Surviving

by Henry Green

  Now in London we have two-decker buses, the difference being that you are allowed to smoke on the top deck, which is why I always go on top. And since we have lived in this house I am writing from for ten years, I have had to catch a bus, holidays excepted, on the same route, every morning, every morning for all that time.

  And in that time I’ve had one terrifying experience with a stranger, completely unexplained, and of course without intervention from myself or my fellow passengers. It was, which may be significant, on the outward, that is the morning, journey. I do believe people behave oddly from the pressure of their private, as opposed to what might be called their public lives. The fact is immaterial that the person I am going to tell you about was sober or so I believe, as people almost always will be at that hour. The point is that none of us, strangers, but I suppose Christians, even if not practising, not one of us ever do much about it.

  This particular experience hit me not forewarned some seven years ago. You must understand that my bus route passes one of our great hospitals and that there is an obligatory stop there. We were not three hundred yards from it, and I was in one of the front seats on top, when I heard what was between a loud cry or a groan from behind. I turned round with a deep feeling of disapproval, as much as I saw reflected in the faces of all the other passengers but two. These were women and were directly behind where I was seated. You sit two by two on these buses in London, with an aisle in between, and two women next each other were involved. One was thrown back rigid on the seat in a kind of fit, an arm raised above her head as it might be with a sort of threat or defiance. Beside this woman was another, who from her embarrassed expression, did not know the ill one from Eve. Seated as she was on the outside, that is to say nearest to a window, she had delicately put thumb and forefinger round the wrist of this uplofted fist, in case, presumably, it should with force descend.

  A fit, I remember saying to myself with some distaste and looking to my front again.

  There were no cries or groans any more and no one said a word.

  I thought to myself, I recollect, they will put her, so to speak, ashore at the hospital, which, by now, we had almost reached. Indeed I considered how fortunate it had been for this girl to be taken ill so near a place where everything would be that could be done. And when we stopped at this obligatory stop, which I felt Providence had timed for her so well, I turned disapprovingly round once more. She looked ghastly, was still rigid, but the uplifted arm was lowered and the woman who had held her wrist was looking straight ahead. In looking back I could see several people getting off, queueing to climb down the stairs. I knew one of them would tell the conductor. I wondered whether he could carry her over to the hospital and thought, on the whole, not. That in fact one of the passengers would have to do it. And that it would not be me. I did not feel well enough. Upon which this thought came. I might as well get off, lose the fare, take another bus, for the delay could be all of five minutes, and besides, there might be a call for volunteers and, in the state I was, a woman in one’s arms on those narrow stairs would be a job, I again thought.

  In the event I sat tight. Let the police do it, I remember thinking.

  Of course one of those departing did tell the conductor. There was the pause I had been expecting when we did not leave the stop and then here he was on the top deck, walking not like a bride, rather as one who is about to stop a wedding, up the aisle.

  Now I only really know my own county, I can’t tell you of elsewhere, but I must explain that down south in England there is no arguing with bus conductors. They have every legal right to throw you off if they feel like it, or to have you arrested if you won’t go, again if only they feel like it.

  So I felt almost sorry for this girl when the man came up.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss?’ I heard him ask as I sat rigidly looking to my front.

  ‘Yes’ she managed to reply, but in an expiring voice.

  ‘Sure now?’ he gruffly demanded.

  ‘Yes’ she whispered.

  ‘Right’ he announced, left us, climbed down the stairs and, to my dismay, we were off, still with our load of trouble I had been so certain would be passed over to that great hospital.

  It was worse than being left alone, as one always is, with one’s conscience. For, in this case everything might start all over again, and conceivably be worse still. One might, at a pinch, have to force open jaws and hold a tongue to prevent her swallowing it, or whatever one does.

  I looked every now and again, and she seemed barely conscious. Then, to my horror, the woman on the far side wanted to get out. The sick one managed to move her legs out of the way and the girl who had held that ominous fist made off fast. But she came back. She whispered to the sufferer. What she said I did not hear. Even if I wasn’t very deaf, I am sure I couldn’t have heard. At the time, I remember saying to myself ‘is this then one of these strange, secret, inviolable female complaints never to be mentioned before strange men?’ But the sick one only nodded and the other left.

  As the journey went on I looked round every now and then. Her eyes were open and I took care not to look in them. Something else I saw. Everyone was getting off as he or she got to their destinations. Then again it became a matter of conscience for, once more, as always, one was left alone with it. I was quite sure from what I had observed, that the conductor would be worse than useless. And the next hospital on this route was many a further mile distant. What to do? The conductor and I were now the only ones to know about her. And my stop, my destination, was coming up fast. Here was Baker Street. I looked again. The girl seemed barely conscious. Now George Street and my address where I get off.

  The conductor saw me go and said no word. And that was that.

  On the same route I have seen this same girl once or twice since. She doesn’t seem to recognise me, indeed there is no reason why she should. She looks better. She is still not going to have a baby. I suppose, like any other novelist, and she wore gloves, I imagined her unmarried and just having found she was to have a child. Or some other equally fantastic female compulsion.

  Or had she simply had a row with her mother? I shall never know. After all I can’t very well go and ask.

  But thinking it over through the years I do now consider that the conductor I so blamed at the time was quite correct not to take this girl into hospital. Why, they might have done almost anything to her there. Even a stomach pump! While now she is still all right.

  Or is she?

  FALLING IN LOVE

  (Published in Esquire, 1955)

  ⎯

  Accepting ‘with a sense of grievance’ that he would not receive remuneration for this piece, commissioned by a freelance contributor, Green wrote to Esquire: ‘Certainly I would not have bothered to answer his letter if I had known there was no question of payment.’

  ⎯

  A man falls in love because there is something wrong with him. It is not so much a matter of his health as it is of his mental climate; as, in winter one longs for the spring. He gets so that he can’t stand being alone. He may imagine he wants children, but he doesn’t, at least not as women do. Because once married and with children of his own, he longs to be alone again.

  A man who falls in love is a sick man, he has a kind of what used to be called green sickness. Before he’s in love he’s in a weak condition, for which the only prognosis, and he is only too aware of this, is that he will go on living. And, in his invalidism he doesn’t feel he can go on living alone. It is not until after his marriage that he really knows how wrong or sick he has been.

  I am, of course, assuming that love leads to marriage. Unrequited love is to be avoided at all costs. If a married man falls in love with a third party and hasn’t the courage to leave his wife, he is like a man who takes off his belt, ties it round the branch of a tree, and hangs himself to death in the loop while his trousers fall round his ankles. If an unmarried man finds unrequited love then there is even more the matter with him.

 
The love one feels is not made for one but made by one. It comes from a lack in oneself. It is a deficiency, and therefore, a certifiable disease.

  We are all animals, and therefore, we are continually being attracted. That this attraction should extend to what is called love is a human misfortune cultivated by novelists. It is the horror we feel of ourselves, that is of being alone with ourselves, which draws us to love, but this love should happen only once, and never be repeated, if we have, as we should, learnt our lesson, which is that we are, all and each one of us, always and always alone.

  JOURNEY OUT OF SPAIN

  (Unpublished, 1955)

  ⎯

  Rejected by Associated Rediffusion television. There is correspondence to suggest that a misunderstanding had arisen over the length Green was to write to. On Rediffusion’s insistence that the play be cut, Green wrote: ‘I am not without experience in writing and am quite sure after thirty years at it that my piece could not be condensed to 20 minutes without hopelessly ruining it.’

  ⎯

  Ritz Hotel, Barcelona. Lounge, palms, table and four chairs, alcove at back. Husband and wife, both aged about forty, sit at table in utmost luxury, he with brandy and soda. She with sherry.

  SHE

  Oh darling what a relief we’re here.

  HE

  I know. But we’re not there yet, though.

  SHE

  My dear we’ve only got to get on the boat and we’ll be over there at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. And it will be a lovely cabin, the travel agent said so.

  HE

  Well it hasn’t been too bad up to now, has it.

  SHE

  Darling it was so sweet of you to go to all the expense of the wagon lit. Why we’ve just drifted across Europe in the lap of luxury.

  HE

  And the Channel crossing wasn’t too awful was it?

  SHE

  Like a mill pond, only with those lovely drinks one never has on real mill pounds.

  HE

  I say, have another.

  SHE

  Oh no, not yet. Promise me you won’t drink too much this trip. If you start now only think how you’ll feel tomorrow morning.

  HE

  I don’t feel too good now as a matter of fact.

  SHE

  You don’t? After those wonderful French railways have simply wafted us here!

  HE

  It’s a long way my dear. And then of course, and I’m not blaming anyone or anything, but I’ve had after all to see to everything.

  SHE

  Well you have your other drink then because you’ve been perfect. And it is so wonderful of you to take me a room in this gorgeous hotel just so as I can have a bath. And am I going to enjoy it when I’ve finished my sherry. We’ve hours of time haven’t we?

  HE

  The boat doesn’t sail until nine tonight and it’s just three o’clock now.

  SHE

  Only that! We did get here so quick didn’t we even if we did arrive by tram.

  (She giggles.)

  How fantastic to arrive at the Ritz by tram! D’you think the Head Porter minded?

  HE

  But as I told you darling we forgot when we left London that today would be Good Friday. No one at home told me there would be no taxis on the streets in Spain in Holy Week.

  SHE

  It did seem rather extraordinary all the same to carry our bags off a tram. But of course it wasn’t your fault.

  HE

  Well you can’t take the car with you on the train you know, not yet at any rate!

  SHE

  Still the tram was quite an adventure, wasn’t it?

  HE

  Yes, the first so far.

  SHE

  Now don’t you start fussing darling. They told me over and over in London the boat out of here is marvellous.

  HE

  Good God a wedding!

  (A tall girl in full wedding dress, her short mother and a photographer start to pose in the background. She is first put with her back to the wall, her train is pulled and rearranged diametrically to the right, and then she looks thrillingly over her left shoulder.

  In the meantime the following dialogue continues.)

  HE

  Just look what luck, a wedding.

  SHE

  Oh no! I can’t believe my eyes. And her dress! Have you ever seen anything like it?

  HE

  I pity the poor bridegroom. Where is he by the way? And does that woman do this for a living. I mean posing brides for that photographer?

  SHE

  My dear she’s her mother.

  HE

  She can’t be. Look at the difference in their sizes. How could that grotesque giant have come out of her?

  SHE

  My dear, how surprised can you be? Think of Mother.

  HE

  I was trying not to.

  SHE

  Now be sweet. This is the start of our holiday after all. I mean don’t be serious. Honestly are her children going to own this photo all their lives?

  HE

  Shouldn’t be surprised if they spent the first night of their married life on our boat tonight.

  SHE

  Now don’t be disgusting.

  HE

  It’s the facts of life after all.

  (The tiny bridegroom sidles in.)

  SHE

  Oh no darling it can’t be.

  HE

  Waiter, another brandy.

  SHE

  Now be careful.

  HE

  Poor devil. It doesn’t seem possible. What a time he’s going to have. Why she’ll eat him!

  (Her husband is rather tall as he rises to stretch himself.)

  SHE

  Some of those short men are very virile or so I’ve heard. But did I look like that when we were married?

  HE

  You looked very old fashioned.

  (He sits down again.)

  SHE

  No but really Henry. I wore the latest thing.

  HE

  All I was saying was that it was dated within six months, and now twenty-five years later it looks positively antediluvian in the photos. Don’t tell me they’re going to be taken hand in hand now?

  SHE

  I remember you wouldn’t even take my arm.

  HE

  I remember I was so dead frightened of falling flat on my face I was afraid I’d bring you down with me when I stumbled.

  Don’t forget the friend of your family who married us and tripped over the cassock.

  (She laughs. The mother starts a row with the photographer.)

  HE

  That’s life for you.

  SHE

  (Finishing her drink as his new one is served.)

  Well I’m beginning to think about my bath.

  HE

  Before you go I fancy we’ll ask about our tickets. And we’ll have to get a hired car to drive down to the dock seeing it’s Good Friday.

  (To the Waiter.)

  Do you speak English?

  WAITER

  Please?

  SHE

  What about the tickets for the boat. You’ve got them haven’t you?

  HE

  (Looking through his pockets.)

  Oh just to be sure I suppose.

  (To the Waiter.)

  Could you ask the Head Porter if he would come here a moment. Do you understand?

  WAITER

  (Departing.)

  Please.

  HE

  All these fellows can understand is the ordering of drinks.

  SHE

  Well I don’t wonder considering it’s the only English they do hear. But why d’you want me for this?

  HE

  Oh only for a minute. Just in case I suppose.

  (Still looking through his pockets.)

  Now where did I put them.

  SHE

  Oh heavens darling if you’ve . . .

  HE
>
  No here they are.

  (Extracting a booklet.)

  SHE

  But of course no Head Porter. Didn’t you know they never left their important desks?

  HE

  The married couple are going back to the reception too, I see.

  (Married group depart.)

  Well we must give him a minute or two. No, here he comes.

  (Head Porter a very fat man in uniform arrives.)

  HE

  Oh good afternoon.

  HEAD PORTER

  Yes sir.

  HE

  We have booked in for the afternoon so that my wife here can have a bath. We are catching the boat for Majorca this evening.

  HEAD PORTER

  Yes sir.

  HE

  There don’t seem to be any taxis on the streets and we have to get down to the docks.

  SHE

  We even arrived by tram.

  HEAD PORTER

  Now is Holy Week in Spain, Madame.

  HE

  D’you think you can fix us up with something?

  HEAD PORTER

  Why yes sir. I get you taxi you pay him double, no tip, that I can arrange.

  HE

  Good. The old boat sails at nine. When ought we to leave?

  SHE

  Give us lots of time. We don’t want to rush, do we?