Victoria Line, Central Line

by Maeve Binchy

  Nowadays nobody thinks any more that you meet a lot of interesting people on a newspaper, so you don’t have breathless, over-educated, anxious-to-please Oxford graduates rushing around doing all the dirty work willingly as well as all the ordinary work efficiently. Nowadays you have temps earning a fortune, but with no security, and no plans and no interest in what they’re doing. My woolly, right-minded, left-thinking views thought that this was unfair on the girls . . . they had no career structure, no dignity, and the agencies made all the money. But then from time to time my wrong-minded right-wing views made me wonder what the country was coming to when you couldn’t get a girl who could spell, read, take orders and be grateful for a good job. It was a month of temps before Rita came.

  Rita was big and black and tough about luncheon-vouchers, and wanted us to buy her a season ticket on the tube. She walked not like other people walk . . . she rolled along as if she had wheels in her shoes. She had a lot of low-cut purple or green blouses and she wore a series of desperately tight orange or yellow skirts. Marian, who deals with readers’ letters, said she thought that Rita’s skirts must rip open every evening after the strain of the day, and she would throw them away.

  She looked slow and lazy, and as if she was thinking of something else almost all the time, but she was far better than anyone we had had up until then. You didn’t have to tell Rita twice that there were ten hopeless people who kept coming into the office with ideas for stories, and that none of the ideas were ever any use. Rita just nodded vaguely, but she knew how to deal with them. She would write down what they said, type it out and put it in a file. The people would go away satisfied that things were underway, and Rita had all the ideas neatly put in the H file, under Hopeless.

  After three weeks, we realised two things, firstly that Rita was still there, that she hadn’t walked out at 11 a.m. one day like the other temps were in the habit of doing, and secondly that she didn’t need to be watched and advised all the time. Martin, the features editor, asked her if she would like a permanent job, and Rita looked as if she had been offered a potato crisp at a bus-stop, and said she might as well. But only if he would pay for a monthly ticket on the underground for her.

  Rita lived in Notting Hill but that’s all she said. This was a change too, because normally whoever sat in the desk seemed to unburden themselves of a long and complicated life history. There was nothing about Daphne’s Mike that we didn’t know, his deprived childhood, his poor relationship with Daphne’s mother, his disastrous early marriage . . . even Daphne’s black eyes were explained away by some incredible misunderstanding, some terrible mistake for which Mike was now heart-broken. All the useless temps had told us tales about their flats being too far out, or their fellows thinking they owned them, or distant boyfriends in Cumbria or on sheep-stations in Australia who wanted them to throw up the job and come home and marry them. Rita never told us anything.

  ‘Do you live in a flat or with your family?’ Marian asked her once.

  ‘Why?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Oh well I just wondered,’ said Marian a bit confused.

  ‘Oh that’s all right,’ said Rita quite happily, but didn’t answer the question.

  She used her luncheon-vouchers to buy a huge sandwich and a carton of milk, and she ate it quietly reading a trashy magazine, or at least one that was marginally more trashy than our own features pages. Because she was so uncommunicative, I suppose we were more interested in her. She got the odd phone call, and I found myself listening to her side of the conversation with all the attention of a village postmistress. She would speak in her slow flat tone, smiling only rarely, and seemed to be agreeing with whoever was on the other end about some course of action.

  Once she said, ‘He’s a bad bastard I tell you, he used to be a friend of my husband . . . get out of it if you can.’ Full of secret information I told Marian and the others that Rita had a husband. Martin said he had always supposed she did; nothing about Rita would suggest she was a lonely girl who went home to an empty bed, she was too sexy. We had long arguments about his attitudes, like that only sexy women had husbands and that all single women went home to empty beds . . . but it was an old and well worn line of argument. I was more interested that he thought Rita sexy. I thought she was overblown, and fat, and very gaudily dressed, but assumed that West Indians might like brighter colours than we would because of all their bright sunlight back home. Sexy. No.

  I was waiting one night in a pub for my sister who’s always late and I had forgotten to bring anything to read. So I looked around hopefully in case anyone had abandoned an evening paper. There was one on the floor near a very good-looking blond lad and I went over to pick it up. He put his foot on it immediately.

  ‘That’s mine,’ he said.

  He was very drunk. When someone’s very drunk you don’t make an issue about nicking their evening paper. I apologised and said I thought it was one that someone had finished with. He looked at me coldly and forgave me. Irritated, I went back to my seat and wished that my sister could for once in her life turn up at something approaching the time arranged. The blond boy now stumbled over to my table and in exaggerated gestures began to present me the paper. He managed to knock my gin and tonic over my skirt and the contents of the ashtray on top of that. I could have killed him I was so annoyed, but before I had time to do anything, a big shadow fell on the whole scene. It was of all people Rita.

  She didn’t seem embarrassed, surprised, or apologetic. She said, ‘You drunken bum,’ pulled him away back to a distant seat, ordered me another gin and tonic, brought a cloth, and a lot of paper napkins, all in what looked like slow movements, but they only took a minute or two all the same.

  I was so surprised to see her that I forgot about the disgusting mess seeping into my best cream-coloured linen skirt. What was even more amazing, she offered no explanation. I’d have said I was sorry about my friend, or made some nervous joke about it being a small world. Rita just said, ‘Hot water, and if that doesn’t work, dry cleaning tomorrow, I suppose.’ She said it in exactly the same way she’d say, ‘We can try the usual photographer for the fashion pictures, and if he’s busy get the agency ones I suppose.’ With no involvement at all.

  Hot water didn’t work very well, the whole skirt now looked appalling. When my sister Trudy came in, I was in such a temper that it frightened her.

  ‘You can wear a coat,’ she said trying to placate me.

  ‘I haven’t got a bloody coat,’ I said. ‘It’s the middle of bloody summer. My coat’s at home on the other side of London, isn’t it?’

  Rita asked with the mild concern of a bystander and not the sense of responsibility of someone whose drunken boyfriend had just ruined an expensive skirt:

  ‘Do you want something to wear? I’ll give you something.’

  Trudy thought she was an innocent concerned bystander and started to gush that it would be perfectly all right thank you . . .

  Rita said, ‘I live upstairs, you can come up and choose what you’d like.’

  Now this was too good to miss. Firstly I had discovered that Rita had a white boyfriend who looked like a Greek God, that he was as drunk as a maggot, and that Rita lived over a pub. Now I was going to see her place . . . this would be a great dossier for the office.

  ‘Thanks, Rita,’ I said ungraciously, and left Trudy open-mouthed behind me.

  As we went out the pub door and almost immediately through another, I wondered, Was I mad? Rita’s clothes would go around me four times. How could she or I think that any skirt of hers would fit me?

  She opened the door of a cheaply furnished, but neat and bright, apartment. Two small and very pigtailed girls sat on a big cushion looking at a big colour telly.

  ‘This is Miss that I work with,’ said Rita.

  ‘Hallo Miss,’ they chorused, and went back to looking at bionic things on the screen.

  We walked into a bedroom also very neat and bright, and Rita opened a cupboard. She took out what looked like tw
o yards of material with a ribbon around the top.

  ‘It’s a wrap-around skirt, it fits any size,’ she said. I got out of the dirty dishcloth I was wearing, and wrapped it around, and tied the ribbon. It looked fine.

  ‘Thank you very much indeed, Rita,’ I said, trying at the same time to take in every detail for the telling tomorrow in the pub, while Rita would be sitting at her desk. There were big prints on the wall, Chinese girls, and horses with flying manes. The bed had a beautiful patchwork quilt, it looked as if it could sleep four people comfortably.

  ‘Are those your little girls?’ I asked, a question brought on indirectly by the bed I suppose.

  ‘They’re Martie and Anna, they live here,’ said Rita.

  I realised immediately she hadn’t told me whether they were her daughters, her sisters, her nieces, or her friends. And I also realised that I wasn’t going to ask any more.

  ‘You can leave the other skirt,’ said Rita and then, for the very first time volunteering some information, she added, ‘Andrew has quite enough money to pay to have it dry-cleaned, and I’ll bring it into the office for you on Friday.’

  Oh, so he was called Andrew, the young beautiful boy, and he had plenty of money, oh ho. I was learning something anyway. I didn’t dare to ask her whether he was her boyfriend. It wasn’t that Rita was superior or distant, but she drew a shutter down like someone slamming a door, and didn’t find it rude or impolite. It left you feeling rude and impolite instead.

  I thanked her for the skirt. Martie and Anna said ‘Goodbye Miss’ without removing their eyes from the screen. Somehow they seemed so much at ease with the goings-on that it made me very annoyed with myself for feeling diffident because this was a black house and I was a white woman. Who creates these barriers anyway, I argued with myself, and, taking a deep breath, said to Rita on the stairs:

  ‘Why do they wear their hair in those tight little pigtails? They’d be much prettier if their hair was loose.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Rita shrugged, as if I had asked her why she didn’t move the coffee percolator to another table in the office to give herself more room. ‘Yeah maybe,’ she agreed.

  ‘Do you like them with their hair all tied up like that?’ I asked courageously.

  ‘Oh it has nothing to do with me,’ she said, and we were out on the street and into the pub again.

  Trudy had a face like thunder when I came back but she greeted Rita pleasantly enough, and asked her if she would like to join us.

  Rita shook her head. ‘This drunken baby has to be taken to bed,’ she said enigmatically, and she frog-marched the handsome Andrew out the door without a good-bye. I ran to the window to see whether she was taking him up to her own flat, but they had gone too quickly. There was no way of knowing whether they had gone in her door or turned the corner, and I didn’t really want to run out into the street to check.

  Trudy wasn’t very interested in my speculation.

  ‘I don’t suppose I should have been so surprised to see her,’ I reflected. ‘I knew she lived in Notting Hill. This is a very black area around here too, I suppose.’

  ‘Quite a few white people live here as well,’ said Trudy acidly, and I forgot that she had just paid what seemed like an enormous sum of money for a very small, very twee house around the corner.

  The others were interested at lunchtime the next day. They wanted to know what Andrew looked like.

  ‘Like that actor who plays the part of Henry in that serial,’ I said, meaning an actor whose dizzying looks had sent people of all ages into some kind of wistful speculation as to what a future with him might be like.

  ‘You mean Andy Sparks,’ said Marian, and with a thud I realised it was Andy Sparks. It was just that his face seemed so contorted, and he hadn’t worn the boyish eager look nor the boyish eager anorak he always wore in the serial.

  ‘My God, it was definitely him,’ I said. By this time the others were losing interest, they thought I had gone into fantasy. Large lumbering black Rita, who read rubbishy magazines, who never seemed interested in anything, not even herself . . . she could never have been the petite amie of Andy Sparks.

  ‘We did a feature on him about three weeks ago,’ said Martin. ‘No, it can’t have been the same guy, you only think so because they had the same name.’

  ‘You did say Rita was sexy,’ I pointed out, trying to bolster up my claim that she might be so sexy that she could have been seen with the superstar of the moment.

  ‘Not that sexy,’ said Martin, and they began to talk about other things.

  ‘Don’t tell her I told you,’ I said. I felt it was important that Rita shouldn’t think I had been blabbing about her. It was as if I had gone into her territory by being in that pub, and I shouldn’t be carrying back tales from it.

  I looked up the back pages surreptitiously. It was the same guy. He had looked unhappy and drawn compared to the pictures we used of him, but it was the same Andrew.

  On Friday Rita handed me a parcel and an envelope. The parcel was my skirt, which she said the cleaners had made a lovely balls of. They were sorry but with a stain like that it was owner’s risk only, and she had alas agreed to owner’s risk. They were, she said, the best cleaners around. I looked at the docket and saw she was right. I also saw the name on the docket. It said ‘A. Sparks’. She took the docket away and gave me the envelope. It was a gift-token for almost exactly what the skirt had cost, and it was from the shop where I had in fact bought it. Not a big chain-store but a boutique.

  ‘I can’t take it,’ I said.

  ‘You might as well, he can afford it.’ She shrugged.

  ‘But if it had been a stranger, not a . . . er . . . well someone you knew, then I wouldn’t have got it replaced,’ I stammered.

  ‘That’s your good luck, then,’ said Rita and went back to her desk. She hadn’t even left me the docket so that I could show the others I was right about the name.

  At lunchtime I invited Rita out with me.

  ‘I thought you were having lunch with that woman who wrote the book about flowers,’ she said, neither interested nor bored, just stating a fact.

  ‘She rang and cancelled,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t put her through to you,’ said Rita.

  ‘No, well I rang her on the direct line actually,’ I said, furious to have my gesture of taking her out to lunch made into an issue. ‘I didn’t feel like talking to her.’

  ‘And you feel like talking to me?’ asked Rita with one of her rare smiles.

  ‘I’d like to buy you a nice lunch and relax with you and thank you for going to all that trouble over my skirt,’ I snapped. It sounded the most ungracious invitation to lunch ever given.

  Even if I had been down on my knees with roses I don’t think Rita would have reacted differently.

  ‘Thanks very much, but I don’t think I will. I don’t like long boozy lunches, I have too much work to do in the afternoons here anyway.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake it doesn’t have to be long and boozy, and though you may not have noticed it, I work here in the afternoons myself,’ I said like a spoiled child.

  ‘Okay then,’ she said, took up her shoulder bag, and with no coat to cover her fat bouncing bottom and half-exposed large black breasts, she rolled down the corridor with me, into the lift and out into the street.

  I chose a fairly posh place, I wasn’t going to have her say I went to less expensive places with her than with the journalists or people I interviewed.

  She looked at the menu as if it were a list of cuttings we needed her to get from the library. I asked her if she would like pâté and said that they made it very well here.

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  I could see it was going to be hard going.

  We ordered one glass of wine each, she seemed to accept that too as if it were extra dictation. The few starts I made were doomed. When I asked her whether she found the work interesting in the office, she said it was fine. Better than where she had worked before? Oh yes she supp
osed so. Where had that been? Hadn’t I seen it on her application? She’d been with a lot of firms as a temp. I was driven to talk about the traffic in London, the refuge of all who run out of conversation.

  Just then a bird-brained rival of mine on another newspaper came over. Normally I would have walked under buses to avoid her. Today she seemed like a rescue ship sent to a desert island.

  She sat down, had a glass of wine, wouldn’t eat because of some new diet, wouldn’t take her coat off because she was in a hurry, and looked at Rita with interest. I introduced them just name by name without saying where either worked.

  ‘I expect you’re being interviewed,’ the bird-brain, highly-paid writer said to Rita. Rita shrugged. She wasn’t embarrassed, she wasn’t waiting for me to give her a lead. She shrugged because she couldn’t be bothered to say anything.

  At least now I didn’t have to do all the talking. Rita and I heard how hard life was, how long it took to get anywhere these days because of the traffic, how hopeless hairdressers were, how they never listened to what you wanted done, how silly the new summer clothes were, how shoes didn’t last three months, how selfish showbiz people were making big productions out of being interviewed, instead of being so grateful for all the free publicity. Then her eyes brightened.

  ‘I’m doing Andy Sparks,’ she said. ‘Yes I know, your lot had him last week, but he’s promised to tell me all about his private life. I’m taking him to dinner in a little club I’ve just joined, so that people won’t keep coming over to disturb us. He’s meant to be absolutely as dumb as anything, only intelligent when he gets lines to read. Anyway we’ll see, we can’t go far wrong if he tells a bit about the loves of his life, I only hope it won’t be religion or his mother or a collie dog or something.’

  Rita sat half-listening as she had been doing all along. I started to say about three different things and got a coughing fit. Finally it dawned on the world’s most confident bad writer that she was losing her audience so she excused herself on the grounds that she wanted to go and get herself smartened up at the hairdresser, just in case this beautiful man by some lovely chance wasn’t in love with his mother or the man who directed the series.