My Name is Michael Sibley

by John Bingham

  Mrs. Harrison was a widow, and there was a picture of the late Mr. Harrison, a heavy-jowled man with drooping moustaches, on the wall above the fireplace. By the side of it was a small frame containing his Boer War and Great War service medals. Elsewhere on the walls were a wedding group and two large lithographs, heavily framed in black. One showed “The Battle of Balaclava” and the other “Nelson’s Last Signal.” On the upright piano, under glass cases, were a number of small stuffed birds sitting on twigs.

  One, apparently a hummingbird, was not sitting on a twig, but was suspended by a thin wire in mid-air above an exotic tropical flower in wax. Others had their beaks open, as though singing an eternal song of joy and thanksgiving for the privilege of adorning Mrs. Harrison’s front parlour in Palesby. Cynthia, bringing in the usual tea and cake without which no social evening in Palesby could end, caught me staring at them.

  “I’ve told my mother time and again to get rid of them, but she won’t.”

  “There’s no reason why she should, if she doesn’t want to. They were quite fashionable at one time.”

  “Wedding presents,” said Mavis. “Gruesome, I call ’em. Poor little things. I wonder the moth hasn’t got at them.”

  “Mother keeps mothballs inside the glass cases, to make sure,” said Cynthia, pouring out the tea. We talked and drank tea for half an hour. I rather hoped Mavis might go to bed, though I doubted if I would have the courage to flirt with Cynthia even if she did. But Mavis stayed obstinately drinking her tea, and in the end I decided I had better leave. Before doing so I asked Cynthia to come to the cinema with me the following day.

  “You’d better give me your office telephone number, in case I can’t make it at the last moment,” I said. “You know, you never can tell on a newspaper.”

  “I hope you’re not going to let me down,” she said. “I don’t like men who are always letting me down. Harry was a bit unreliable sometimes.”

  And look what happened to Harry, I thought. It was about one o’clock when I said good night. It took me twenty-five minutes to walk home, but I thought it was worth it. I was feeling pleased with myself, and thought of Prosset. I had a job which, for the moment, anyway, was more interesting than his, and possibly even better paid. I was self-supporting, reasonably dressed, and now I had got myself a girl, and not a bad looker, either. I almost looked forward to meeting him some time in London.

  As I walked along the silent streets, I planned an imaginary trip to London with Cynthia some time in the future. We four, Prosset, Margaret Dawson, Cynthia Harrison and I, might make up a foursome one evening. It would be a good test for me, I thought, and warmed to the idea.

  I was always rather brave about Prosset when he was a long way away.

  In only one respect was he now more of a man of the world than me. I remembered how the obnoxious Herbert Day, with his snuffling voice, had turned to Prosset and Margaret in the back of the car, when I was saying good night, and how he had sniggered and said, “What about you two? Oxford Terrace for you, Margaret, too, I suppose?”

  CHAPTER 8

  I took Cynthia to the cinema on the following day, as arranged, and thereafter we went out together a couple of times a week. Sometimes I would take her along to a dance with me, sometimes to a lecture, if I thought the subject interesting. She was quite an intelligent girl in her limited way, and anxious to be more so. She was a girl who was determined to get on in the world, either by marriage or through her own efforts; which might well amount to the same thing.

  You could tell it, apart from anything else, by the way she walked. If she was not carrying anything, she was inclined to swing her arms across her body rather than backwards and forwards, which gave her a purposeful air. There was little doubt about the reason why she had thrown aside the unfortunate Harry with the big red ears. After going around with him for a while, she decided he was not likely to go much further than the end of the counter in the radio shop where he worked. This did not mean that she would necessarily marry for money; but it did indicate that she would have to be crazily in love before she married without it, or without at least a good prospect of it later in life.

  I think that subconsciously I must have been aware of this practical, unromantic strain in her from the first. In any case, to a man of more mature years, a short acquaintanceship with her mother would have provided a pointer.

  Mrs. Harrison was a Finn. I gathered that she had been born on a farm in the interior, and like many peasant girls had migrated to Helsinki to work in a hotel. There she had met Mr. Harrison when he was third officer on a ship plying between Palesby and Helsinki. At least one reason why girls moved in from the farms was the hope of making a reasonable marriage in Helsinki.

  Mrs. Harrison succeeded. She had made good. Ever since, she had lived contentedly in Palesby. She still corresponded with relatives in Finland, but she never went back. Only at Christmas would she get a little weepy and sentimental, and then not for long. She spoke English perfectly, but with a slight lilt, which Cynthia had caught from her. She still wore in her ears the gold earrings of her youth. Now, in her middle age, there was no mistaking her peasant ancestry. Her face was angular and thin, the cheekbones high, the eyes set rather close together. Her movements were slow, and she was made on the big side, with fine, strong hands and hair only just beginning to turn grey. She was a sensible, practical woman, who knew which side her bread was buttered without being mean.

  There was in Palesby a hostel for Scandinavian seamen, and five evenings a week, from seven until ten o’clock, she went down to the hostel to help in the canteen. I should say that within ten minutes of meeting me she had weighed up my likely salary and my prospects in life. As they presumably impressed her more than those of the unfortunate Harry, she was invariably courteous to me. She was prepared to approve of me, at least until somebody better turned up.

  Monday being my fortnightly day off, I had a regular date with Cynthia every other week, apart from any evenings which were arranged as and when opportunity occurred. One Monday, about six weeks after we had met, I went round to her house for high tea as usual, at about 6:30.

  Mrs. Harrison had gone to the canteen, and Cynthia was preparing the tea. We were to have smoked haddock, bread and butter and cheese, followed by buttered buns and jam, and cake if we felt like it; and tea, in large cups, very sweet and strong, poured out of a great brown pot. The kettle would remain simmering on the stove, ready to refill the teapot if necessary. The kettle was solid, too, a big black one, with a long spout, so that you could direct the flow of water accurately: a kettle that took some time to boil, maybe, but one in which the water stayed hot, a very different affair from these modern tin things with hardly any spouts at all and a whistle plugged into them.

  “Where are Bill and Mavis?” I asked, as we settled down to eat.

  “They’ve gone round to Ken and Margot Lockets’ for the evening. Ken’s one of Bill’s trawler pals. They’ve got a couple of kids.”

  “Pity Mavis has never had any kids.”

  Cynthia looked at me briefly, and said, “Maybe. Still, you can’t tell. Kids are an awful tie, I always say. I mean, there is no real freedom on your holiday if you’ve got to look after kids, is there? It’s not like being alone with a chap.”

  “Would you like to be alone with a chap on your holidays?”

  “Depends on the chap. It’d have to be all clean and above board, of course, if we weren’t married.”

  “The phrase is—‘and no hanky-panky,’ I believe.”

  It had started to rain and I was looking out of the window as I spoke, wondering if she meant what she said. Suddenly I heard her voice, angry and protesting.

  “There you go again! Sarcastic! Making a mockery of me! Making fun of me just because I wasn’t brought up posh like you. You make me sick, you and your highfalutin’ talk. Sick—that’s what you make me!”

  I looked at her in astonishment, hardly recognizing the bitter, hard tone in her voice.

&nb
sp; “I wasn’t mocking you at all,” I said hurriedly.

  “Oh, yes you were, and what’s more you’re always doing it. You and your sarcasm and sneers.”

  “Cynthia, please believe me, sweetheart, I promise—”

  “Sweetheart! Who said you were my sweetheart? Who said I was yours? There’s some people, Michael Sibley, who’ve got pride, see? Some people don’t like being patronized, see?”

  “I wasn’t patronizing you. It’s just that I was trying to be a bit funny. You know, on the music halls you often hear people talking about ‘no hanky-panky’: and when you—”

  “Oh, you needn’t apologize, I’m sure!”

  She got up and began collecting the plates together, quickly and rather noisily. I helped her to clear the table and carry the things to the sink. Neither of us spoke. Her annoyance had made her eyes sparkle and heightened her complexion. I thought miserably that she looked prettier than ever; moreover, she was wearing the coat and skirt in which I had first met her in the park. I stood silently drying the plates as she handed them to me, and picking up the knives and forks which she threw on to the draining board. It seemed as though the whole evening was spoilt, and worse: there appeared quite a possibility that I was about to suffer the fate of the long-eared Harry.

  I can look back on it now and smile, well aware of half a dozen possible reasons for her outburst, none of them remotely connected with what I had said to her.

  “Well, I suppose we had better be going if we are not to miss the newsreel,” I said when we had finished.

  “I don’t want to go to the cinema.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t—that’s why. You’ve spoilt the evening.”

  I pleaded with her for a few moments, but she remained adamant. I followed her out of the kitchen into the front parlour.

  “Anyway,” she said in a slightly calmer tone, “it’s raining and cold.”

  She lit the gas fire and switched on the radio. I sat down beside her on the sofa and lit my pipe. When I offered her a cigarette she refused it. We sat listening to the music for about ten minutes without speaking. Eventually, noticing that her hand lay on the sofa between us, I placed mine on top of hers. I had kissed her several times on the evenings when I had taken her out. They are a practical people in Palesby, and when you take a girl out and pay for a seat for her at the cinema, you are considered perfectly entitled to try to get a goodnight kiss on the doorstep. You may not get it, but nobody thinks a whit the worse of you for trying. In fact, the young men sedulously hand down from one generation to another a convenient theory that the girls are insulted if you don’t try.

  I put my arm round her shoulders, but she drew away, and I thought she was sulking. She got to her feet and went over to the windows and drew the curtains.

  “I don’t see why the whole neighbourhood should see you kissing me, Michael.”

  I laughed delightedly. “Dear Cynthia!”

  She came back and sat herself down without hesitation on my knees. She put her arms round my neck and kissed me long and hard. After a while, she said, “You’re a bad boy, Mike. I really don’t know why I am fond of you.”

  I held her closer. “Are you really fond of me?”

  “You don’t think I’d be sitting on your knees kissing you if I wasn’t, do you?”

  “I suppose not. But it seems so wonderful.”

  She kissed me again. “What seems wonderful, Mike?”

  “Well, that a pretty girl like you should fall for me.”

  “Am I pretty? Do you really think so? As pretty as the girls in London?”

  “Prettier. Far prettier.”

  “Sure?”

  I assured her with great intensity that she was one of the prettiest girls in England. Thereafter the conversation followed the normal channels peculiar to such situations. Both of us lied freely, I in my descriptions of her beauty, and she when she declared that she knew I must be exaggerating. While I certainly thought her attractive, I did not think her half as lovely as I said; and she herself undoubtedly thought herself twice as pretty as she allowed herself to admit. There is only one word which adequately describes the conversation, and that is a comparatively modern one: corny.

  After a while, she said she felt hot; she took off the top half of her blue costume. When she sat down again, she sat down beside me, but leant her head on my shoulder. She was wearing an artificial silk blouse with short sleeves. I slid my arm behind her neck and drew her to me again and kissed her. She gave kiss for kiss, responding with a warmth she had never shown before, kissing with her mouth half open so that I bruised my lips on her teeth.

  I noticed with delight how soft was the texture of the skin on her arms. They were fine arms, rounded but slim and blemishless. She asked me if I loved her, and of course, I said I did, and a lot more besides. It is likely that at the moment I almost believed a good deal of what I said. I certainly thought her exciting. We did not talk a great deal after that, and apart from the hissing of the gas fire, the room and the whole house were quiet. The street was quiet, too, for the rain was keeping most people at home. Only now and again the wind grew suddenly gusty, and rattled the panes, and sprayed them with rain.

  After a while she said, “I’d risk an awful lot for a man who was fond of me.”

  This seemed to be the green light all right. As I drew her to me my thoughts flew to Prosset and Margaret Dawson, and I thought: now he hasn’t got anything on me at all; now we’re level.

  Above us the image of Mr. Harrison gazed down upon his daughter with what must be considered unusual stolidity in the circumstances, and the little stuffed birds, as usual, regarded the scene without comment, silent and open-beaked.

  Eventually, she made a cup of tea, and we sat happily chatting.

  I had no intention of proposing marriage to Cynthia Harrison, and at first she would certainly not have accepted me even had I done so.

  The next year or so was a happy period of my life. I felt reasonably secure in my job, and in addition I had started to write short stories. To my great astonishment, the first one I wrote I sold. Thereafter I had many failures, but enough successes to keep me at it. I found plots came readily to my mind, and my experience as a newspaperman rendered my style, if not brilliant, at least lucid and reasonably concise. I would write on average four or five a month, and could generally reckon on selling at least one, and possibly two. It was not a high average, but it was encouraging. They were all rather short, and gave me little or no trouble; quite often I would write them in the law courts during the hearing of some dull case.

  I took Cynthia out twice a week regularly, and sometimes three times, and the fact that she never once hinted at an engagement suited me perfectly. I do not think I was ever in love with Cynthia, but there were moments when I felt a deep affection for her. She took a great interest in my work, and was invariably encouraging me to write short stories, and enquiring when I was going to start a novel. But I had no time, what with evening jobs for the paper, short stories, and Cynthia, to embark on a novel. That would have to wait.

  I think she had selected me, in her practical way, as a good candidate to groom for stardom; at the back of her mind was the thought that if she could build me into a moderately successful machine she would marry me. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to her that I might not ask her. She doubtless thought that because she had given herself to me, and continued to do so from time to time, this implied at least an unspoken understanding that in due course, if she wished, she had the right to a wedding ring.

  When I first went to Palesby I had gone back to Earl’s Court for a weekend once every few months, but with the passing of time I went less and less.

  Once I went so far as to telephone Kate. She was, she told me, employed at a firm of solicitors in Moorgate, and was living in Manchester Square. She had a girlfriend called Marjorie, with whom she went to the cinema once a week and to an occasional concert. Each weekend she went down to Sevenoaks to her pa
rents. I promised to call and see her the next time I came to London, but I never did: she was a reminder of the days when I was broke.

  Each Christmas my Aunt Nell sent me a Christmas card, and I sent her one back. That was the only correspondence between us. I never went to stay with her, and she never invited me to do so, though had I asked I have no doubt she would have made me welcome. But I scarcely gave her a thought. She was a remote, aggressive figure of the uneasy past when I wore ill-fitting clothes, couldn’t pay for a round of drinks, and blushed; of the days when largely due to Prosset’s influence, I had despised myself.

  Aunt Edith never heard from her, either. Typical of the coolness between Aunt Nell and my branch of the family was the fact that when she died neither of us knew about it until the funeral had already taken place.

  I first learnt of Aunt Nell’s death through her solicitors. They wrote and told me she had left me £1,000, unconditionally, in her will.

  She had died from the ravages of a malignant growth from which she had been suffering for years. She must have had it, I gathered, when I last visited her. I recalled her display of restrained affection when she had said farewell to me before the car drove away from the great house. Perhaps she had a feeling she would not see me again. In telling me to fight back in life, she was telling me to do no more than she was then doing herself.

  I imagined her lying in bed in her high-ceilinged room, alone, looking at Death and bidding him take her if he could. Now she was no more, and the hand was gone from the helm of that estate. I felt it would die with her, and I was right.

  I said nothing of my bequest to Cynthia. If anything further were to develop of our relationship, there would be time enough then to tell her. I do not think she would have married me specifically for the sake of £1,000, but I had an instinct that if her thoughts should happen to be running along matrimonial lines the news would at least give them an added impetus.