A View of the Harbour

by Elizabeth Taylor

  Bertram drained his glass. ‘Well . . . I feel like bed. Getting old.’ He laughed.

  ‘We don’t get any younger,’ Mr Pallister agreed.

  But Bertram had not spoken seriously. He knew he had nothing in common with this dim, grey man, who had probably looked the same age for years and years. He climbed the steep staircase, with its walls covered with pictures of boxers, of ships in full sail, photographs of choir-outings, of bowling clubs, all undusted, unobserved for many a long year. As he opened his bedroom door the curtains seemed to be sucked backwards towards him; there was a great rush of sea air and, when he stood still to listen, the interminable turning over of the waves far out to sea.

  8

  Spring comes last of all to the seaside. The tight buds of those shrubs which seemed to kneel upon the cliff-side looked as if they never would unfurl. Out in the country, fields, hedgerows, woods exulted with green; birds sang. In London, barrows were stacked with rhubarb and daffodils. But at the harbour only the light changed and the days gradually lengthened.

  Tory went to Edward’s school concert, properly dressed, she thought, in a grey suit, a grey felt hat, and found herself looking like all the other mothers, which pleased her son and disciplined her own vanity.

  Driving up in a taxi towards the school, she dissolved a peppermint in her mouth, suddenly terrified of the gin-and-french she had taken before luncheon at the Station Hotel.

  She made a great effort to remember all the things which she had read in boys’ school stories, that she must beware of Christian names and not seem pleased to see her son, not inquire after his health nor set his tie to rights, nor, in fact, behave exceptionally in any way. But boys’ schools seemed to have changed since Tory’s days of reading Gunby Hadath, Richard Bird and The Fifth Form at St Dominic’s. Edward even hugged her and seemed put out by her own off-hand greeting. He spoke of his friends as ‘Hugh’ and ‘Martin’ and ‘Angus’. He stood still while she had a quick look at his ears, especially the curly bit at the top.

  ‘Matron gave us a good do-over,’ he explained. ‘And we all had our hair cut.’

  Then she saw that the special effort was not all on her side.

  ‘I’m glad you haven’t made your nails red,’ he said. ‘All the boys here hate it. Look at old Martin’s mother. Just like a tart. He must feel sick about it.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A tart.’

  ‘What a delightful way to speak of your friend’s mother!’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t mind. All his sisters are, too. Go to dances and ride in point-to-points.’

  ‘Good gracious! Who is that handsome boy over there, with the curly hair?’

  ‘Boy?’ Edward at once became the victim of that delightful sort of laughter which is paroxysmal, muffled, dangerous and half-painful. ‘My God! that’s Mr Vincent. He’s a master. Oh, my God!’ He held his stomach, lifting one leg, then the other.

  ‘I should like to meet him,’ Tory said. ‘Try to be a little more civilised, Edward. Let’s go over and you can introduce him to me.’

  Edward’s laughter stopped suddenly. ‘Don’t be silly. He’s not my form-master. We’re only allowed to introduce to form-masters.’

  ‘What an annoying rule!’

  ‘It’s not a rule. It’s just a thing we don’t do. That’s my form-master, over there.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘He’s a decent sort.’

  ‘Is he, dear? I’m so glad.’

  Every boy who passed surreptitiously lunged at Edward, dug an elbow at him, crooked a knee at his behind.

  ‘Perhaps he is very unpopular,’ Tory thought, although Edward himself seemed not to notice.

  ‘Do you want to be introduced to old Thirsty?’

  ‘To whom, dear?’

  ‘My form-master.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. We seem happy where we are.’

  When the play began she was astonished at the beauty of the little boys dressed up as girls, wigged and rouged, their thin shoulders angular and touching, feet astride beneath long gowns, the crooked and incongruous ringlets emphasising the delicate line from cheekbone to jaw.

  Edward scarcely distinguished himself, aimlessly tapping at a triangle in the percussion band, looking vacant, even mental, his eyes wandering vaguely over the audience.

  ‘I shall see you in a week,’ Tory said when it was over. ‘I will be at the station to meet you.’

  ‘Good-bye. And thank you for wearing your best hat.’

  ‘This wretched thing!’ she laughed, but his eyes shining up at her moved her heart over. She felt shy and awkward, not knowing how to take leave. Martin’s mother, for sure, was smothering her son in camphorated furs and bits of trailing veil, kissing him without shame; but Martin’s mother had, it seemed, a dowry for doing what was incorrect – varnishing her nails and bringing her daughters up to go to dances. So Tory put a hand for a second on his shoulder and smiled, as if her greatest delight lay in saying good-bye to him.

  ‘It’s a pity Father couldn’t come,’ he said.

  ‘This station hath an ancient and fish-like smell,’ Bertram said, taking her elbow as she stepped from the train.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I met the train before this and meant to meet the next.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so tired.’

  ‘We will take the station car.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that. It’s such a little way and people never do. It will cause comment.’

  ‘Very well. There are two dozen oysters for your supper.’

  ‘Two dozen!’ she said faintly.

  ‘And a bottle of Guinness, if it will not give you wind.’ She began to laugh, feeling braced, her tiredness falling away from her.

  ‘How was your son?’

  ‘He was well; but how mad and wearisome little boys are. They cannot forget their arrogance for one moment. Even on their best behaviour one is conscious always of a surreptitious scuffling going on. When I pay the school bill I think how expensive it all is and then when I go there I think “How cheap!” Twice the money couldn’t make up for living in that hell, cleaning their ears, separating them when they fight, enduring their noise – little boys have a peculiar smell, too, as if they have been clutching pennies in their hot hands all day.’

  ‘You do rock along on these cobblestones.’

  ‘They ruin all my fine shoes.’

  ‘You mustn’t look, but there is the old palmist peering out from behind her lace curtains, gathering up every little crumb. Now, if you go in to have your hands read she will tell you you are going to marry an elderly man with a beard.’

  ‘But I am not going to.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘But indeed I am not.’

  ‘You’ll find you will.’

  Standing at her door rummaging in her bag for her key, Tory smiled and nodded at Lily Wilson, who came hurrying along and turned her head away at that moment as if she did not see them. Indeed, it was almost dark by now.

  ‘And what have you been doing all day?’ Tory inquired, stooping to pick up a couple of bills from the door-mat.

  ‘I’ve been listening to Mrs Bracey’s life story.’

  He followed her down the dark hall into the little blue and white room.

  ‘That old harridan!’

  ‘An artist sees human nature differently – with different eyes,’ he explained, feeling (which it was death to him not to feel) that he was a little out of the ruck of ordinary people.

  ‘For a painter, you do very little painting,’ she said, and she put the bills up behind the clock and surveyed the room.

  ‘Painting!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look at outside! There has been mist all day, gauze hanging over everything since early morning.’

  ‘I didn’t mean only to-day. And you could have painted the gauze. Why don’t you paint my portrait?’ She saw herself there, for all time, in her grey dress. Or her green?

  ‘Women always want to be painted and then whe
n they are they don’t like it.’

  ‘And the great Mrs Bracey? What of her life story?’

  But she wasn’t interested and was fixing up the electric fire and making no pretence of listening to what he said.

  ‘Imagine what it must be like, a woman of her vitality imprisoned in that unmoving mass of flesh!’ he was saying.

  ‘She was always a lazy bitch. I’ve known her for years.’

  ‘She doesn’t like you. That came to me while we were -talking.’

  ‘And I don’t like her. There, that’s better. How cheerless a house is that’s been empty all day. With the sort of smell we used to come back to after our summer holidays when we were children, the closed-in atmosphere and the waiting silence and the garden suddenly full of golden rod and those large striped spiders sitting in webs across all the pathways and arches.’

  ‘Shall I fetch your supper now?’

  ‘Our supper, I hope you mean.’

  He left her drawing curtains, trying to make the room come alive again. Outside, the gauze hung all over the darkness and the waves turned milkily at the foot of the cliff.

  He disappeared into the Anchor.

  Far out in the fishing-grounds the men turned in for a sleep. It seemed calm and warm to Eddie, who had only lately come down from trawling off Scotland – a week out at a time, after cod and turbot, and sorting and gutting to be done in the most bitter weather, with frozen, bleeding fingers. (‘Look at his red hands!’ Iris said.)

  Here, the fishing-grounds lay nearer the shore – sometimes even within sight of the lighthouse – life seemed nearer to him and, especially near, his thoughts of Maisie Bracey, whose quiet sense he admired.

  He drank his tea and turned in for his short sleep. His uncle, old Flitcroft, snored already, his teeth safe beside him in his empty tea-mug. He was an old hand at this game and knew how to get the longest possible spell of sleep before they would begin again the monotonous work of hauling, knee-deep in water, winding in the bobbins, the winch creaking and the boat wallowing broadside to the waves.

  Now there was silence over the calm sea. The lights of the other trawlers made a faint constellation, the buoys bobbed gently on the surface and The Star of Newby rose to each wave, light on the water, her hold half-empty still.

  ‘I don’t think any food is aphrodisiac,’ Tory was saying, and she put down her empty glass with its lacing of tawny froth and stared at it. ‘Let us go and sit by the fire,’ she said, suddenly moving. ‘No,’ she went on, still disposing of a fallacy, she thought, ‘I am sure that is an old wives’ tale.’

  ‘An old wives’ tale!’ he laughed. ‘Very apposite. Very apposite and gruesome indeed.’

  ‘Well, you know what I mean. This is nice and peaceful. I should be very grateful to you for your kindness except that I know you simply can’t resist making yourself indispensable.’

  ‘I cannot resist your beauty.’

  ‘Mrs Bracey is not a beautiful woman.’

  ‘Bother Mrs Bracey! Tell me about your son.’

  ‘Oh, he’s just a very ordinary little boy,’ Tory said proudly; and then, not altogether irrelevantly: ‘I wonder if people gossip about me. Not that I care.’

  ‘Gossip in what way?’

  ‘Oh . . . I haven’t really the least idea, so please forget it. You know, I have come to the conclusion that the real purpose of marriage is talk. It’s the thing which distinguishes it from the other sorts of relationships between men and women, and it’s the thing one misses most, strangely enough, in the long run – the outpourings of trivialities day after day. I think that’s the fundamental human need, much more important than – violent passion, for instance.’

  ‘You are even convincing yourself,’ he marvelled.

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘All right. All right.’

  ‘And coming home after a day out with no one to pour it all out to.’

  ‘I was there. I am still here.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I sound ungrateful and . . .’

  ‘Seeing your son has depressed you, I think.’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ She frowned pettishly. She thought: ‘Soon he will be home for the holidays,’ and she felt that she was not ready to have him back or devote herself to him, and felt torn in two with guilt and anxiety.

  ‘I daresay I shall marry you quite soon,’ Bertram said airily. ‘Then there will be someone to talk to again.’

  ‘You are as likely to marry Mrs Bracey.’

  ‘I do not marry easily. In fact, I have never done so before. You are the only woman who has made me inclined to it, and for that reason I do not intend to be fobbed off with a lot of excuses.’ (‘When I talk to her I have only half her attention,’ he thought, ‘she is distracted in the first sense of the word.’) Aloud he said: ‘I am getting on, you know. Time I settled down.’

  ‘But not with me.’ She smiled.

  ‘With her as my wife, I’d paint,’ he suddenly thought. It came to him in a bright flash. ‘Yes, I’d paint then. It is what I need – background, anchorage, inspiration. All artists need it.’

  Lily Wilson had a small port to warm herself. Whatever others might say, she felt chilly. ‘Mild to-night, summer on the way,’ they said in the bar, but she could only shiver.

  Bertram had not come, and the port, she hoped, would help her to go home alone. When she stepped out into the dark a faint drizzle fell upon her face. She held her key tightly in her hand and went along quickly, her head bent against the mist, passing Mrs Bracey’s, where lights from the kitchen came faintly through the shop. She wished she could turn in there for the night, until darkness was past, so painfully did she yearn for human contact. With tears of terror on her face she went forward, her key ready in her hand, and stepped into her own doorway and into someone’s arms.

  She fell back in horror against the rough wall, her hands stiffened before her as if she had run them into blood.

  ‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ a voice now said, and when she could make herself look she saw the beard, the moistened lips of the old Librarian. He took off his old-fashioned curly trilby hat and held it to his chest.

  She stayed where she was, panting, against the wall, her fear neither lessened nor increased, but the shock over.

  ‘I beg your pardon, but I was only sheltering from the rain. I had no idea you were going to run full tilt into me.’

  ‘Rain!’ Lily echoed, looking quickly out of the porch, for she had forgotten that drizzle, the drops which hung in the air, scarcely even falling.

  ‘I will bid you good night,’ he said, and he touched his tie-pin with a crinkled, veined hand and then, carefully putting on his hat, walked away.

  ‘Oh, God, I can’t go in,’ Lily sobbed, staring after him, crouching against the wall. It used all her strength, the courage only the nervous know about, to impel herself through that avenue of waxworks, past the glittering eyes, each sinister, still hand, and up the stairs to her room. As always, she went at once to the window and looked out. It was so peaceful. No one stirred. Light fell from the frosted glass of the Anchor over the cracked pavement. The cobbles were scarcely wet. ‘It wasn’t rain for anybody to shelter from,’ she thought, a little puzzled. And then had a sudden feeling that he had returned and was waiting again in the porch below. She dropped her hand from the curtains, glancing back quickly at the door of the room.

  ‘I can’t bear one more night alone,’ she thought. ‘This must be the last. Whatever I do, however I sink my pride, I’ll go mad if I ever have to be alone here again.’

  She tried to draw the curtains quite noiselessly and sat facing the door, her ears strained to catch sounds which her reason would deny. There was no commonsense left in her, and she was too afraid to go to bed.

  ‘Good night, my dear,’ Bertram said, taking up the empty Guinness bottles.

  ‘Yes, it will be nice to go to bed,’ Tory yawned. ‘It has been rather a day. All very nice, but tiring. It is tiring, you know, pretending to be a boring, s
ensible old mum, the salt of the earth and all the rest of it.’ She looked at her pale fingernails and sighed. ‘So good night, Bertram, and thank you. I hardly know how to keep my eyelids open after all that Guinness and riding in trains.’

  At the door he stopped, bottles in his pockets and under each arm. ‘To-morrow morning I’ll be working . . .’

  ‘Working?’ she echoed incredulously.

  ‘Painting,’ he said with severity. ‘And in the evening I have a darts match next door. But I shall be round in the afternoon to propose to you as usual.’

  ‘What a busy . . .’ she began and then checking herself, pretended to yawn again.

  He knew she had been about to say ‘old man’. ‘It is what I am,’ he thought. ‘I suppose it is what I seem to her, to everyone, except myself.’ And he went home after that, rather dejected.

  ‘And don’t talk in your sleep to-night,’ Iris said.

  ‘Why? Did I?’

  ‘You’re always doing it.’

  ‘What do I say?’

  ‘That’s the annoying thing – I can never make head or tail of it.’

  ‘Iris!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Those are my stockings you’ve got on.’

  ‘They certainly aren’t.’

  ‘They certainly are. Where did you get them from?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Iris said, in a different tone, ‘they’re one of a dozen pairs I had sent over from Paris.’ She sat on the edge of the bed and rolled them down carefully.

  ‘I’d know my darning anywhere. And yours.’

  Iris ignored her, stretching her leg out, flexing her foot.

  ‘I was just limbering up on the set to-day . . .’ she began, but Maisie snatched away the stockings and held them under the light.

  ‘There you are! You can’t darn like that.’

  But Iris put the backs of her hands to her mouth, yawning, her elbows raised and her slip tight across her breasts. ‘No one in to-night,’ she said. ‘Quiet. Oh, my God, deathly quiet. Awful. You just don’t know. Old Pallister – “Quiet, to-night, Iris.” “Yes, Mr Pallister.” “Nice mild evening.” “That’s right.” “Soon have summer here.” “I hope so, I’m sure.” . . . Lily Wilson stuck there on her stool, like a ghost taken to the drink. No sign of the old boy.’