‘Lovely piece of mahogany, that. Beautiful.’ He commended the banister. Full of pleasure of the hour, he extended his joy to an inanimate object. No answer was given; doors banged; people climbed higher. God bless Meg.
He packed his case, cleaned this evening’s shoes and the pair he’d wear tomorrow before he settled to a book. He did not enjoy himself, glanced out of the window but the street was noiseless, deserted, as if on this last night the visitors made long, special efforts of clearing and cleaning before the last round.
Knocked door.
He looked up in surprise, called an invitation to enter. Mr and Mrs Hollies edged in, wife first, were asked to sit down. Lena murmured words on the size and lightness of the room. Her husband hummed, made an awkward little excursion into politeness saying how much they had enjoyed Fisher’s company. Touched, Fisher returned the expected clichés. Hollies enlarged on his views, still not altogether at ease, but determined, bursting through words like brushwood. Man of parts, some sense in observations, not arguments without backing, pleasure to be had in hearing the language put to that sort of use, not often had the opportunity, the privilege. Mrs Hollies seemed brighter-faced as if this effusion from her husband suited her, expressed her opinion; it in no way embarrassed her, as it did Fisher.
Hollies, paused, hoisted his trouser-legs, waited, self-satisfied.
Fisher nodded, cheesed. No gracious lady could better that.
Well, then. Hollies started. He was, he’d make no bones, going down to the pub now. There followed a long, lucid explanation why he could not drink long hours at home and why this was such a treat, a necessity. Made the holiday. Lena didn’t want it. She enjoyed a drink, but in moderation. He did not blame her. This was the crux; would Mr Fisher like to walk along a little later, and perhaps Lena could accompany him. The young Smiths weren’t coming. Bed early for them; they’d need to start early. Hollies dropped no sexual hint; the broad tongue of the dining room he’d discarded for a politer approach. Didn’t take his drink too well, Terry Smith. Thinking too often what his wife would say. This statement showed no mark of malice; truth must be spoken. But he’d be glad if Mr Fisher agreed, would walk along with Lena, join them in a last pot, because he, for one, would not forget this acquaintanceship.
The man could use words. And about him was solidity; he was strong, would frighten if one crossed him, wasn’t without intelligence. If Fisher’s father had gone round to the next bedroom with a similar invitation, not that he would have visited a public house, his son would have squirmed at the pretension. Delivered in his father’s squeaky counter-genteel the identical sentiments would have stood condemned; in this deep voice, from this square frame, they flattered, became acceptable.
Fisher said yes to the proposal, if Mrs Hollies were agreeable.
Mutual beckings concluded the agreement, so that Hollies rose, announced that he did not want to waste good drinking time and that it would be very near eight before he supped his first mouthful, armed his wife out.
Pleased beyond reason, Fisher settled again to his book.
Once, returning from work, he’d gone out of his way to call in at a little shop where the man baked his own bread. Back at home, he found that Meg had been out all afternoon and that the roundsman had not called. He produced his offering swathed in tissue-paper.
Meg had kissed him, at once, and the bread had tasted delicious, crusty. They chewed and praised, delighted with each other. In the evening, they’d taken a walk round the streets, arm in arm, a man and woman in love, saying so, showing it. Meg had never seemed so uncomplicated, and he’d attributed the day’s victory to his lucky call in a shop which he remembered as smelling delicious. At about that time Donald had been conceived.
Now he felt something of the same simplicity of triumph.
These people wanted his company, came to ask for it. He lay on the bed, watching the light on the ceiling, hearing the purposeful steps or voices from the street. Half an hour later, he’d changed his shoes, washed again, and in his shirt sleeves was filing his nails when Mrs Hollies tapped.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
‘I’m in no hurry.’
He invited her to sit down. She seemed small, and the lemon frock, well cut, with a wide hem, brightened her. Ten years back she would have been pretty, with a pertness, a vivacity of expression that was only part obliterated now. As she sat, hands in lap, she promised more than modesty, or diffidence; it was not a flaunting, but more of a statement, an affirmation that she was a character, a lively woman who for her own purposes hid her light. He wondered, amused, what that light was.
‘I see no sense in mere swilling,’ she said.
‘No.’
He had not yet donned his jacket.
‘This is the best room in the house,’ she stated.
‘I’m lucky. I just phoned three days before I arrived.’
‘There’d be a cancellation.’
That conclusion pleased.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a drink here. Before we walk down the road.’ He undid his portmanteau, pulled out his half-bottle of gin, and a couple of bottles of tonic water. He poured into plastic mugs.
‘Your health,’ he said.
She stood, looked comically round, stiff as a toy soldier; held the glass aloft, took a hefty sip.
‘I like gin,’ she said.
‘Why do you?’
‘Relaxes me.’ She tasted again, with all the zest of her husband.
‘Damn braces, bless relaxes,’ he said.
‘And the same to you.’
He grinned, closed the book lying open, sipped with his back to her, though he watched her plain features through the mirror. Head lowered, she did not move, like a child in disgrace, until she straightened suddenly, shying mare, snatched at her gin, drank.
‘Happy?’ he asked.
She caught his eye, reflected, waved her glass round, downed more.
‘I like this,’ she said. He poured again. ‘You’ll have me drunk before I start.’
He described his visit to Lincoln, and she the round of shopping for presents. These bargains moved her; earning a reduction here, a better buy there she delighted herself. On Sunday afternoon next she’d be at the eldest daughter’s distributing largesse, while Jack, replete, dozed in or bawled from an armchair. She talked about her husband for a time, not without affection, but sharply, knowing his weaknesses. He had a good job at a colour printers, looked after her, but needed to be told when to change his shirt or socks. ‘I pick his clothes for him; he don’t care. He’d go out dressed like a scare-crow if I didn’t get on at him. And yet he’s as neat as a pin. When he’s finished at ‘The Plough’ tonight, he’ll be tipsy, but there’ll be not one drop of beer spilt down his suit. You see.’
‘He’s a good husband, then,’ Fisher said.
‘Yes. He is.’ She hesitated.
‘Here’s to him, then.’ Fisher picked the mug from the dressing table. ‘And his lady wife.’ That delighted her, but he recognised the stilted phraseology of his father. She stood to acknowledge the toast, took a step or two, claimed she was dizzy, sat on his bed.
‘What will you think of me, Mr Fisher?’
‘You’re on holiday.’
‘That’s one thing about Jack. I don’t have to go down to the pub if I don’t want to.’ She looked small, pathetic on the counterpane, moistening her lips. ‘Did you wife drink gin, Mr Fisher?’ He noted the tense.
‘Now and then.’
‘I’ll drink her health.’ She stood, drank, waved, plumped down. Tight already. ‘What was she like?’
‘She’s still around,’ he answered.
‘You don’t want to talk about her, do you?’ A sentimental smirk disfigured her face as she swilled the gin round her cup.
As accurately as he could, as though at a grammatical exercise, he described Meg, her appearance, her hair, the bright clothes, the way she walked, her voice. He took his time, making it matter
. When he’d finished, Lena Hollies, head on one side, a look of quizzical sympathy in the bright eye, said,
‘I think you love, her, Mr Fisher. Don’t you, now?’
‘I was married to her.’
‘That’s a different thing. The way you put it, why it was like a book.’
‘I’m used,’ he said, in untruth, ‘to talk in that fashion.’
‘Our Jack isn’t.’ She tilted the cup. ‘He can talk if he wants to. You’ve heard him. But not to me. “Get on that bed, Lena.” That’s all he can say. That’s all his love.’
‘Perhaps that’s as good.’
‘I’d like somebody to tell me things. Like you’ve done with your wife. He speaks about work, or unions, or jokes, and filth.’
‘You’re not happy, then?’
‘I don’t know about that. I don’t know who is.’ She spoke in a parody of his earlier precision, probing some philosophical difficulty. ‘But now and then I wished things was different.’ She wiped her face, briskly. ‘That’s nothing, I dare say.’
‘You’ve never thought of leaving him.’
‘Why should I?’ She smiled. ‘And to tell you the truth, it never crossed my mind until just recently. Now the children are grown up. Not that I bear him ill-will. He’s as he is, and never makes out otherwise. He’s strong still, but he’s not so quick as he was.’ She spoke now in autumnal mood, musing. ‘I married him at seventeen. Nearly thirty years. He was a sergeant in the army. I don’t like them Smiths,’ she said suddenly.
‘Why’s that?’
‘She looks down on her husband. She’d leave him if there was half the chance of anybody better.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘We’re getting to that stage,’ she spoke slowly again, ‘where he’ll begin to need me. It’s a funny thing to say, I reckon, but he will. He’s never been poorly, strong as a horse. But he had a tooth out not long before we come on holiday and it took him days to get over it. I had to nag at him. “It’s a tooth you’ve had out,” I said, “not a leg amputated.” But it floored him. It did really.’
‘He seems full of life.’
‘Here? And he is. He enjoys every minute. Mind you, sitting in a pub swilling and chewing about football isn’t much of a way.’
‘Better than bingo.’
‘Who told you I played that?’
‘Nobody. Don’t you?’
‘I’ve more sense. I go out doing a bit of charring three mornings a week.’
‘Does he mind?’
‘Why should he? Nice class of people. Like yourself. A solicitor, and teachers. Both out at work. And it makes a change for me.’
Fisher felt out of it, put in his place, an absentee employer.
‘More gin.’
‘No, thank you. I want to walk down to that pub. I don’t know; I don’t know.’ She keened, swaying slightly.
‘I shan’t be sorry to go home,’ he said. ‘Back.’
‘Promise me,’ she moved towards him, ‘promise me you’ll go and see her again.’ She stood over him, quite steady. ‘Make it up with her.’ She sketched reconciliation vaguely in the air with her mug. ‘Will you? Will you?’ He lifted the gin-bottle.
‘I’ll visit her.’
She drank again, then surprisingly, catching him out, sat on his knee, but primly, like a maiden aunt on a piano-stool. She perched lightly, feet above the floor, laughing at the reflections in the mirror.
‘You don’t like it, do you?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes.’ She laughed more shrilly.
‘You’re very nice. I could fall for you,’ she said. ‘All the people I like want somebody else. Oh, don’t pull that sour face. It’s not the end of the world.’
‘You’d be unfaithful to your husband?’
‘I didn’t say anything about that, did I, now?’ She blew breath out, got up, straightened her dress. ‘We’re on holiday. It’s a temptation for some. I caught him at it once. With a woman. Touching her up.’ She spoke without emphasis, now, almost without interest as if she’d started on a topic politeness only demanded she should complete.
‘You didn’t mind?’
‘Hard to say. Now. I could see he was frightened that he’d done something he’d regret. The woman, well, seemed quite educated, well-spoken. Husband there. Big, bald chap.’
‘Were they drunk?’
She flicked her hand mildly at his genitals.
‘Why should they be that? They liked a change. Jack’s the sort who’d get it. Wasn’t the first time. Won’t be the last. Not worth making a song about it.’
‘And you?’
‘I just fancy men quietly, say nothing. In my mind. That’s better.’ She put her mug on the sink. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go if we’re going. And don’t forget what I tell you.’
‘I’ll see her.’
She made him race to the pub, her arms swinging, as if she wanted to get off the streets.
Hollies was crushed into the corner with the Smiths, who shouted explanations of their presence. A piano banged; Jack procured seats; at the next table an old man, thin white hair neat, hummed and conducted ‘The Rose of Tralee’. In spite of the bustle, the noise, the emphatic gestures and demands, drinks appeared only slowly, were shuffled through the crowd.
Sandra twittered how the landlady had persuaded them. ‘This is your last chance, love. You make the most of it. I’ll see to the boys.’ Beautifully laundered blouse, pink mini-skirt; hair that seemed young and alive compared with Lena’s elaborations of curls as Mrs Hollies’ wary face watched, took it all in, muttered approval, but kept her counsel.
Fisher drank slowly, listened in to conversations round him, marvelled at the shifting facial expressions about what he could not guess. Though the place was crowded, thick with movement, he for the moment sat listlessly, but as if at a concert, eyeing the orchestral players as they drifted in and knowing that excitement was close at hand. At the next table a man and his wife described in contradictory duet how a fight had broken out that afternoon on the beach between two well-dressed West Indians and how some woman had intervened, ordered them to clear off. Racist talk flowed; a street fight in which somebody had cracked his skull open on the edge of the kerb was argued over until the words flew like knuckly fists. Nearer home, Hollies, chest expanded, very slowly spelt out to Sandra what he understood by a good holiday, and why he was more likely to find it here than abroad. The pint in his hand stood supreme, that and the food. ‘When I want to grease my tripes, I’ll walk down to the chemist’s an’ buy a bottle of olive oil and drink it. And not before. I happen to know what sort of lubrication suits me.’ Sandra smiled, lips parted slightly from her white teeth, intent on his every syllable. He did not speak loudly, almost fastidiously quiet in this mêlée, but hypnotically, with authority. Terry, face brick red and burning, twitched at his open collar envying the older man.
Now Fisher grew detached, immersed in his own thoughts.
Slightly dizzy he considered his play. That was the way to think a non-existent work of art into being, in a happy tipsiness, that paid no attention to decision, or alternatives, or the bore of writing, the chore of flogging oneself to get down on paper ideas that expand grandly while they’re vague.
As he sipped, he considered his conception, his great drama of a family. They were as yet innominate, but started back with the Luddites, where one young father was taken and hanged, a strong figure with the voice of righteousness in his clenched fist. Then his children, the Victorians, washed with the blood of Jesus, but running the bawbees up so that one of the grandsons killed in the trenches left a tidy fortune. Now his children lived richly in London, with grandchildren, awkward as the first ancestor under the veneer of public school and Anglican agnosticism.
How this would be crammed on stage he did not know. Brechtian scenes with lines of verse, shouts of song, revolutionary coarseness at the end against the polite southern voices. Impossible as King Lear, but in the daze and rumpus of a public house the design
unfolded into symphonic proportions. He must catch and stop up time. That was the right, true end of a swaying man in a bar: to make his peculiar scratch on the flying scud of years. The green leaf and the twig, oh. Anticipation was all. Her husband smiled as Sandra rubbed her left breast on Fisher’s upper arm. Nothing could be held. All flew, evaporated, shredded into fine mist and from this tenuous stuff the poets wove their solidity of memory. Christmas Day, damp and dark, but the whisky bottles stood ready on sideboards, and the television, and the nut crackers, to spoil another landmark until words stiffened the banality, made something of nothing, scarred that initial on the expanding universe. The broken knife and the boy’s end.
The two women either side pressed into him, became part of the pleasure. Hollies described the strip show at his club on Sunday lunch time to Terry Smith, who smirked stupidly, character wiped from his face by beer and fellowship. A vigorous guffaw rewarded a story two tables away and the ancedotalist sat back, justified. Sandra’s scent, the tang of lacquer on Lena Hollie’s hair. A group round the piano wailed in chorus; Fisher neither recognised the tune nor the words.
‘Better than pop,’ Hollies said. ‘On in the clubs now.’
‘You switch the telly on,’ Terry started, slurred, sagged back.
‘I know, if you want a decent act you’ve got to sit through hours of shouting and bawling by these long-hairs. All bloody deaf.’
‘I like it,’ said Lena.
‘You don’t. You’re always telling me to turn it down.’
‘Some of it’s good,’ Sandra ventured, close to Fisher.
‘Entertainers have got to cater for a large young public. They’re the majority. They’re the piper-payers.’ Fisher said. ‘They call the tune.’
Holiday Page 18