Choice of Straws

by Braithwaite, E. R. ;

  Just as well she’d given me such careful directions, or I’d never have found that house. I located the street easily enough, then there was this high hedge, not privet, another kind with little red berries and sharp thorns, and a low green painted wooden gate with the number ‘9’ on it. A few paces inside the gate several flights of concrete steps, terraced, led downward between lots of apple trees on either side. A handrail of metal tubing followed the stairs and lost itself far below where the stairs curved away. I thought that if some poor bugger lost his footing and fell down that lot there’d not be much left of him to parcel up. From the top I could look out over the trees to the estuary and the outline of Southend pier in the distance. The tide was out and the late evening sun shone redly on the wavy mud and the little boats stuck fast at their moorings, some leaning over sideways to show their keels. Red, green, blue, yellow, all colours they were, some with masts sticking up naked like trees in winter, sleepy seagulls perched on the crossbar at the top. Way across the mud you could see the tall cylinders and circular tanks of the oil refinery at Grain Island, and the hazy outline of the Kent coast.

  The apple trees were loaded with small reddish fruit, the ground underneath littered with windfalls. Probably didn’t care for apples, these Spencers, or maybe they were maggoty.

  The stairs ended on a wide concrete approach to the front door, spanking white with polished brass knocker and letter slot. Red bricks could be seen here and there through the thick ivy which covered most of the front of the house, except for two wide picture windows, one on each side of the door. Bungalow type, the house, built close against the hillside. That’s why I couldn’t see it from the top of the stairs, especially with all those apple trees in the way.

  They must have seen me coming down. Before I could knock the door opened and there she was. The same, only different. Slacks, this time, in pale olive green, razor creased and showing off her long legs without hugging them. A loose-fitting long-sleeved blouse in flowered silk of green and bronze. And that long neck rising soft and smooth from the V of her blouse, with the hair curling inward to tickle it. Each glossy strand in place as if it had been told to behave. I wondered how such coarse hair would feel if you ran your hand through it. High-heeled sandals in soft white leather against which the glossy red paint on her toenails shone like ten neat bloodspots.

  ‘Any difficulty getting here?’ she greeted me, opening the door wide for me to enter. I’d never been inside a house like that. Made me feel a bit uncomfortable, a bit scared that I might do something silly and embarrass the hell out of myself. This room I’d walked into, big, the carpet soft and cushiony, and no straight-up chairs, only armchairs and sofas and some low tables and fancy reading lamps. Everything in different colours. I mean, not like at home. One armchair was green, another off-white, another some other colour, mostly pastel shades, and the sofas the same. And no pictures on the walls. And those big windows with small flowering plants on the inner ledge and the drapes hung to make them seem more artificial than real. The carpet was like a deep cushion, soft and the colour of straw. In a far corner was a small piano, open, as if someone had been playing it recently. It was the only dark-coloured piece of furniture in the room. I mean, no wonder she was so snooty and stuck-up, living in a place like this. Must have pots of money.

  We didn’t stay in this room. She led me through into another room, at right-angles to the first one. Same kind of armchairs but no sofas and no rug. The floor was wood, parquet or something, and polished. But the thing about it was the view. One side was mostly glass windows looking out over the estuary, the late sun slanting in and glinting off the cutlery and china set out on a central low table for tea. I’d have to watch it, every move. Can’t mess it up now that I’d got this far.

  She invited me to sit. She curled herself up in a chair with her feet under her, easy and comfortable like a cat, her tailpiece and bosom roundly outlined. One thing I was sure about, it wouldn’t happen like with that Sandra. Not ever. Not the way I was feeling right then.

  ‘Mummy will join us in a minute,’ she said. She had this way of looking straight at you with those big grey eyes which always caught me off balance. I mean, you don’t expect to see grey eyes in a dark face. Looked very attractive, but strange, as if she wasn’t really a Spade, but had put on some dark makeup. Like the time our school had this Christmas play and one of the fellows, Jerry Lindrum, had to be one of the wise men and have brown stuff all over his face, and his grey eyes shining through the same way as hers. I turned to look out at the view. The tide was coming in, already filling the shallow puddles in the mud around the boats. Tiny birds were darting about in the mud on invisible legs, stopping now and then to peck and gobble with a quick lift of the head.

  ‘Here she is,’ Michelle said. I’d expected Mrs Spencer to be like I’d last seen her, all dressed in black and sad-looking. If I’d never seen her before I’d have taken her for Michelle’s sister. Well, older sister. She wore this long gown in pale green silk, only it wasn’t really a gown because when she moved you saw that from the waist it was slit down the middle in front and underneath she was wearing slacks of the same material and slippers like Michelle’s, but you could only see the very tips of the slippers because the gown was long, nearly touching the floor. Without any sleeves, and her arms smooth and firm all the way. No collar, but a big brooch with a dark green stone to keep the top together. And as much shape up there as her daughter. Or more.

  I thought, Crikey, these people are supposed to be in mourning. At home our Mum was wearing black all the time since Dave wasn’t there. And look at me. With my dark grey suit I was wearing a black tie. Must say that all these colours looked very nice on them, but it still seemed funny so soon after someone died to be dressed up as if nothing had happened.

  She came and shook hands with me, her grip warm and strong. With her in the room I felt more relaxed and comfortable. It was so easy to talk to her, as if she wasn’t, well, coloured. Mostly we talked about Dave and me and I told her about some of the fun we had, getting people all mixed up, other kids and teachers and even our Dad. And she’d laugh, deep and sweet inside her as if she was really tickled with it. We talked all through tea, her and me. Michelle mostly sat quiet, whenever I looked her way those big grey eyes would be on me, not staring, but looking me over, weighing me up.

  After tea I offered to help with the washing-up but Michelle said no thanks, she preferred to do it herself, and so I stayed and talked with Mrs Spencer. About school with Dave, and the job, and how we’d started at the works at the same time, and we’d asked to stay together and at first the personnel man had said no, then he’d said okay but whether we stayed together would depend on how well we worked and no tricks. It was different there from at school. With all those machines whizzing around it was no place for tricks, and besides, we liked the job and wanted to learn. It was okay, and twice a week we’d have to attend classes, like school, and do maths and drawing and even English.

  We talked about how Dave and me liked to go up to the West End and listen to jazz, and Mrs Spencer said she was a jazz fan herself, but mostly she preferred swing and blues. She didn’t care too much for the traditional stuff. Ella Fitzgerald, Sinatra, Pearl Bailey, she liked singers like that. And her favourite was somebody named Ethel Waters who she said could sing the birds out of the trees. And she said would I like to hear some music? She went into the drawing-room and after a while the place was full of music low and sweet, saxes and a piano forming counterpoint to some terrific drumming. And she came back and asked me if I liked Gene Krupa and it was him and his sidemen. The ’gram was in the next room but her son had wired all the rooms for speakers so she could enjoy the music wherever she was. So we sat listening, quiet, and now she closed her eyes and you could see the sadness come over her face like a cloud, and I would have liked to say something to her, or hold her hand, but figured she might get me wrong. I mean, you never know. After all, she wasn’t tha
t old. With all that shape and not fat or anything. I wondered how it must be for a woman like her, nice looking and everything, and her husband dead. Supposing now and then she felt like having some of it, you know, what would she do? Don’t suppose she’d just pick somebody up. Or perhaps people like her just don’t think about it.

  Watching her I wished I could say a word and make her son come back, you know, have him walk into that room right then and stand beside her and say ‘Mummy’ or whatever he used to call her. And she’d open her eyes and all the sadness would disappear and she’d smile like before. It probably wouldn’t work, though. I mean, if someone’s dead and then he appears right near to you, it’s liable to scare the living daylights out of you and give you the screaming abdabs for days.

  Michelle came back and sat down and when the music stopped Mrs Spencer said why didn’t she show me around? So we went outside, the two of us, and behind the house, facing towards the estuary, was a kitchen garden sloping downward with everything neat, with the old paper packets pinned to little stakes so you wouldn’t forget what seeds you planted. Different from how we did over at the allotment. And this greenhouse full of potted plants, some in flower. And she walked beside me and now and then my hand would brush against her, accidentally at first. Down the slope behind the house was a low wire fence which was the end of their land, and we stood there watching the tiny yachts now bobbing on the swelling incoming tide. They looked impatient, gently tugging at their mooring ropes and anchor chains. A little breeze sprang up, blowing the soft fabric of her blouse against her so I couldn’t help looking.

  ‘Your Mother told me you and your brother were very close,’ I said, trying to get her talking about something or other, but she only nodded as if she wasn’t interested in discussing it. Well, if we’re going to play it this way I might as well try my luck once for all.

  ‘Would you come out with me some time, to the cinema or something?’

  I guess I said it in such a hurry that her mouth opened in a little ‘O’ of surprise. Then she laughed. You’d never credit what laughter could do to her face. I mean, normally she’s not bad looking. Not bad looking at all. But when she laughs, her face goes all soft with little dimples by the side of her mouth and her eyes half closed and not staring at you.

  ‘You don’t need to shout, you know. My hearing’s not the least bit defective,’ she said.

  I didn’t realize I’d shouted. ‘Sorry, but, will you?’

  ‘I don’t know. It depends.’

  ‘What kind of answer is that? It depends on what?’

  The laughter was gone, and those big eyes were back at it, sizing me up.

  ‘It depends on how quickly I can make up for the lectures I’ve missed and the work I’ve neglected these past few weeks.’ Then she went on to tell me about the examination she was taking in a couple of months and the reading she had to do, and sitting in reference libraries at the University copying stuff or checking on this or that. Most of the time I didn’t really understand half of what she was talking about, but I didn’t let on. When she got to talking this way I just liked listening to her.

  ‘You know what they say,’ I told her. ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’

  ‘In which case my advice to Jack is that he play as much as he wants to, without bothering about me.’

  She came right back at me, and I wished I’d kept my ruddy trap shut. I’d have to take it slow and careful with this bird if I hoped to make it. Going back up to the house we followed a path of crazy paving stones behind the little greenhouse, and along the other side of the kitchen garden. Here the path narrowed and I stood aside to let her squeeze past me. The pressure of a breast against my arm was a fleeting trigger to excitement. Where the path widened I took her hand, but she quickly withdrew it. Not roughly, but I got the message.

  I wasn’t in a hurry to go back indoors, so I stopped to look at the greenhouse, telling her about our Dad’s allotment and the things he’d grown up there, and the way he was always reading stuff in the Amateur Gardener or listening to that fellow on TV then trying it out himself. And one time he’d tried this new system with the radishes and they’d grown big, with heads like little red apples, and Mum had told him off because she said they had no taste. And I asked her about the windfalls and she said that Mrs Spencer collected them for making jam. It was getting dark and cool so we had to go in, and I asked her again what about the date, and she said she had a lot to do that week, but maybe if I gave her a ring next week, she’d see.

  Our Dad and Mum always used to tell Dave and me that we should never overstay our welcome, especially when visiting somebody for the first time, so I figured I’d better push off. Mrs Spencer said I should drop in to see them any time I felt like it and I said okay. She didn’t look sad any more, and I thought I wouldn’t say no to some of that, any time, but not really meaning it, just for a little joke to myself.

  Michelle walked with me to the gate and near the top I wondered what she’d do if I sneaked a little kiss, but she was always one step above me, and at the top she stayed just out of range as if she’d guessed what I might do. We shook hands and she said good night, Mr Bennett, as formal as you please, so what the hell could I do but say good night, Miss Spencer?

  All the way home I thought about her, but mostly about how she was playing hard to get, with all that Mr Bennett stuff and being so stuck up. Well, as Dave used to say, it’s the snooty birds who can’t stay away from it after they get it. Wonder what old Dave would have done if it had been him? The way she’d sat curled up in that armchair. Thinking about how my arm had brushed her breast it seemed funny that you could be that near to a person, I mean as close as that, and still there’d be miles between you. The way she behaved I’m sure she didn’t even know my arm had touched her. And walking up those steps behind her towards the gate. It was all there, inches away, yet you couldn’t reach out and touch it. Worse than a ruddy iron curtain.

  Chapter

  Twelve

  OUR DAD AND MUM WERE watching TV when I got in so I sat with them looking at this play but not really following it because I’d come in after it started and didn’t know what it was all about, and anyway I didn’t really like that kind of stuff and my mind was somewhere else. Coming home, the train was full of fellows and birds, probably been down to Southend for the day or something and not had enough, so they were messing about, noisy and singing ‘Sister Anna’ and things like that. And two birds standing near the compartment door shouting their heads off and this couple, oldish, the husband a little fat fellow with glasses and his wife bigger than him sitting opposite me. She said to these two birds would they mind not making so much noise. And you should have heard what they told her. Get stuffed. And her husband jumped up, telling them off, and these fellows standing in the corridor came up beside the girls and pushed him back into his seat, laughing and saying ‘Belt up, Dad,’ and things like that. And I felt like having a go at one of them. I mean, suppose it was our Dad he’d been pushing. But I thought, what the hell, it’s none of my business. And those two birds, laughing and showing off, and the man’s wife looking white and scared. After all, some of those Teds carried knives. I couldn’t see myself going with any of those birds. I mean, just look at them. And their voices. Flat and crude. ‘Get stuffed’. Just couldn’t picture Michelle behaving like that. Or Ruth, or any of those types I’d met at her party. Funny. I’d been over there and had tea with them, spent hours, and still I felt I was as much a stranger to her as before. Mr Bennett. That’s all she’d call me. Mr Bennett.

  The play finished and Mum said how about some cocoa and when she’d gone to fix it, our Dad said how had it been over at the Spencers, and I told him it was okay. Then I mentioned about the house and how they lived, you know, nattering with our Dad, and Mum came back with the cocoa and sat listening and she didn’t say anything, but the way her face was set you could see she wasn’t too pleased. And then o
ur Dad said that now the thing to do would be to ask them both over to tea one of these days.

  ‘No, I’d rather you didn’t,’ Mum said, her face tight. Our Dad asked her why not, after all if somebody invited you to their house, it was common courtesy to invite them to yours. But Mum said she was under no obligation to invite any of them into her house and she was not having another of them here. Never again. Her voice so bitter it shook me. As if something had been boiling up in her for a long time. So I said I’d already invited them to come over and what was I supposed to do now?

  I hadn’t really invited them. I mean, the way Michelle had kept me at a distance, and all she’d said about being so busy, I couldn’t ask her out yet. But what Mum had said got under my skin. After all she was not the only one living in the ruddy house. There was our Dad and me, since Dave went.

  ‘I don’t care who invites who, but I’m not having any of those people in this house again,’ Mum said.

  ‘So what am I supposed to tell them, Mum?’

  ‘What you tell your friends is your affair,’ she answered, ‘only don’t bring them here.’ She collected the cups and went off to the kitchen.

  It was the way she said ‘your friends’ making it sound as if they were scum and I was just like them. Christ, I hadn’t even thought of them as my friends. Maybe she was upset because I’d gone to see the Spencers, after what she’d said the night before. But that was no reason for carrying on at me like that. And calling them my friends. Friends.

  I went up to my room, undressed and got into bed. After a while I could hear them arguing downstairs, our Dad and Mum, their words indistinct. I didn’t want to hear, so I put on a jazz record, just loud enough, and got out old Dave’s diary. Reading, I wished I could write some stuff like that, about Michelle especially. Friends, Mum had said. What did she know about it? You didn’t have to be friends with a bird to, well, have a nibble. That Sandra, for instance. If I’d screwed her, that wouldn’t have made her my friend. I didn’t even really like the bitch. And calling me Jackie boy. If I ever caught up with her again I’d ruddy well give her something to laugh about. All seven inches. How the hell could anybody be friends with Michelle when all she did was look down her nose as if I was some kind of bug or something? Okay. But the day I got in between those legs she’d know what kind of bug I was. Friends hell. Perhaps Mum was sore because I said how the Spencers lived, their house and furniture and stuff like that. Well, that’s how it was, so what was I supposed to say? That they lived in some ruddy cave like savages? Aw, to hell with it.