Loving, Living, Party Going

by Henry Green

  But that was the trouble, suppose he could not find parents. He knew they had changed shop they had managed, and lived over, for another. They had written to say they would write from their new address, but they never had. Suppose the people at the old address did not know where his home had gone. It made you bad to think of it. And his aunt, her who was wife of the lodge-keeper not far from tram terminus, she hadn't had word of them, not since long before he had. He hadn't told Lily, had kept it from her. He'd have to tell her, it wouldn't be right if he didn't tell her. He'd say, just as they were drawing into Liverpool, how he didn't know their address just yet as they'd changed houses and he'd lost letter when they'd written to tell him, but he and she would go to the old address and ask. Made you look foolish when you told all that was on your mind and then there was nothing in it. Yes, that's what he'd say and besides, they'd find them, the people who'd taken over their shop would be bound to know where they'd gone.

  Now everything which before had seemed terrible to her, like how if she stayed in Birmingham she would get like all the other women, and Bert the same as all other men, never any better off – only poorer, now this to her put on appearance of the great comfort. But now at the same time she put this from her mind. Wheeling turning her thoughts took on formation ducks have or aeroplanes when they are flying, both of them. She had come so far. She could not go back. 'Yes, I can't go back now,' she said in mind. Blindly her hand stumbled to get in crook of his arm, (for she did not look at him), and crept through like water seeping and round his arm. He turned and kissed her. Then he turned back and watched those two on the slag heap.

  They sat. The train was still. She looked at shoes on her feet, he at those two standing on the slag heap above. Her arm was round his arm. She put head on his shoulder, their hair whispered together, both had yellow hair. Train moved on now, smoothly, like water the land glided past outside. He rested his head on hers where it rested on his shoulder. So their heads inclined one to the other, so their breathing fell in one with the other, so they took breath together in one breath as they had been, once before in night. Her arm through his arm felt his body breathe with hers and then her life was deep and strong to her like she couldn't remember feeling before. He did not notice, for he worried yet.

  Mr Craigan took headphones off his head.

  Perhaps he could have a sleep. He leant back in chair.

  He interlocked fingers of his hand across his belly. He crossed his feet. He closed eyes.

  No he could not sleep.

  He made movement as if to pick up Little Dorrit which lay on the table.

  No he knew he could not read.

  He drew back his hand and picked bits of fluff and cotton off his trousers.

  He unbuttoned one more button of his shirt.

  His fingers worried then at button of his waistcoat. Then he buttoned that button up again on his shirt, with difficulty, his fingers were swollen.

  He thought what was it doing outside? He got up. He went to window and drew aside lace curtains. It looked like rain. He thought if it rained it might drive them in. If they weren't under cover this time.

  Coming back to his chair which was by fireplace he saw again photograph of her aunt Ellie. What happened of her. What did her come to?

  He knew if he went upstairs he'd know one way or t'other but that's just what he couldn't bring himself to do just now. When a thing's done it's done. When a job's scabbed it's scabbed. He'd talk to her tonight when she came back, her'd know, when she came back. If she did come back.

  He sat down again. He looked into grate which had pink paper fan in it. Was clean as a whistle. Her didn't stint her work. If her took on a job you could wager she'd go right through with it, not just play with it. But there, that was it. He blamed himself. He shouldn't have put off bawling her out last night.

  He'd see what they were doing now in Berlin. He put headphones on his head. As he did this he remembered again how, out of corner of his eye, he'd seen she go past this door out to the street with something in her hand, might have been a bag. It was no use. He took headphones off his head. He sat for a moment Then he got up out of chair and made for the stairs. He climbed them. He went into her room.

  They sat in railway carriage side by side. Now she had drawn back from him.

  He was so sure they would find his parents when they got to Liverpool that he was making plans now of what they would do in Canada, of how well they would do. Again was first day outside, another fine evening. They stopped at station and he let down the window to let country air in onto air they had brought with them from Birmingham, but Lily asked him to close it. He thought how nervous she seemed but then it was only natural in a woman starting on life's journey.

  Miss Gates was very nervous. She kept herself by force now, as it might be, from thinking of Mr Craigan. She was now wondering how she could ever happen to be in this railway carriage. Bert seemed like stranger to her, and in these strange stations. And the night air that was coming up, it couldn't be healthy in these parts. But she was frightened, O yes. Night was coming in, she was frightened of this night. In strange house. Not in her own bed. Her underclothes she was now wearing were strange to her, she had made them for this. No, they couldn't have had that window open, it wasn't safe.

  Then – he was so confident he brought it out by the way like – he told her how he did not know his parents' address. He told her what they would do.

  'Why did you tell me?'

  'I 'ad to tell you, love. I wouldn't 'ave been right.'

  'But we'll find them shan't we Bert?'

  'Of course we will.'

  'Then why put ideas into my 'ead. Now I feel frightened,' she said.

  He put his arms about her shoulders. He poked his face blindly round in her hair. Strength of his arms about her made her feel safer but all the same her thoughts turned round and round this new thing now, in images. She lay limp against him. She saw them in streets, it getting darker, and they walking and walking till there'd be nowhere they could go. Being with his parents, well it was decent, it wasn't the last word on what they were going to do, she could still then go back to Birmingham, she hadn't burnt her boats as they say. But being alone with him, well there you were. She wondered if she could yet go back, even if his people were in Liverpool. She thought they'd just got to be in Liverpool.

  Just then train came into a station and stopped. Mr Jones took arms from off her and looked out of window. Noise of loud voices came from towards them along platform, one man said ' 'Ere Charley this'd do,' another, 'No Ed let's go farther along.' Terrified Miss Gates watched bit of platform through the window and wooden paling behind it on which was nailed advertisement for Pears Soap. Next that was advertisement for Liverpool paper. Behind road outside was pink house and the sky in bars of red and black. She watched this space most intently. Nine men came into it. They looked into this carriage, she saw one man with white face who had bright green muffler. That was bad luck about, seeing green like that. They went by, she heard 'ere you are – get in 'ere Sid – of course there ain't no bloody corridor one said. Good thing there wasn't a corridor now, even if it had caused a bit of a bother before. Then she remembered these men had been carrying musical instrument cases. She thought what would they have been up to on a Sunday, think, on a Sunday. She did feel so nervous. Porter ran up laughing and said through window to these men how he hoped they were all right. Then he said, walking along by side of train which was now moving, how he did not think the folks down this way would forget them coming for some time yet. The men were all laughing.

  This dance band had been hired by vicar to play hymn tunes in church service, for every Sunday now his church was empty and he would do anything to have it full. He had given them tea and while he had gone off to take his evening service and to find the church quite full again, not even standing room, these nine men had come and caught this train back to Liverpool where they lived and worked.

  This Sunday had been unusual Sunday for the
m, by now they were quite worked up. Three sat in racks, six about on the seats. One said to come on and have a tune. As he took saxophone out of case this turned red in sunset light. Pianist said what'll I do? Someone said he could raise his ugly voice. As they got instruments out of the cases they laughed each one to himself, alone, they played a little separately to tune these instruments. Then they all looked at one man. This one did not seem to move yet all at once suddenly they all slipped into playing, all nine of them, pianist played on cushions of the seat, they were one, no more nine of them, one now.

  What more could have been wanted to fit in so with Mr Jones' happy feelings? In wonderment he listened. He got up. Forgetting Lily he opened window to listen better to them and hung head out

  'Bert' screamed Miss Gates. She jumped up and pulled at his shoulders.

  When he came in again she said: 'whatever were you doing that for? Why a bridge might 'ave come and cut your head off and where would I be then?'

  Sharp air of evening rushed in on them. She pulled window up. He sat down and when window was up he drew her down onto his knees. He said had she been seared? He kissed her. But she got down from his knees. She listened to tune they were playing with distrust. She trembled.

  As he listened beat of that music, so together, made everything in the world brother to him. As he listened and they played he expanded in his feeling and looking back in his memory for something he might express this by he put arms round Lily. He said:

  'In our iron foundry at our place there was a chap used to sing. 'E 'ad a wonderful voice, what you might call a really fine voice, you know love what I mean. Last time I 'eard him sing 'e went on all day. D'you know what it was? 'Is wife 'ad given 'im a son the night before.' He kissed Miss Gates. 'All the chaps used to come round when he sang.'

  Again she lay limp in his arms, distraught. Kids, I don't want 'em she cried in mind.

  Pianist sang. He was tenor. He sang:

  Your eyes are my eyes

  My heart looks through

  Horror. She looked past Mr Jones' head which was pressing against her head and there was Liverpool beginning. She hated it. Factories. Poor quarters. More and more of them.

  She got up and tidied herself by the glass. Her face even frightened her.

  So when they got into station and got out she said in mind it was all she could do to walk.

  'Aren't you going to take the flowers,' he said laughing.

  'What are you talking of?' she said. 'Leave 'em in there for Christ's sake.'

  19

  What is a town then, how do I know? What did they do? They went by lamps, lamps, lamps, each one with light and dark strung up on it each with streets these were in. Houses made the streets, people made the houses. People lived in them, thousands millions of lives. Each life dully lived and the life next it, pitched together, walls between built, dully these lives went out onto streets promenaded dullness there. Ugly clothes, people, houses. They went along through these, strangers to it, she did not recognize her own form of ugliness in it.

  Thousands of lamps, hundreds of streets, each house had generally a mother and complacent father, procreation, breeding, this was only natural thing there in that miserable thing home, natural to them because it was domesticated. Procreating was like having a dog, in particular spaniels. Fido who I'm so grateful to. Miserable people. Clerks dregs lowest of people these not fat and meat but like bellied fish or schoolmasters, in particular cod.

  Sunday is worst day in the world. You can go out Sunday and come back in everything sucked out of you by inquisitiveness in eyes in residential districts, from clerk's fleshlessness. At night they all stay in, most of all Sundays, after a little fiddling walk for the wife to show off clothes after showing them off through a little bit of fiddling church service. Some of them have little jolly card parties with a few jolly fellows. They may be coming walking back from it. But for them, no one about. Getting dark now, each lamp has light and dark to it. By gad didn't know it was so late well better be getting along now or the wife won't have it eh, think I'm up to some of the old games what well old chap I'll say goodnight now oh I say no I say old man did you see your wife give me a kiss well perhaps it was a good thing you didn't what, Gracie you're the sweetest little woman, with another of course oh, that well dash it all that ever was. Well goodnight and God bless you all – well and my goodness now if he wasn't wiping a little wet wetness out of the corner of his little yellow little eyeballs God bless us.

  Or is it the young sweetheart saying goodnight at the gate of the eight by four front garden to the girl chosen for him, her arch as her photographs. And her kiss has lit such a little light in him, like a little flaming candle, he'll warm himself over it all night yes he will. Inside the old people draw up nearer to the fire, out at the garden gate, Mary, when we were young what a glorious thing life was, Mary, glorious youth – but there's life in these old bones yet be said thinking Fido, only Fido wasn't biting.

  They had come on tram to outskirts of Liverpool. They were walking in the direction back in now. They looked for address of shop. Mr Jones knew his way. Smell of the sea was at her, forcing itself on her.

  They had been on edge of the Residential District. They were coming now to blinded shops. Roads were broader, lighter by a little. Here was dropsical fatness of shopkeepers' paunches, when they got to address they were looking for they knocked one up. Early to bed early to rise this one's motto. In nightshirt he came to window above. He leaned paunch out over window frame, he let his weight sink on it, bulging. If they'd wait two minutes he would get address for them where their parents had moved and in his place at window showed curling papers like bobbins. Whining voice came from inside of that room – 'what is it ma? Ma, ma, who's there ma, what is it?' His wife poked her nose over window frame. Lily saw nose, one eye, curling papers.

  'Well now' said fat shopkeeper they met afterwards squirming along in shadows of the street looking for a bit of fun – these courting couples in the doorways y'know, y'know you can see a bit o' fun o' nights – 'well now' he said, 'it's Mulgrave Street you want is it?' He told them, shopkeeper they had knocked up hadn't been able to tell them way to address he had given them and Mr Jones did not know that part of town it was in. Dropsically fat, hatpin little eyes, shopkeeper watched Miss Gates as he told them. Something up here. That gal looked frightened out of her life. But that young chap was up to a bit o' fun. Didn't know how to start with 'er, that's 'ow it looked. Yum yum he felt in huge belly, um yum.

  Now first that feeling which had soaked all through about Mr Jones, how everything, everything was wonderful, she was the sweetest girl in the world and wouldn't the old people be glad to see her, now first that feeling ebbed and died in him. He was afraid for her as now they were going into poorer quarter of the town, streets were getting now to be the streets of ports, darkness of waters looked now to be flowing over into these streets. He did not know the way, but he knew they were going towards the docks. He had seen in his mind their coming to that shop and those there telling him to go back the way he had come with Miss Gates, to go back in direction of the Residential District. In his heart picture had warmed him of his bringing Lily to quiet respectable shop in a quiet decent street. He had thought out two ways of turning off her surprise and admiration when she saw so much prosperity. 'It's simple,' was one thing he was going to say, 'it's simple but the old folks knows what's comfortable.' One thing he had always feared, and that was effect his father would have on Miss Gates and now, as they walked further, and the streets were poorer and poorer streets, it was his father he suspected as having thrown his ma's prosperity away.

  Ship's syren sounded, wailing, and with a great pang Miss Gates thought a factory buzzer at this time of the night, it couldn't be nightshift at this time of the night, O she did feel afraid. And that man they had asked their way of, his eyes! How dark it was getting! Well she just wouldn't look any more if it only made her shivery, she just wouldn't notice anything more. But it didn't hap
pen often, did it, that all you thought of worst came to pass. But then she thought it wasn't quite so bad, they'd not expected to find them first go off. All the same, these streets! Well, she wouldn't look that's all.

  At this time Mr Craigan and Mr Dale sat in kitchen.

  'Well I'll tell you, which is more'n she did,' Mr Dale said, 'I'm going off.'

  'Yes,' Mr Craigan said in low voice, 'when 'er cooked the Sunday dinner I dain't think she was goin' after. Her even doesn't wait to wash up but off she goes like that.'

  'I ain't goin' to stay in this 'ouse, I'm goin'' said Mr Dale.

  'What's that?'

  'I'm not goin' to stay 'ere when she's gone.'

  'Eh?'

  'I say I'm not going to stay here, I'm off too.'

  'Ah, tonight.'

  'What for?'

  'I ain't goin' to stay in this 'ouse.'

  'Where will you go to?'

  'I don't know, I'll find a place.'

  'Better you stay the night here Jim.'

  'No, I'm goin' off.'

  'But what's in your mind, leavin' me like this?'

  Mr Dale did not answer.

  'First her goes then you goes,' Mr Craigan said, looking away from him.

  Mr Dale did not answer.

  'Maybe her'll come back tonight,' Mr Craigan said.

  'Oh ah, so she takes 'er sleeping things for the afternoon like she 'as.'

  Rain kept on falling. A drip made sound like hammer striking on thick piece of iron, light tap, repeating, repeating.

  'Where would you go then,' said Mr Craigan, 'if you be goin?'

  'I dunno,' said Mr Dale.

  'Don't you go. I might come over bad and then who'd be there to see to me.'