The Time Before This

by Nicholas Monsarrat

  It was not at all what I wanted. If anything, I sided with the old man, the forlorn underdog; I certainly did not want to argue with him, nor join the yapping majority. But, apart from that, bar room brawls were not in my taste, in any case. Leading nowhere, they wasted boundless energy on the way; they shared a bracket with casual love and greedy politics, as the worst of adult play areas. And if that sounds priggish, I claim to belong to a generation whose elders drink too much, think too little, tell too many lies, strike too many attitudes, abdicate too freely and too soon. That doesn’t leave very much to us children except the resulting problems, which are not our own, and the priggishness, which is.

  Given these stray thoughts within this solemn frame of reference, I could only do my best not to get involved; I could only play it light. Thus I met the old man’s eye, squarely enough for honesty, and said: ‘OK. So it’s normal. I’m not arguing.’

  But I had played it too light; he must have thought that I was writing him off as a negligible nuisance (which perhaps was true), and his reaction was fierce, almost hysterically so. He gave me a look of absolute resentment, which clearly classed me with the rest of the enemy world, and said in a shrill voice: ‘You’re not arguing because you cannot argue! You talk of opening up the northland as if it had some special virtue, as if it had just been invented. But it is nothing! It has all been done before. I can prove it.’

  This didn’t make any sense at all, but, once again, I was determined to avoid the battle. If he had some crackpot theory about the north, he was welcome to it. I made as if to turn back to my drink, and answered offhand: ‘If you can prove it, then good luck to you.’

  But my disengagement was not working out at all well. ‘You don’t believe me!’ he screamed. ‘Your manner is insolent!’ He advanced a step towards me, shaking his fist, nearly dancing with rage. ‘You are like the rest of them, ignorant and stupid. You young puppy!’

  His antics had already brought back the corporate mockery of the bar room; now the absurd word ‘puppy’, mouthed with such authority – as if it were the most hurtful in the whole calendar of invective – set off a wild disturbance. It was the Weasel who started it; as soon as he heard the word he threw back his head and called ‘Woof, woof!’ on a high-pitched, whining note. Suddenly everyone began to copy him; the whole room resounded to an animal clamour, a horrible rise and fall of barkings, growlings, yappings, howling catcalls.

  It was as if we had all decided, in a single moment of degradation, to take a step backwards into a wolfish world, the kingdom of the zoo. A few men, perfectionists, capered about on all fours. One of them rolled over on his back, puppy-paws in the air, as if begging forgiveness for all our sins.

  The old man, utterly taken aback by the insane uproar, stood mute. When I looked towards him, I found that I was meeting his eyes; when I glanced sideways, I met the girl’s eyes instead. They bore the same message – that it was I who had brought on this uproar, that it was all my fault. For a moment I had hoped that the barking and the foolishness would blank out my own part in this, and let me off the hook. Now meeting those lingering eyes, I was not sure that I was free.

  The noise subsided gradually; men, cackling with laughter at their own buffoonery, drew in to the bar again and ordered fresh drinks to celebrate. But there was one man, slow of wit, who was still unappeased; he was still there, a monument to dogged ill will, and he still wanted the floor.

  It was the Ox. He stood immovable by the bar, facing the old man, scowling. Finally he said, in direct threat: ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Question?’ The old man turned. He was a different old man already; tired, dispirited, shocked by the few mindless moments of chaos. ‘What question?’

  ‘You know damn’ well what question … If your name’s Shepherd – remember?’

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘If your name’s Shepherd, where’s your sheep?’

  It had sounded mildly funny before; now it had taken a turn into menace, into lunacy. The old man faced his tormentor, shaking his head, uncomprehending; it was clear that he really did not understand. At last he said: ‘There is some confusion here … That is not what we were discussing.’

  ‘“That is not what we were discussing,”’ repeated the Ox, in ferocious mimicry. He advanced a step nearer, till he loomed over the old man like a darkening cliff. ‘OK, Pop – what were we discussing?’

  There was complete silence round them now. By my side Ed murmured, as he had done before: ‘Here we go again.’ But it was a different note this time, a note of pity and doom. I saw to my discomfort that, while everyone near by was watching the old man, the girl Mary was watching me.

  The old man rallied, with a last spark of pride. ‘We were discussing the northland. I maintain this is not the first time it has been inhabited, on a high level of development. In fact, I can prove it.’

  ‘Go ahead and prove it,’ said the Ox. ‘I’ve got time.’

  ‘This is not the moment.’ He faced the Ox bravely. ‘And you are not the man.’

  ‘Is that so?’ The Ox reached out, and grasped the old man by the lapels of his coat. A buttonhole ripped under the ferocious grip. ‘You go ahead and prove it. Like I said.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the girl getting down off her stool. But, to my own amazement, I was on the move also, ahead of her. For no reason in the world, I was walking into this, to help an old fool from the clutches of a brute. For no reason, I suddenly felt that I owed the old man a rescue. Only God knew why.

  Still a few steps away, I called out: ‘Give him a rest.’

  The Ox, tall enough to see me over the old man’s shoulder, focused his gaze, and found me. I was sweating, but the next few moments were something I had to go through.

  The Ox said: ‘You talking to me?’

  It was a rhetorical question, and I remembered the rules of grammar. ‘You’ve had your fun … Just let him go.’

  ‘Who’s going to make me?’

  ‘No one’s going to make you. But I think he’s had enough.’

  Behind me there was a movement, and then Ed’s voice: ‘That goes for me, too.’

  From around about us there came a curious throaty murmur, difficult to define; to my lonely heart, it sounded like a late-stirring sympathy. On the face of the Ox, broad puzzlement showed. I was small. Ed was large. It was not clear how many allies we had, but probably, in reaction, we had some. The Ox hesitated, and then he growled: ‘Arrh – the hell with it!’ and let go his grip, and turned, to us and to the world, his enormous back.

  As the old man staggered away, Mary neatly caught his arm, and twisted him towards the door. Then they walked out together, without a sound or a pause.

  Joe the barman was the first to break the silence, with the last word from authority. In a little snarly voice he called out to the empty, swinging doorway: ‘Next time, the police!’

  Mary, Mother of Nothing

  I watched the northern lights for a long, long hour, after I got back to my room. They were clean and white, on that night; they moved very slowly, giving a steadfast beauty to the crisp cold sky. Watching them across a range of glistening rooftops, I felt more than ever that they looked down on worthless men. The sum of foolishness, cruelty, and cowardice which had made up our contribution that evening could not deserve such riches.

  Not at all in the mood for work, I was taking these sad thoughts to bed when there was a knock on my door, and Mary walked in.

  I was not ready for her; not in humour, not in dress, not in inclination. But she must have walked into many rooms, wanted or not wanted, unannounced or heralded by song; the entrance was precise, self-assured, a statement of policy rather than a question mark. Once she was inside, the door swung shut behind her as if part of some confederate act. Then she smiled briefly and briskly, and said: ‘Hi!’

  I was barefooted, and taking off my tie; she had me at a disadvantage, in a pattern I did not like. Close to – and by now she wa
s close to, crossing the room in quick clicking steps – she was just as I expected; she had that fatal air of having been mauled by men, of being the end product of careless or brutal use. Good manners, and tolerance as well, evaporated as I said: ‘What do you want?’

  She must have heard that kind of greeting, also, many times; it did not check her. Without a change of expression, she answered: ‘I wanted to say thanks for what you did tonight.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ Though the excuse was reasonable enough, I was wary still; in this particular area, one thing led to another, and I did not want to trigger any of it. ‘I thought the old man was getting a rough deal.’

  ‘He always does.’

  ‘But it’s his own fault.’

  ‘Oh sure, sure.’

  The disbelieving tone was just enough to needle me. Unwisely, I tried to make my point.

  ‘Well, it is his own fault. If liquor hits him that hard, he should stay out of bars.’

  ‘Lots of people should stay out of bars.’

  Silence fell again. She was looking round the room, taking in the snow clothes, the typewriter, the serviceable luggage. She was painfully thin; the face which properly fleshed might have been beautiful, was positively skull-like. What she needed, I thought, was a solid programme of steak dinners. But I wasn’t in the steak dinner business, and I wasn’t going to be.

  She said: ‘You’re a writer, aren’t you?’

  ‘Newsman.’

  There was a bottle of whisky on the night table. I saw her looking at it, but I wasn’t going to trigger that sequence, either. I went on unknotting my tie. Finally she said: ‘Well, like I said, I just wanted to thank you.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Ed was a real help, too.’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  She looked at me directly and steadily, for the first time. ‘So are you,’ she said. Then, as if to show that she could match me on any ground, that she had pride to wear as well as clothes, she nodded, and turned, and was gone.

  Her footsteps receding down the bare corridor were businesslike, unhesitating. They conveyed the clear message that she wouldn’t have come back for at least a hundred dollars.

  She came back next day, for nothing, because I asked her to. There were various reasons for this turnabout, which on the face of it was stupid.

  Primarily, I had a bad conscience; I knew that, in a better mood, I would at least have acknowledged her effort to thank me. I didn’t want to get involved, but, equally, I didn’t have to be rough about it – or so it appeared, by the more liberal light of day.

  Then, I was bored. The northland story was only limping from my typewriter, because I kept feeling that there must be much more to it than I had found out. Or a better story hiding somewhere – something like that. That was not the climate for writing – it was the climate for making excuses and doing something else instead. The choice of something else, in Bone Lake, was not wide. Talking to Mary was a ready-to-hand alternative.

  Finally, she had intrigued me – not as a person, but as an element in a situation. I wanted to know about her and the old man; why she was involved, and what she was involved in. I wanted to know more about him, and for this she was the best lead.

  For these reasons – if they were the reasons – I smiled when I met her in the lobby next day. Then I said: ‘I owe you a drink,’ and she nodded, as if we were continuing a conversation, and answered: ‘Twelve o’clock.’

  We talked all afternoon, up in my room, with sandwiches to help out, and a bottle to help me. She had brought, of all things, her knitting – it was a scarf for the old man – and she sat on the shabby sofa by the window, her hands busy, her eyes intent on her work, her voice making a thread of the facts, like the yellow wool she worked with. It was a good voice, full, deep, belying her thin face and meagre body; it was a voice not ashamed of emotion, nor ashamed of silence if silence would serve the story.

  More than once she asked me if I wanted to work. The answer was always no.

  Because I was inquisitive, our talk was, to begin with, mostly about her. Like the majority of men, I knew more about her by hearsay than by experience. Prepared for excuses, for a romantic gloss on a coarse fabric, I was surprised by the austerity of fact. Many hallowed superstitions went by the board as I listened to her answers.

  She was not a clergyman’s daughter, orphaned at sixteen. She was not a stranded chorus girl, working off her hotel bill. She was not a widow with a tiny pension and two piteous mouths to feed. She had not fled away from a Peeping Tom stepfather. She had not been seduced by this rich politician’s son, and run out of town by the chief of police.

  She was a working girl, like her mother before her. She had come to Bone Lake because Montreal was too tough. She did not especially like her job, but she did not like any other job better.

  She was thus an honest woman, and many of her thoughts were immaculate. Particularly where they concerned the old man. We had talked about the number of times she had come to his rescue, and I had wondered, out loud, why.

  ‘He needs help,’ she answered flatly, as I seemed ready to dismiss him as a nuisance. ‘People should help each other.’

  ‘But what’s his trouble?’

  ‘Booze. And some funny ideas that may be right and may be wrong. And he’s old and sick, as well.’

  ‘Then he should see a doctor.’

  She said, with finality: ‘He’s seen one.’

  ‘Oh … Then he shouldn’t be getting into these rows.’

  ‘That’s something he feels he must do.’ She looked at me, and then down at her knitting again. She produced, from her compassionate storehouse, another maxim. ‘People should be sorry for other people.’

  ‘But he’s just a drunk.’

  ‘Who isn’t?’

  ‘Don’t say that! You know it’s not true.’

  ‘All right–’ she smiled at my vehemence, ‘–I mean, who doesn’t have some kind of a weakness?’

  ‘But you’re supposed to fight it … So all this means that you’re sorry for him.’

  ‘Just that.’ She looked at me again, more defiantly, daring me to suggest otherwise. ‘He doesn’t have any money.’

  I think that was the moment, some time during the late afternoon, when the bottle ebbed, things warmed up, and I made a conventional attempt to kiss her. But all she said was: ‘You don’t really want to,’ and we left it like that, without embarrassment, and went back to what we had been talking about, which was now exclusively the old man.

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘Two years,’ she answered. ‘Since I’ve been here.’

  ‘You know they call him the Mad Trapper?’

  ‘They always call someone the Mad Trapper. That’s standard hereabouts.’

  ‘What about these funny ideas he has?’ And as she did not answer, I pursued it: ‘He’s always saying, “I know”, at the top of his voice. What does he know?’

  Her face was averted, not giving much away. ‘It’s something he’s found. Or thinks he’s found.’

  ‘Thinks?’

  ‘Well, it’s hard to believe.’

  ‘But you believe it?’

  Now her head came up, and her hands were still. ‘Yes, I believe it.’

  ‘But what is it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ she repeated. ‘I promised not to.’

  ‘Who else has he told?’

  This was something she was definite about. ‘Over the years, he’s told seven people.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They think he’s round the bend. But they’re wrong!’

  ‘That all depends. What sort of people were they?’

  Her head came up again, with an odd kind of pride. She recited, as if from some well-learned text: ‘The Pope. President Truman. The Archbishop of Canterbury. Nehru. Stalin. Mr St Laurent when he was prime minister here. And some English king.’

&
nbsp; I looked at her sharply, wondering if she had started to play the fool. But her face was quite serious.

  ‘You mean, he went to see all those people?’

  ‘No. He wrote to them.’

  ‘Oh.’ The picture was becoming clearer, and more conventional. There were people who wrote letters to popes and prime ministers and kings, and other people who did not. The dividing line was usually clear. ‘You said, an English king. Then this was some time ago.’

  ‘About twenty years. Maybe more. He tried to go back–’ She stopped suddenly, and put her hand over her mouth in the schoolgirl gesture of dismay. She had said too much, perhaps by a single word, and I jumped on it.

  ‘Then it was some place he found? Or some man?’

  She shook her head, refusing to answer. But I wasn’t going to be put off; the process of deduction was too tempting.

  ‘If he tried to go back, and couldn’t,’ I pressed on, ‘then it’s some place, difficult to get at. Whereabouts? Round here? Up north?’ And as she kept her silence: ‘Oh, come on, Mary! You’ve told me this much–’

  I saw then that she was gathering up her things, taking flight already, and shaking her head again as if the movement would strengthen her resolve. I had pressed too hard, and the result was going to be a blank.

  When she was ready to go, she said, almost angrily: ‘You mustn’t make people break their promises.’

  ‘I’m sorry … No more questions, then. But don’t go.’

  ‘I have to, anyway.’

  Her mood had changed completely; the easy afternoon had given place to the calculated business of the evening. To smooth over the transition, I said: ‘Well, it was fun talking. Perhaps I’ll see you later.’ I smiled. ‘As Joe would say, simmer down now.’