The Penguin Book of the British Short Story Page 26

  When the time came to visit Norman, Vi was in quite a quandary about what to wear. She didn’t want the people he lived with to put her down as tarty – there’d probably been quite enough of that sort of talk already – on the other hand she wasn’t going to look a frump for anyone. She compromised with her black suit, white lace jabot and gold pocket seal, with coral nail varnish instead of scarlet.

  The house when she got there wasn’t in Hampstead at all, but in Kilburn. Respectable, she decided, but a bit poor looking.

  ‘Norman’s out at the demo,’ said Mrs Thursby ‘but he should be back any time now. You’ll come in and have a cup of tea, won’t you?’ Vi said she thought she would. She hadn’t quite understood where her nephew was, but if he was coming back soon, she might as well wait. The parlour into which she was ushered brought her home in Leicester back to her – all that plush, and the tassels and the china with crests on it got her down properly now. One thing they wouldn’t have had at home though and that was all those books, cases full of them, and stacks of newspapers and magazines piled on the floor, and then there was a typewriter – probably a studious home, she decided. She did wish the little dowdy, bright-eyed woman with the bobbed hair would sit down instead of hopping about like a bird. But Mrs Thursby had heard something about Vi, and she was at once nervous and hostile; she stood making little plucking gestures at her necklace and her sleeve ends and shooting staccato inquiries at Vi in a chirping voice that had an undertone of sarcasm.

  ‘Mrs … Mrs Cawston, is it?’

  ‘That’s right’ said Vi.

  ‘Oh yes. I wasn’t quite sure. It’s so difficult to know sometimes these days, isn’t it? with …’ and Mrs Thursby’s voice trailed away.

  Vi felt she was being got at. But Mrs Thursby went on talking.

  ‘Oh! The man will be sorry you came when he was out.’ By calling Norman ‘The man’ she seemed to be claiming a greater relationship to him than that of a mere aunt. ‘He’s talked of you’ and she paused, then added drily ‘a certain amount. I won’t say a great deal, but then he’s not a great talker.’

  ‘Where did you say he was?’ asked Vi.

  ‘At Trafalgar Square’ said Mrs Thursby. ‘They’re rallying there to hear Pollitt or one of those people. My two went, they’re both C.P., and Norman’s gone with them. Though I’m glad to say he’s had the good sense not to join up completely, he’s just a fellow traveller as they call them.’

  Vi was too bemused to say much, but she managed to ask for what purpose they were rallying.

  ‘To make trouble for the Government they put into power’ said Mrs Thursby drily. ‘It makes me very angry sometimes. It’s taken us forty years to get a real Labour Government and then just because they don’t move fast enough for these young people, it’s criticism, criticism all the time. But, there it is, I’ve always said the same, there’s no fool like a young fool’ and she closed her tight, little mouth with relish ‘they’ll come round in time. Hilda, that’s my girl, was just the same about the chapel, but now it seems they’ve agreed to the worship of God. Very kind of them I’m sure. I expect you feel the same as I do, Mrs Cawston.’

  Vi wasn’t quite sure exactly what Mrs Thursby did feel, but she was sure that she didn’t agree, so she said defiantly ‘I’m conservative.’

  ‘Lena’ said Mrs Thursby in a dry, abrupt voice to a tall, middle-aged woman who was bringing in the tea-tray ‘We’ve got a Tory in the house. The first for many a day.’

  ‘Oh no!’ said Lena, and everything about her was charming and gemütlich from her foreign accent to her smile of welcome. ‘I am so pleased to meet you but it is terrible that you are a Tory.’

  ‘Miss Untermayer teaches the man German’ said Mrs Thursby. ‘Mrs Cawston is Norman’s aunt.’

  ‘Oh!’ cried Miss Untermayer, her gaunt features lit up with almost girlish pleasure ‘Then I congratulate you. You have a very clever nephew.’

  Vi said she was sure she was pleased to hear that, but she didn’t quite like the sound of these rallies.

  ‘Oh! that’ said Miss Untermayer ‘He will grow out of that. All this processions and violence, it is for children. But Norman is a very spiritual boy, I am sure that he is a true pacifist.’

  ‘I’m sure I hope not’ said Vi who was getting really angry. ‘I’ve never had anything to do with conchies.’

  ‘Then you’ve missed contact with a very fine body of men’ said Mrs Thursby ‘Mr Thursby was an objector.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure’ said Vi. ‘Major Cawston was right through the war.’

  ‘The important thing is that he came out the other side’ remarked Mrs Thursby drily.

  ‘There are so many kinds of bravery, so many kinds of courage. I think we must respect them all.’ Miss Untermayer’s years as a refugee had made her an adept at glossing over divisions of opinion. All the same she gave a sigh of relief when Norman’s voice was heard in the hall, at least the responsibility would not be on her any more.

  ‘Hilda and Jack have gone on to a meeting’ he shouted ‘I’d have gone too but I’ve got to get on with this essay.’

  ‘You aunt’s come to see you’ shouted back Mrs Thursby.

  Norman came into the room sideways like a crab, he was overcome with confusion at the sight of Vi and he stood, running his hands through his hair and blinking behind his spectacles.

  ‘You were such a long time answering my letters that I thought I’d better come down and see what sort of mischief you’d got into’ said Vi ‘and I have’ she added bitterly. ‘Demonstrations indeed. I’d like to know what your mother would say, Norman Hackett?’

  Norman’s face was scarlet as he looked up, but he answered firmly. ‘I don’t think Mum would disapprove, not if she understood. And even if she did, it couldn’t make any difference.’

  ‘Not make any difference what your mother said. I’m ashamed of you, Norman, mixing up with a lot of reds and Jews.’

  ‘That’s enough of that’ cried Mrs Thursby. ‘We’ll not have any talk against Jews in this house. No, not even from Rahab herself.’

  Vi’s face flushed purple underneath her makeup. ‘You ought to be ashamed’ she cried ‘an old woman like you to let a boy of Norman’s age mix up with all this trash.’

  ‘You’ve no right to say that …’ began Norman, but Mrs Thursby interrupted him. ‘Oh let the woman say her say, Norman. I’ve had a windful of Tory talk before now and it hasn’t killed me. If Father and I have taught the man to stand up for his own class, we’re proud of it. And now, Mrs Cawston, if you’ve nothing more to say to Norman, I think you’d better go.’

  Vi arrived at the Unicorn sharp at opening time that evening. She’d got over most of her indignation, after all Ivy didn’t think much about her, and if the boy wanted to go to pot, good riddance. She had a couple of gins and lime as she waited for Trevor.

  Mr Pontresoli came across the saloon bar. ‘Hullo, Vi’ he said in his thick voice ‘Have you heard the news about Solomons? Dreadful, isn’t it?’

  It really gave Vi quite a shock to hear that they’d charged young Mr Solomons – something to do with clothing coupons. She had felt quite guilty towards him after speaking out like that against the Jews, and now to hear of this, it made you wonder what sort of a government we had got. As Mr Pontresoli said ‘It’s getting to be the end of liberty, you mark my words.’

  ‘Trevor’ll have something to say about this, Mr Pontresoli’ Vi said, and then she remembered what Trevor said about the Jews, it was all too difficult, one could never tell. Mr Pontresoli offered her another gin, so she said yes. ‘I’ll tell you what’ said Mr Pontresoli. ‘It’s going to make a difference to me financially. Solomons was one of my best backers at the club. It may mean cutting down a bit. We shan’t be needing two pianos.’

  What with the gin – will you have another? said Mr Pontresoli, and yes said Vi – and the tiring day she’d had, Vi felt quite cast down as she thought of Terry out of a job. A nice boy like that. But then he’d
got Mrs Lippiatt.

  ‘Poor Terry, Mr Pontresoli’ she said, her eyes filling with tears ‘We shall miss him at the club. Here’s wishing him more Mrs Lippiatts’ and she drained her glass. ‘This one’s on me, Mr Pontresoli’ she said, and Mr Pontresoli agreed.

  ‘We couldn’t afford to let Terry go’ said Mr Pontresoli ‘that’s certain. Mrs Lippiatt says he draws all the women, and she ought to know, she spends so much money.’

  Vi worked all this out and it seemed to come round to her. This made her angry. ‘Why that’s nonsense, Mr Pontresoli’ she said, and she smiled broadmindedly ‘surely you know Terry’s a pansy.’

  Mr Pontresoli’s fat, cheerful, face only winked. ‘That gets ’em all ways’ he said and walked out of the saloon bar.

  Vi felt quite desperate. She couldn’t think where Trevor had got to. ‘Have you seen my husband Major Cawston, Gertie?’ she asked the barmaid. No one could say I haven’t got dignity when I want it, she thought. Gertie hadn’t seen Trevor, but Mona’s girl friend said she had, twenty minutes ago at the George and stinking. No job and Trevor stinking. It all made Vi feel very low. Life was hell anyhow, and with all those Reds, she’d go after Trevor and fetch Norman back. She was about to get down from the high stool, when she noticed that Mona’s girl friend’s eyes were red. ‘What’s the matter, dear?’ she asked.

  ‘Mona’s gone off with that Bretonne bitch’ said the girl. ‘Oh dear’ said Vi solemnly ‘That’s very bad.’ So they both had another drink to help them on. Vi was in battling mood. ‘Go out and fetch Mona back’ she cried. ‘You won’t get anywhere sitting still.’ ‘You do talk silly sometimes’ said the girl ‘What can I do against a Bretonne, they’re so passionate.’

  The sadness of it all overcame Vi, it was all so true and so sad and so true – all those Bretonnes and Reds and passionates, and Trevor going off to demos, no, Norman going off to demos, and Mr Solomons in the hands of the Government, and her nephew in the hands of the Reds. Yes, that was the chief thing.

  ‘I must let my sister know that her son’s in trouble’ she said. ‘How can I tell her?’

  ‘Ring her up’ suggested Mona’s friend, but Vi told her Ivy had no ’phone. ‘Send a telegram, dear, that’s what I should do’ said Gertie. ‘You can use the ’phone at the back of the bar. Just dial TEL.’

  It took Vi some time to get through to Telegrams, the telephone at the Unicorn seemed to be such a difficult one. I mustn’t let Ivy know that I’m in this condition, she thought, she was always the grand lady with Ivy, so holding herself erect and drawling slightly, she said ‘I want to send a telegram to my sister, please. The name is Hackett – 44 Guybourne Road, Leicester. Terribly worried.’ It sounded very Mayfair and she repeated it ‘Terribly worried. Norman in the Wrong Set. Vi.’ ‘I feel much better now, Gertie’ she said as she stumbled back to the bar. ‘I’ve done my duty.’

  RHYS DAVIES

  A Human Condition

  Having done the errand at the Post Office, which he had timed with a beautiful precision that he imagined completely hoodwinked those left at home, Mr Arnold crossed the Market Square just as the doors of the Spreadeagle inn were opened.

  This morning he was in lamentable condition. He felt he would never get through the day without aid. Never, never, never. Deep inside him was a curious dead sensation of which he was frightened. It lay in the pit of his stomach like some coiled serpent fast asleep, and he was fearful that at any moment the thing would waken and writhe up in unholy destructive fury. And ultimately he would be destroyed. Not his critics, today collected in dark possession of his home.

  He sailed into the pub with his ample, slightly rolling strut, a man of substance handsomely ripe of body and face, his attire as conservative as a psalm to godliness; no one could say Mr Arnold neglected his person. Of the town’s few pubs the Spreadeagle was his favourite haunt. It was cosily shut in on itself and dark with shadows; it had low, black-beamed ceilings, copper gleams, honest smells, and morose windows hostile to light. In the hall a torpid spaniel bitch looked at him with the heavily drooping eyes of a passée actress; she knew Mr Arnold, and there was no necessity for even a languid wag of her tail. Always the first customer, he stepped into the bar parlour with his usual opening-time briskness. But Mrs Watson, polishing glasses behind the bar, looked at him with a start. ‘Well!’ she seemed about to exclaim, but only pursed her lips.

  ‘A whisky,’ he said; ‘a double.’

  ‘A double?’ Something was concealed in her tone.

  ‘Yes, for God’s sake.’ The false briskness was suddenly deflated. ‘And pour another for me while you’re about it.’

  ‘No, Mr Arnold,’ she said, flat; ‘no. Not two doubles … It isn’t right,’ she bridled; ‘not today. Good heavens! Don’t forget you’ve got to be there sober at two o’clock. No, Mr Arnold.’

  ‘Hell!’ he muttered. He looked over his shoulder with child-blue eyes round in fear. ‘Where’s Alec?’ A man would understand, must surely understand, what that day really meant. Women were incalculable in the domain of the affections, could run so drastically from the extremes of loving solicitude to the bleakest savagery. ‘Where’s Alec?’ he peered.

  ‘Gone to London for the day,’ his wife said. ‘Gone to buy me a budgerigar.’

  ‘Gone to London,’ he mumbled, preoccupied.

  ‘They can chirp ever so sweet,’ she said tightly, ‘and intelligent, my goodness! – my sister had one that would hop on the table when she was making cake and stone the raisins for her.’

  ‘What?’ He started from his glassy preoccupation.

  ‘The budgerigar she had. With its beak. Intelligent, my stars! … I’ve known many a human being,’ she said forbiddingly, ‘that could do with their brains and feelings.’

  Both the Malt Shovel and the Bleeding Horse, which were on his way home, were only beer houses. No licence for spirits. But there was plenty of time. He would climb to Cuckoo Ridge, up to the Self Defence. Its landlord, whose wife had been in an asylum for years, would understand. There was the Unicorn too, nearer, but repellent with its horrible modern cocktail bar, its café look, and its dirty waiters.

  Mrs Watson, solicited with flattery and whining, allowed him a single whisky more. She asked him what would be said in the town if she allowed him to have all he wanted on that morning of all mornings. He left the house with dignity, part of him pre-occupied with feeling offended, but the greater part obeying a huge desolate urge to complete the scarcely begun journey into that powerful state where he would feel secure, a captain of his fate, if a melancholy one. He had never been able to take to drinking at home. Besides, Susan never encouraged it. Never a bottle of whisky in the house.

  In the shopping street, those people who knew Mr Arnold – and they were many, for by now he was a local celebrity – looked at him with their cheerfulness, due to the brilliant day, wiped momentarily from their faces. But he encouraged no one to pass a few words with him; time must not be wasted. He took a side turning and began to climb among loaded apple and pear trees spread over garden walls. The whole fragrantly warm little town was fat with sunlight, fruit and flowers. Mr Arnold began to pant and lean on his expensive malacca stick.

  Above, on the bright emerald slopes with their small well-groomed fields, cows stood like shiny china ornaments. The short local train from London puffed a plume of snowy cotton-wool. It was toy countryside, and Mr Arnold felt obliged to admire its prettiness; it had been Susan’s idea to live here on his retirement from his highly successful career in the City lanes near Tower Bridge, where scores of important men knew him. He liked to feel that London was still near, he liked to see, on Sundays and Bank Holidays, clumps of pallid cockney youths and girls in cycling knickers dotting those slopes like mushrooms. The high air, clear as mineral waters, was supposed to be good for one. Susan said it eased her chest, and she had become a leading voice in the Women’s Institute … Ah, Susan, Susan! Her husband panted in sore distress, climbing.

  On Cuckoo Ridge the
landlord of the Self Defence greeted him, after a slight pause, courteously. But Mr Arnold saw at once that he was in the know. Rapidly he asked for a second double. The landlord, a stout, placid man in braces, looked at him. Perhaps he saw a man in agony of spirit; he served the drink. Mr Arnold thought he felt deep sympathy flowing from this man whose own wife had been shut away from him for several years already. He asked for a third double.

  The landlord mournfully shook his head. ‘Best not, Mr Arnold.’

  ‘One more,’ panted Mr Arnold. ‘Only one. I’ve got a day in front of me.’ In the pit of his stomach was a stirring of fear, as if the sleeping coil shuddered. ‘Never be able to face it,’ he whimpered.

  The landlord shook his head in slow, heavy decision. ‘There’s the circumstances to consider,’ he said.

  Mr Arnold attempted a hollow truculence. ‘My money’s as good as anyone’s—’

  ‘Now, sir,’ said the landlord distantly, ‘best be on your way.’ And, solemnly: ‘You’ve got a job to do, Mr Arnold.’

  Mr Arnold walked out with deliberate steadiness. A clock had struck twelve-thirty. It would have to be the Unicorn, and time was pressing now. Actually he had already taken his morning allowance, but today … today … He descended from the Ridge with a careful step, crossed the watercress beds into the London road, and looked sourly at the gimcrack modern façade of the Unicorn, a rebuilt house done up for motoring whipper-snappers and their silly grinning dolls. He went in like an aggressive magistrate with power to deprive the place of its licence. But he cast himself into a bony scarlet-and-nickel chair with a groan, wiping his brow. A white presence slid up to his chair.

  ‘Double whisky,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Mr Arnold,’ said the waiter.

  He cocked up his eye sharply. Known here too! In a blurred way, the grave young face looking down at him was familiar. Ha, it was Henry, who used to come with his father to do the garden! Quickly Mr Arnold assumed the censorious glare of a boss of substance. ‘And mind it’s genuine Scotch, Henry,’ he said. He did not like the boy’s solicitous look as he withdrew to the blonde cinema star serving behind the jazzy zigzagged corner counter. He took out his big presentation gold watch and looked at it importantly. Was there a pausing at the bar, a whispering? Surely he, who had been a guest at Lord Mayors’ banquets in the Mansion House, was not going to be dictated to in a shoddy hole like this? Henry brought the double. ‘Get me another, my boy,’ Mr Arnold said. Henry hesitated, but withdrew; came back – ‘Sir,’ he said awkwardly, ‘sir, there’s no more except this single. Our supplies haven’t arrived; they’ll be here by tonight.’