by John Braine
The bathroom was the sort you'd expect to find in any middle-class home -- green tiles, green enamel, chromium towel rails, a big mirror with toothmug and toothbrush holders, a steel cabinet, a flush-sided bath with a shower attachment, a steel cabinet, and a light operated by a cord instead of a switch. It was immaculately clean, smelling faintly of scented soap and freshly laundered towels: it was nothing except a bathroom, it had been designed as a bathroom.
The bathroom I'd used the night before I came to Warley had been adapted from a bedroom. At the time the houses in Oak Crescent were built it wasn't considered that the working classes needed baths. It was a small room with pitch-pine flooring (if you weren't careful you could pick up a nasty splinter) and brown wallpaper blotchy with splashes. Towels were kept in the cistern cupboard, which was generally full of drying undergarments. On the window sill were a razor, a stick of shaving soap, a tube of toothpaste, and a dingy mess of toothbrushes, used razor blades, face cloths, and no less than three cups with broken handles which were supposed to be used as shaving mugs but, obviously, from their encrusting of dust, never had been.
I'm not going to pretend that I spent all my time at Aunt Emily's in a state of outraged sensibility. Charles and I used to make it a point of honour not to be squeamish about anything; we didn't want to be like the grocery manager at the top of Oak Crescent who was perpetually professing his great regard for cleanliness and his disgust at other people's lack of it, Charles often used to mimic him -- "Soap and water's cheap enough, goodness knows. A person doesn't have to be rich to be clean. I wouldn't be without my bath for anything . . ." He talked of baths as if there was something commendable about the mere fact of immersing one's body in water. As Charles said, he made you want to yell at the top of your voice that you kept coal in your bath and only washed when you began to itch.
For all that, I was beginning to find certain details of living in Dufton a bit too sordid to be funny. I was very fond of Aunt Emily and Uncle Dick and even their two sons, Tom and Sydney, thirteen and fourteen respectively, noisy and clumsy and clueless, heading straight for the mills and apparently perfectly happy about it. I even had a slight feeling of guilt about leaving Dufton, because I knew that the monthly eight pounds which I gave her had been a great help to her. But I couldn't stay in her world any longer. Already, drying my face and hands on a large soft towel, looking out of the corner of my eye at the dressing gown hanging behind the door (I used to watch that garment as if I were frightened it would run away) and breathing the room's odour of perfume and cleanliness, I had a footing in a very different world.
I went back to my room and changed my collar and brushed my hair. Looking at myself in the minor, I suddenly felt entirely alone. I had a childish longing for the ugly rooms and streets where to be hungry or lost wasn't possible; for the familiar faces which might bore or irritate but never hurt or betray. I don't suppose that homesickness can entirely be avoided; but I had all mine in one concentrated dose of a few seconds that first day, and I never suffered from it again.
I looked out of the window. The back garden was surprisingly large. It was bordered by a privet hedge and there was a big apple tree at the far end. There were two cherry trees next to it; I remembered my father telling me once that cherry trees can't flourish by themselves. "They have to be wed afore they're fruitful," he'd added, innocently pleased at the image. Father had never possessed a garden of his own, only a plot at the municipal allotments. No apple trees, no cherry trees, no lawn, no privet hedge . . .
I straightened my tie and went downstairs to the drawing room. I'd hardly been there five minutes when Mrs. Thompson came in with the coffee. She brought it on a silver tray; I wondered how much money was coming into the house. She'd told me in her letter that her husband taught English at the Grammar School; but that didn't seem sufficient to explain their standard of living. It wasn't only the tray and coffeepot which impressed me -- they might, after all, have been wedding presents -- but the cups and milk jug and sugar bowl. They were thin and translucent and enamelled in clear primary colours -- red, blue, yellow, orange -- and I knew that they were expensive because of their lack of ornament and the deep glow of the enamel. I've an instinct like a water diviner's where money's concerned; I was certain that I was in the presence of at least a thousand a year. When I noticed the matter-of-fact way in which Mrs. Thompson handled the coffee set, without a trace of that expression of mingled pride and anxiety which most women assume on bringing out good china, I increased the amount by five hundred.
"We've never had a lodger before," she said as she handed me my coffee. Her voice paused perceptibly at the word lodger as if considering and rejecting all the euphemisms -- paying guest, young gentleman to stay with us, and so on. "But I've suffered from landladies myself in my younger days. I do want you to understand, Joe, that your room's entirely your own. And you must bring your friends any time you like." She hesitated. "If ever you feel lonely -- it's always a little strange at first, living in a new place -- you'll be very welcome down here. Is this the first time you've been away from home? Apart from the Forces, I mean?"
"It is and it isn't. My father and mother were killed during the war and I've been living at my Aunt Emily's." I was going to pronounce Aunt with a broad a but decided not to attempt it yet.
"What sort of place is Dufton exactly?"
"A lot of mills. And a chemical factory. And a grammar school and a war memorial and a river that runs different colours each day. And a cinema and fourteen pubs. That's really all one can say about it."
"You haven't a theatre then?"
"The Nonconformists work their way through Abe Heywood's catalogue each winter. I used to go into Manchester if I wanted to see a show. There isn't anything in Dufton."
To Charles and me it was always Dead Dufton and the councillors and chief officials and anyone we didn't approve of were called zombies. At first we used to number them: "Zombie Number Three," Charles would say, referring to his boss, the Librarian, "made a joke today. It's pathetic when they pretend to be alive, n'est-ce pas?" When Number Ten was reached, it became difficult to remember whom we meant, so we adopted another system. "The Fat Zombie's been watering the beer again," I'd remark as the landlord of the Dufton Horseman waddled by in a new worsted suit. "He didn't come by that new shroud honestly." And there was the Washable Zombie, the grocery manager who was always talking about baths, and the Smiling Zombie, who ran a clothing club and a moneylender's. There were many others; we knew a great deal about the people of Dufton. Much more, for instance, than the Adulterous Zombie and the Childloving Zombie, two of the town's most prominent citizens, realised; if they had, we shouldn't have kept our jobs very long.
"We have a very good Little Theatre in Warley," Mrs. Thompson said. "The Warley Thespians -- silly name really. You must come to our next social evening, Joe. They'll snap you up -- men are scarce."
I raised my eyebrows.
"Male actors, I should have said." She smiled. "Though handsome young bachelors are greatly in demand too. Have you done any acting?"
"A little at camp concerts, But I didn't have much spare time at Dufton. And to tell you the truth, I didn't much fancy Careless Cyril Comes a Cropper and Peggy's Prize Packet."
"You've made those up," she said, appearing rather pleased with me on that account. "Though I admit they've got the Heywood flavour."
"It was Charles actually," I said. "My friend Charles Lufford. We've known each other since we were children."
"You're very fond of him, aren't you?"
"We're as close as brothers. A great deal closer than most brothers." I remembered Charles's plump face with its absurdly large horn-rimmed spectacles and its mixed expressions of innocence and bawdy cheerfulness; I used to say that he looked like a parson on the razzle. "There's nothing in Dufton, Joe. Leave it before you become a zombie too . . ." I could hear his deep, rather beery voice so distinctly that he might have been in the same room. "When you go to Warley, Joe, there'll be
no more zombies. Remember that. No more zombies."
"You'll miss him," Mrs. Thompson said.
"Yes. I'll get over it, though -- " I paused, not quite knowing how to express myself.
"I think men's friendships are much deeper than women's," Mrs. Thompson said. "But not so possessive, they never stand in each other's way." She didn't say that she knew what I meant; but the effect was as if she had; with her usual efficiency she saved me the embarrassment of explaining that I wasn't heartbroken about leaving Charles but that I wasn't totally unaffected by it either.
The clock struck the half hour and Mrs. Thompson said that she'd better attend to the chicken. When she'd left the room I lit a cigarette and walked over to the mantelpiece. Hanging over it was a large framed photograph of a young man in RAF uniform with the white air-crew slip in his cap. He had dark thick hair, a full mouth held very firmly, and heavy eyebrows. He was smiling with his eyes -- Mrs. Thompson's trick. He was good-looking; he was also charming, a quality which doesn't often come through in photographs.
Charm was a favourite object of discussion between Charles and myself; we had the notion that if only we could learn how to use it our careers would be much benefited. The possession of charm wasn't in itself a guarantee of success, but it seemed to follow ambition like a pilot fish. It wasn't a highly esteemed quality in Dufton, though. Bluntness was the fashion; as Charles said, everyone behaved as if they were under contract to live up to the tradition of the outspoken Yorkshireman with a heart of gold underneath a rough exterior. The worst of it was, he'd add, that underneath the rough exterior their hearts were as base and vicious as anyone's from the Suave and Treacherous South. Not, I think, that they were entirely to be blamed; there wasn't much room for gracious living in Dufton. The young man in the photograph (obviously Mrs. Thompson's son who'd been killed during the war) had been given from birth the necessary background for charm. It's astounding how often golden hearts and silver spoons in the mouth go together.
I was a little surprised that Mrs. Thompson should so prominently display the picture of her dead son; I wouldn't have thought that she could have borne to be reminded of him. Then I remembered something that Charles had said: "Zombies always pass away or cross the Great Divide or go into the sunset. And they lose people like a parcel or a glove. And they can't bear to talk of It or to be reminded of It. They're dead already, that's why."
Mrs. Thompson wasn't a zombie; she'd be able to look at her dead son without hysteria. The room hadn't the necessary atmosphere for hysteria anyway. It was a drawing room furnished in what seemed to me to be very good taste with Sheraton-type furniture, thin-legged and graceful but not spindly or fragile, and pale yellow and cream wallpaper in an arrangement of colour rather than a pattern. There was a radio-gramophone and a big open bookcase and a grand piano; the piano top was bare, a sure sign that it was used as a musical instrument and not an auxiliary mantelpiece. The white bearskin rug on the parquet floor was, I suppose, strictly Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, but it fitted in, added a necessary touch of frivolity, even a faint sexiness like scented cachous.
I looked at Maurice's photograph again. It reminded me of someone I knew. I was irritated with myself for not remembering; it was as if a catalogue card had been misplaced of a book which I knew was in stock. It seemed very important that I should recall the likeness; but the harder I tried, the more neutral and anonymous his face became. I gave up the attempt and went upstairs to unpack.
2
Cedric Thompson stood a good three inches above me, and I'm five foot eleven in my socks. He was very thin, though. I don't think that he could have weighed more than a hundred and forty pounds. He had a very deep, rumbling voice -- it seemed too powerful for his body. His suit, a clerical grey worsted, had that close, heavy weave, that elasticity disciplined only by first-rate tailoring, which isn't bought for very much under thirty guineas; but there was chalk dust on the right sleeve and both the middle and the top buttons of his jacket were fastened, pulling it out of shape. And his red-and-blue Fair Isle cardigan and brown checked shirt, though smart enough in themselves, didn't go with the suit. My impression wasn't so much that he was wearing the wrong clothes because he thought that they looked nice, but that he just put on whatever was nearest to hand.
"I'm so glad that you're not a teacher," he said. "They never seem real somehow . . . An accountant's is a sensible yet glamorous occupation. He made Homer sound like balance sheets and balance sheets like Homer . . . "
"I saw it in London," I said.
"Oh, theatergoing's all right. It's reading that you should beware of. Healthy young men shouldn't read. They finish by becoming broken-winded ushers."
We were sitting in the dining room having lunch. Cedric was at the head of the table carving the chicken but he'd forgotten what he was doing and his carving knife was still poised in the air.
"Cedric," said Mrs. Thompson firmly, "stop practising your Literary Society paper on Joe and give him some chicken. He's been travelling since six this morning." She smiled. "With that knife flourished so menacingly it looks more as if you intended to eat him than give him something to eat."
We all burst out laughing. It was one of those remarks which aren't funny in black and white but irresistibly comic in actuality; our shared laughter had the effect of drawing me into their circle.
As Cedric was spooning out some mashed potatoes for me, Mrs. Thompson stopped him. "Oh dear, I'd forgotten. Joe, you do like onions, don't you?"
"They're my favourite vegetable."
"Splendid. These are my speciality -- potatoes seethed in milk with chopped onions."
"All virtuous and handsome and intelligent men like onions," Cedric said. "But only paragons among women like onions." He forgot to serve the potatoes. "It was when I first discovered that Joan liked them that I decided to marry her. We used to go for long walks in the Dales and live on onions and cheese washed down with mild-and-bitter."
Mrs. Thompson's eyes sparkled and she began to giggle. "Remember what Father said? He thought we smelt so strongly that we'd have to marry each other because no one else would take us."
We all burst into laughter again.
When we took our coffee into the drawing room and I was lighting a cigarette for Mrs. Thompson, I found out whom Maurice reminded me of. Cedric suddenly stopped in the middle of what he was saying and looked at me as if he'd just noticed that I had three eyes.
"How could I have failed to see it?" he asked me angrily. "Don't move, Joe." He circled me as if inspecting a sculpture. "You have fair hair, that's what misled me. I wouldn't have believed it . . . the same eyes, the same bone structure, the same expression -- "
"I noticed it straightaway," Mrs. Thompson said. "He's the image of Maurice."
I looked at the photograph above the mantelpiece and saw my own face for the first time. It shook me for a moment: I was jerked into that zone of unreality one would inhabit for seconds at a time in the RAF, watching a Wimpey scarcely a wing tip away disintegrate into rather gaudy green and orange flames, knowing that the men inside, with whom one had been drinking a few hours ago, were being fried in their own fat like bacon.
"I'm sorry, Joe," Mrs. Thompson said. "Talking about you as if you weren't there -- do forgive us." She put her hand on mine. "You know, we miss him very much at times. But we haven't built a kind of shrine to him, we're not always thinking of him. And we don't mind being reminded of him -- that sounds mixed but you know what I mean."
"I feel like that about Father and Mother," I said to my own surprise.
Cedric was looking at me anxiously. He had a bony gentle face with bushy eyebrows and thinning black hair. "I'm an insensitive, crass, boorish, ill-mannered old fool," he said. "I do apologise if I embarrassed you, Joe."
"I'm not embarrassed," I said, and smiled at him. There was a silence, but not an uncomfortable one. We'd engaged top gear, as it were; the three of us were together in the best relationship possible to a young man and a middle-aged couple. We wer
e on a basis of intimacy -- if the Sunday papers haven't dirtied the word beyond use -- because they were the sort of people with whom one couldn't live on any other basis. I had enough sense, though, to be aware that I mustn't presume too much upon the intimacy, that though we were in top gear the journey had only just begun.
After Cedric had returned to school, I went to my room to lie down. I hadn't slept well the night before and, having eaten a heavy lunch, was agreeably drowsy. I took off my shoes and jacket, put on my dressing gown (more for effect than for warmth) and settled down on the divan.
I didn't drop off straightaway but lingered deliberately on the borders of sleep, the taste of chicken and lemon pie and Turkish coffee still on my tongue, speculating what they'd be like at the Town Hall and particularly what kind of boss Hoylake the Treasurer would be. I didn't begin work till Monday and today was Friday so there was plenty of time for investigation . . . The rain had stopped; it was very quiet in the house and I could hear Mrs. Thompson in the kitchen down stairs. It didn't disturb me, it didn't hold me back from the long smooth slope down which I was gliding into sleep; it was as if every sound -- the wood fire's friendly crackling, the tinkle of crockery, the splash of running water -- were invented especially for my pleasure.
