of the world.’

  ‘It’s just that I know very little about all that.’

  ‘Did you imagine it as some woman who secretly fancies him?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I haven’t thought it through yet.’

  ‘I’m only trying to help you, like you said.’

  ‘Of course, but –’

  ‘If it’s a woman, why doesn’t she simply make it in her way to bump into him and get to know him?’

  ‘Perhaps she’s shy and repressed.’

  ‘She’s going to be awfully disappointed if she arouses his interest with mysterious letters and then he doesn’t take to her.’

  ‘Perhaps she doesn’t intend to reveal herself.’

  ‘Then why make an assignation?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s only had the one letter. Perhaps she’ll tell him more in a later one.’

  ‘It’s not much of a story, is it?’

  ‘Well, not so far.’

  ‘If you did it the way I suggested, you could make it really strong. You could bring in homosexual jealousy and revenge. Perhaps suicide, or even murder.’

  ‘You’ve got a very lurid mind.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  There was a glint in her eye. It occurred to Otterburn to wonder if she was pulling his leg.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it’s not the kind of story I write.’

  ‘Not so far, perhaps. But perhaps you should widen your scope. Perhaps that’s why you’re not better known.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Otterburn said. ‘Let’s have another drink.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She gave him her glass.

  When he turned with the refills she waved to him from a table.

  ‘If you don’t know any homosexuals,’ she said as he sat down, ‘I could introduce you to some.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes. There are one or two in the company at the theatre, to begin with, and some others who live here. They’re not all madly camp,’ she went on, as Otterburn frowned.

  ‘Some of them you might never guess at, unless you were that way inclined yourself.’

  It would mean, Otterburn thought, that he could see her again. He had never met anyone like her. He couldn’t read her. She seemed in control of every situation. He had seemed in charge for a time, in the pizza place; but not now.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll try anything once.’

  She smiled. ‘Be careful. I only suggested you meet them.’

  Otterburn blushed. ‘How long are you staying in town?’

  ‘Until I get bored. Or the money runs out.’

  ‘What do you do when you’ve got a job?’

  ‘I’ve done all kinds of things. I was teaching English as a foreign language in Italy. But I was foolish enough to have an affair with the man who owned the school and when his wife found out he ran back to her bosom and I had to move on.’

  Otterburn, flabbergasted by her candour, looked at her with renewed interest and said nothing.

  ‘Then I’ve been a waitress and a barmaid. I’ve lugged a guitar about and sung at folk clubs and done seasonal work at holiday camps. I worked for six months as a secretary in Australia. I did a stint at a summer camp for children in America; your keep and some spending money and a chance to see

  a bit of the country.’ She shrugged. ‘Now I’m here for a while. Till something turns up.’

  ‘You don’t sound the type to bring a man his pipe and slippers in an evening.’

  ‘Is that the kind of woman you like?’

  ‘I suppose I’ve always been used to knowing where I am.’

  ‘You left your wife, though. Or did she leave you?’

  ‘Oh, I left.’

  ‘Were you in a rut?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I was.’

  ‘But with your work, and your private means, you could go anywhere you like.’

  ‘I suppose I could.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose you think of writers like yourself: restless, always on the move.’

  ‘Perhaps I do.’

  ‘They’re not all like that. Haven’t you heard of the country cottage, with roses round the door?’

  ‘I’d love to read something you’ve written. Could you lend me something?’

  ‘I left everything behind when I moved out. It was rather sudden and I wanted to travel light.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll look in the public library.’

  ‘I doubt if you’ll find anything. My early books are out of print and I’ve mostly published in magazines since.’

  ‘You need a really good shake-up and a change of direction.’

  ‘That’s what I had in mind when I left my wife and came here.’

  ‘It’s a start, anyway.’

  The whisky was going down very quickly. Otterburn thought he perhaps should have stuck to beer.

  ‘Could you enjoy another?’

  ‘Yes, I could,’ Dawn said. She opened her bag. ‘But let me get them.’

  ‘No, no,’ Otterburn said. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘You can go,’ the girl said, ‘but I’ll pay.’ She put a pound note on the table.

  Otterburn hesitated, then picked up the note. ‘Same again?’

  ‘Unless you’d like something different.’

  ‘I hardly like to mention it,’ Otterburn said, ‘but the prices they charge here, this won’t cover it.’

  The girl laughed out loud as she put some coins on the table. Otterburn took to the bar the image of her laughing. Now he knew what her face was like.

  ‘How do I get in touch with you?’ he asked when he came back. ‘If I want to take you up on your offer.’

  ‘Are you on the phone?’

  ‘No. Well, there is a communal phone, but it depends on someone answering it and I might not get the message.’

  ‘I’ll give you my number,’ Dawn said. She wrote on a slip of paper.

  They left after another round of drinks, which Otterburn bought.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.’

  ‘Oh, these things often take a little time,’ Otterburn said. ‘Perhaps I’ll try thinking along the lines you suggested.’

  ‘Just whereabouts do you live?’

  ‘Along here.’

  They strolled along the embankment. It was a fine night. The river slid by. Lights were reflected in its smooth broad surface. Here they were, Otterburn thought, walking by the river in one of the oldest cities in Europe. He felt elated, buoyed up by the beauty, the mystery, the boundless possibilities of it all.

  ‘That’s me, up there.’ He pointed as they paused before the house. ‘Third floor front.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dawn said. ‘Well, you won’t get your feet wet there.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘The river comes up and floods these houses practically every year.’

  ‘Perhaps I shan’t be here long, anyway.’

  ‘You’re not settled, then?’

  ‘Oh, no. Sort of in transit, really.’

  She asked him the time. ‘I’d offer to come up with you,’ she said then,
‘but I really must go.’

  ‘My dear young woman!’ Otterburn said.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I hope you don’t say such things to every strange man you meet.’

  ‘There you go again, thinking you’re no different from anybody else.’

  ‘You flatter me.’ Otterburn said.

  ‘I must be off, anyway. Thank you for a very pleasant evening.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Otterburn said. ‘But won’t you let me see you home?’

  ‘No. I can get a bus just across the bridge. Goodnight.’

  She was moving away from him, quite rapidly. He called after her. ‘Goodnight.’

  He let himself into the house and went straight to bed. He thought that he would lie awake for some time, but only a few minutes after he had started to retrace the evening from the moment she walked into the restaurant, he fell asleep.

  He slept quite late. An idea had formed in his mind and he lay on his back, the house still around him apart from the hum of a vacuum cleaner somewhere below, and considered the sheer audacity of it. In a while he got up, breakfasted on cereal, toast and coffee, washed himself and dressed. He looked for coins, found the paper with the girl’s number on it and went down to the wall telephone on the ground floor. He dialled. A woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Could I speak to Miss Winterbottom, please?’

  ‘Just a minute. I’ll get her.’

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Dawn? It’s Malcolm Otterburn.’

  ‘Oh, hullo.’

  ‘I was thinking...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What you were saying about broadening my scope.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘I was wondering how far ten thousand pounds would take us.’

  ‘You were what?’

  ‘We could get quite a long way on that, I should think. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Pretty well all the way round.’ She laughed. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Oh, quite.’

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I was just going out. I’ll see you in the Ferryboat at seven.’

  ‘Will you think about it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And I hope you will too.’

  ‘I’ve done that.’

  ‘All right. But I’m late for an appointment so I must rush. I’ll see you in the Ferryboat at seven.’

  She hung up.

  Otterburn saw the envelope on the mat behind the front door as he turned from the telephone. He picked it up. It had his name on it. He slit it open and took out the single folded sheet of paper. ‘I saw you,’ the note said, in the same hand, ‘but you didn’t see me. I like your new outfit.’ He folded it and pushed it into his trousers pocket. Checking that he had his keys, he left the house and walked along the embankment and up into the town. In a branch of W. H. Smith he bought a pad of feint ruled A4 paper and some cartridges for his fountain pen.

  Back in his room, he pulled the table over to the window and sat down with the pad of paper before him. He got the ink flowing in the nib of his pen, looked out at the river for a few moments, then rested his cheek on his left hand and began to write:

  ‘Otterburn had come to live in this cathedral city when he left his wife. He rented a room and kitchen, with a shared bath and lavatory on the next landing. He had never lived alone in his life before and from his window he could look down three floors at the river flowing between its stone banks and think that at least he hadn’t far to go if he decided to do away with himself.

  The Pity of it All

  Wednesday afternoon, it was – as if she’d ever forget – half-day closing, and Nancy’s mother was going on while she cleaned the house around Nancy, who was doing the week’s wash. Since Nancy seldom went out in the evenings and couldn’t watch television forever after she had put little June to bed, the house was near spotless before Nancy’s mother started on it; but she had to occupy herself and Wednesday afternoon had become a ritual. Nancy’s mother came and cleaned the house and went on about something.

  What she was going on about now was what she had gone on about ever since Jim had been killed. Where was the sense, she asked, in Nancy tying herself to this house when there was a place for her at home, a garden for little June to play in instead of a short length of street and a deathtrap of a through-road at the end of it, and herself and Nancy’s father to look after the child while Nancy went out and enjoyed herself?

  Oh, and didn’t she go on! Saying the same things, week after week. She had decided what she thought was best, and wouldn’t leave it alone.

  ‘I like my independence,’ Nancy always told her. ‘I like to have a life of my own.’

  ‘You bring June to me on your way to the shop,’ Nancy’s mother said, ‘and you collect her on your way home. You can’t go out on a night because she’s got to be looked after. If you call that having a life of your own. You never get out and see anybody.’

  She saw enough people in the shop during the day, Nancy always told her. She was happy enough in her own home when she’d done her day’s work.

  ‘A young woman like you, shutting yourself off,’ her mother said. ‘You’ll never get anywhere if you don’t get out and about.’ She would never find another husband, Nancy’s mother meant. Jim had been taken suddenly, and that was sad; but Nancy was a young woman, with time to have another two or three bairns, but not if she never went out and mixed with people socially.

  It was the first week of the school holidays and children were noisy in the street. Some young ones had been and fetched June straight after dinner. June herself would be starting junior school in the autumn. Then, with Nancy tied at the shop till six in the evening, Nancy’s mother would accept the extra chore of collecting June in the afternoon. All the more reason, Nancy could hear her mother saying, why Nancy should listen to sense and sell this house and move back home. But though Nancy had often spoken to Jim of ‘popping round home’ when visiting her parents’ house, she no longer thought of it as such. Here was home, the house she and Jim had bought and done up together, talking of the day they would get something better: a semi, they thought, with a lawn at the back to sit out on and a vegetable patch where Jim could grow things. There had been no rush.

  Then they had come to tell her about Jim, baffled themselves by the tragedy of it. In a safe pit with a low accident rate, and no fatalities for years past, he had walked alone into a heading, where a stone had fallen out of the roof, pinning him down and, so they told her as a crumb of comfort, killing him instantly. She was carrying the child and thought at first she would surely lose it. The doctors told her she was tough. Her mother had been known to call her hard. But Nancy had never paraded her feelings; she did not know how to behave to impress others. Her duty was to hang on and think of the new life growing inside her: a bit of Jim that he would now never see. Perhaps she would re-marry one day; but she would not go out and look for a chap, and he would have to be pretty special for her to notice him. That she had told her mother. It seemed to Nancy that she told her every Wednesday, while her mother went on.

  Now she was telling Nancy that she’d had a reply from a guesthouse in Bournemouth, whose address a friend had given her, and they could have accommodation for the last two weeks in August. Nancy’s mother thought the south coast would be a pleasant change, but if Nancy wanted to go elsewhere with a friend it would be no trouble for her and Nancy’s father to take little June with them. But no, there was nowhere else that Nancy wanted to go.

  Afterwards, Nancy found she could remember that moment with vivid clarity, though its components were all familiar ones. There was the attitude of her mother’s body as she held the vacuum cleaner while she wound the flex on to the hooks; the sudden rush of water in the automatic washer as it performed its last rinse; the sunlight on the step outside the scullery door. The voices of th
e children were no longer near.

  ‘Just have a look out at June, will you?’ she said, as she opened the washer and passed clothes over into the drying compartment. ‘They’ve gone quiet.’

  Then a minute or so must have passed, but it seemed like no time at all before Nancy’s mother was calling at the end of the yard. ‘June! June, where are you? Ey, you two, bring June back here. Don’t you know how busy that road is? No, keep hold of her! Don’t let her -!’ And Nancy was out and running across the flagstones and into the street, as though she knew before she heard that awful screech of tyres and saw the car slewed round and the little legs in the blue and white Marks and Spencer socks, washed just once, and the stupid, older girls who had led her into it, standing petrified, soundless, and she herself making no sound – not yet – while her mother set up an endless moaning chant beside her: ‘Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! ...’

  Nancy’s father could not eat his food. Nancy had had nothing but cups of tea for over twenty-four hours. They talked behind her in low voices. ‘It’s the shock,’ her father was saying. He couldn’t take it in.

  Nancy’s mother was saying what she’d said ever since Jim died; that there had been no sense in Nancy living on her own with the bairn, when a good home had been waiting for them here. Nancy told her to shut up; let it drop.

  ‘I don’t care, Nancy. You could have come here and been as free as you liked. You can’t stop living just because –’

  ‘Just because what?’ Nancy challenged her. ‘What are you talking about? I don’t know how you can fashion to bring it all up. You never let things rest; you just go on and on. You were sick to get me out of that house, and now you’ve got something you can hold against me for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Nancy!’

  There might have been a row then, because if what Nancy accused her mother of was not strictly true, her mother talking like that would not help Nancy to stop thinking that if only she had taken her advice little June would not have been in that road at the moment that car came along, and... And if Jim had not walked into that heading, or he had come out of the pit into a safer job, and if she had never met him and she’d never had the child…?