Room at the Top

by John Braine

  I kept glancing at her throughout the rest of the play. Sometimes when she wasn't reading her part she looked plain, in fact downright ugly: her chin had a heavy shapelessness and the lines on her forehead and neck were as if scored with a knife. When she was acting, her face came to life: it wasn't so much that you forgot its blemishes as that they became endearing and exciting. She made the other women look dowdy and careless; Eva, too, I realised with astonishment.

  When we'd finished, Ronnie sat staring at us for a moment, puffing his pipe noisily and fiddling with a sheaf of notes and a gold Eversharp pencil. "We'll have to work very hard, people. The play's a great deal more subtle than it appears." He took his pipe out of his mouth and then pointed the stem at me. "Joe, remember that you're an honest simple farmer. And for heaven's sake be careful about -- er -- articles of ladies' underwear." Everyone except me giggled. "In fact, you'd better cut that bit."

  "Watch out, Joe," Eva said. "Ronnie loves cutting. You'll have no part left if you're not careful."

  Ronnie beamed at her. "All plays should be cut by half," he said.

  "Me and Orson Welles," Alice murmured into my ear.

  "All right, people," Ronnie said. "That's it for tonight. Herbert and I will now try to make sense of the author's lighting plot."

  "Would you like some coffee?" I asked Alice as she rose.

  "No thank you."

  To hell with you, I thought, and turned on my heel.

  "You can buy me a beer though."

  "The Clarence?"

  "Too many Thespians there. Too clean and well lighted. They'll be installing neons soon. The St. Clair's much nicer. Dark and smells of beef and tapers."

  Her car, a green Fiat 500, was parked outside. She unlocked the righthand door then hesitated. "Can you drive?"

  "Oddly enough, yes," I said.

  "Don't be so bloody thin-skinned."

  "I wasn't -- "

  "You damn well were. I just thought you might like to drive. Most men hate being a woman's passenger. I'm an awful driver anyway."

  I didn't say anything but sat in the driver's seat and opened the other door for her.

  It was pleasant to be driving a car again; not that I'd ever had one of my own. I'd learned to drive in the RAF: I'd shared an Austin Chummy with three of the aircrew. As I engaged first gear I was again riding through the flat desolation of Lincolnshire with a crate of beer in the back and Tommy Jenks leading the chorus of "Cats on the Rooftops" or "In Mobile" or "Three Old Ladies"; I felt a nostalgia for those days, when I could afford to spend four pounds a week on beer and cigarettes and the silver half-wing was a passport to free drinks and high-grade women. The Austin wasn't up to much -- and no wonder, after seventeen years' misuse -- but a quarter of it belonged to me. Tommy smashed it up on the North Finchley Road, together with himself, a WAAF corporal, and the GI who drove the jeep he crashed into.

  "You're scowling," Alice said. "You look like a gangster in that hat, did you know? Turn to the right here, will you?"

  "Where are we?"

  "Nearly in St. Clair Road. It's on my way home actually."

  "You live right at T'Top, of course?" There must have been a sneer in my voice; I saw her wince, and wondered what devil had got inside me.

  "I live in Linnet Road," she said. "I didn't choose the house. Though I think it's a very pleasant one. You live in Eagle Road, don't you?"

  "I lodge there," I said.

  We were driving down Poplar Avenue. From a big house to our left came a blaze of light and music. There was a gate half open in the high wall; I caught a glimpse of water and a white platform. "My God," I said, "a swimming pool."

  "That's where Sue Brown lives," Alice said. "It's her birthday party tonight."

  "How nice for them," I said. "I expect Jack's a guest. If I may refer to him with such familiarity."

  Alice didn't seem to have heard me. "Turn down to the left here," she said. We went down a narrow road and into a little square. The houses were smaller in this quarter: the big house at the top of the road was the last outpost of the world of private swimming pools and poplars and the new M.G.'s. The working-class area by the station extended farther than I'd thought, coming between Poplar Avenue and the smoke of the valley like a shield. A narrow flight of stone steps led up from the square into a ruler-straight street of millstone grit. The St. Clair was down an alley at the end nearest to the square.

  As Alice had said, it was dark and smelled of beef and tapers. The little room behind the bar was empty except for two old men huddled round the fire. There were two old prints of Warley hanging on the walls, and a photograph of a house with its roof blown off by the whirlwind of 1888. The space left uncovered was occupied by glittering horse brasses and warming pans. The seats which ran round the walls were leather upholstered and well padded.

  Alice looked round her with satisfaction. "This is what I call a snug," she said. "So damned cosy it's almost sinister."

  The landlord, a thin grey-haired man, shuffled in, "Good evening, Mrs. Aisgill. Good evening, sir. What can I get you?"

  "Try the Old," Alice said. "It's real beer, isn't it, Bert?"

  "A lovely drink, Mrs. Aisgill," he said in his deep lugubrious voice. "A beautiful beer."

  It was in fact very good beer, dark and sweet and smooth. It was warm and restful in the Snug and I liked being with Alice; I didn't feel any necessity to make love to her, and consequently had no fear of rejection. I gave her a cigarette. When I'm on edge I somehow forget to smoke; it was my first cigarette that evening and the tobacco tasted pleasantly strong, a hair's-breadth from being acrid, which is how I like it best.

  "Look, Joe," Alice said. "We're going to be working together, so we ought to get everything straight between us. For God's sake take that chip off your shoulder. I didn't like telling you when the others were around -- but you were bloody offensive to me. Have you got an inferiority complex, or what?"

  "No," I muttered.

  "What is it?"

  "I thought you were coming the Lady of the Mansion over me, that's all. My father didn't own an engineering works or a mill but that doesn't mean that I've never read anything or that I can't drive a car." I was aware that this wasn't an adequate explanation; for I wasn't really angry with Alice at all.

  "But Joe dear," she said, "who cares about these things? I don't. The Thompsons don't. Eva doesn't -- " She frowned. "It's Eva, isn't it? She leads young men on and then she turns prim and proper on them. She's a born teaser, she'll never change. You know, it wouldn't at all surprise me if -- no, I'd better not say it."

  I ordered more beer. "Now you've begun, you'd better finish."

  "It wouldn't surprise me if she told Bob about her young men's antics. They're cold fishes, both of them. You didn't take her seriously, did you?"

  "It depends on what you mean by seriously."

  "The same thing as you mean, honey."

  "My God, no. Not for one moment." I laughed. "What a big fool I must have seemed." Then I remembered my main grievance. "Jack Wales," I said. "Patronising me, talking about the Officers' Mess, forgetting my name when I speak to him . . ."

  "He'll be back at the University soon," she said. "Besides that's not why you're angry with him. He's staked out a claim to Susan. That's why, isn't it?"

  I didn't answer. I was wondering just how we'd reached this stage. I was talking with her as freely as I would with Charles; the realisation was rather disconcerting.

  "Isn't that why?" she repeated.

  "All right. That's why. Plain jealousy. It's as if people like him take everything worth having by a sort of divine right. I've seen it too often."

  "I could hit you," she said. "She's not engaged to him, is she? You're not married yourself, are you? Or are you frightened of him? Why don't you phone the girl and ask her to go out with you?"

  "I never thought of that," I said weakly.

  "You'd rather feel sorry for yourself," she said. "Instead of doing something about it, you're just lying down
. Perhaps you feel Jack's superior to you?"

  "No," I said. "It wouldn't matter anyway -- whether or not he were superior, I mean -- if she wanted him. I have a feeling that she doesn't. She's got used to having him around, that's all . . . I know she could be interested in me. That's what's so damned annoying. I suppose you think I'm conceited."

  "No," she said. "Young and terribly inexperienced. If that's what you truly feel about her, straightaway and instinctively, then you must be right."

  The belief in intuition isn't exclusively my property but to hear her expressing it made me feel that I could hide nothing from her.

  I looked at my empty glass. "I can't drink in halves," I said, and fished in my pocket for money.

  "Let me get it, will you?" Alice said.

  "I can afford it -- "

  She held up her hand to silence me. "No. I won't argue. I always pay for my own. I learned that in Rep a long time ago."

  "But I'm not in Rep."

  "Oh shut up. I don't care if you're the Borough Treasurer, I don't care if you own the bloody pub. I'm independent, I can afford to pay for my own. See?"

  I took the money and ordered the drinks. I was glad of it, to tell the truth, because the Old cost two shillings a pint and at the rate we were drinking it would have meant at least nine bob's worth before the evening was out. I had eight hundred in the bank, this mostly being my parent's insurance and my accumulated pay from Stalag 1000. But I never touched it; I wasn't likely to acquire so much money so quickly again. I lived on my salary; and it didn't allow for casual expenditures of nearly ten bob.

  I looked at Alice with affection. "Would you like some potato crisps, love?"

  "Yes, please. They've Smith's on Mondays. Ask him for some salt, will you? I can never find those beastly little blue packets."

  "I like salty things with beer," I said. "Pickled onions and fat pork are best, though."

  She grinned at me. It was a companionable grin with no sex behind it. "Me too. I've low tastes. What's more, I can drink as much beer as you."

  "I'll take you up on that."

  "I'll hold you to it. I was brought up on beer but all the men I seem to meet drink whisky and gin. They think I'm joking when I say I like beer and I get gassy bottled stuff and lager."

  The Old was stronger than I'd thought; halfway through my third pint a warm rush of affection came over me.

  "I'll tell you something, Alice. I like you. I don't mean sex, I mean I like you . I can talk with you like a man. I can tell you things -- Oh Lord, what a lot of I's . . ." I took another swig of beer and then crunched a mouthful of the crisps.

  "I like you too," she said. "You look about eighteen at times, do you know that?"

  We stayed till closing time and then she drove me home. It wasn't until I was in bed that I realised that I'd never told any woman as much about myself -- not only that, but I hadn't any fears of having said too much, of having made a fool of myself. The pillow smelled faintly of lavender; it reminded me of something. It was her scent, cool as clean linen, friendly as beer; I went off to sleep without knowing it, into a dream in which I was riding in the Fiat with her, the car skidding wildly round fantastic bends in a country a mixture of Lincolnshire and Prussia; then she was Susan, her eyes shining, her face distorted with pleasure, and suddenly I was lost in the wild open country, sand and pines and heather, calling out not Susan's name but Alice's, and then I was awake in my room at Oak Crescent looking at the Medici reproduction of Olympe, smooth and white and lovely, and well aware of it: the picture grew in size until it covered the whole wall and I put my hands over my eyes and tried to scream and found myself awake in Warley to the alarm clock ringing and the sound of bacon frying in the kitchen.

  7

  The Library shared the same building as the Town Hall, I called there at ten the following morning and found out that Jack would be returning to the University in a couple of days.

  I stood in the little alcove they called the Reference Department, feeling absurdly exultant and at the same time envious. Cambridge: I had a mental picture of port wine, boating, leisurely discussions over long tables gleaming with silver and cut glass. And over it all the atmosphere of power, power speaking impeccable Standard English, power which was power because it was born of the right family, always knew the right people: if you were going to run the country you couldn't do without a University education.

  Jack's father, among other things, manufactured cars. Business was booming; though even if it hadn't been, it wouldn't greatly have mattered, since he'd built up a cosy little vertical trust. Whenever he spent more than a certain amount on any component, he bought the firm which made it; he owned a plastics factory, a tannery, a body-work builders and even a laundry and a printing firm. Beside Ford or Lyons or Unilever it was a small combine; but I'll be very surprised if the old man cuts up for less than a million.

  Cedric had explained to me the reason for Jack's taking a science degree. "Whoever runs the combine can't specialise," he said. "He must be able to think generally. If he knows too much detail he won't be able to grasp the whole. So Jack's going to Cambridge to learn how to think." Cedric had given me a conspiratorial smile. "Not that it makes much difference. The accountants and the engineers run the show no matter who's in charge. All that's necessary is that Jack meets the right people and learns how to get on with them. Blinding with science -- isn't that the phrase?"

  All right, I muttered to myself childishly, I'll pinch your woman, Wales, and all your money won't stop me . . .

  I went out to the phone kiosk opposite the Town Hall and called Susan. Waiting for the operator to put me through I was half inclined to abandon the whole attempt. If she hadn't answered the phone it's doubtful whether I would have tried again.

  "Susan Brown speaking," she said.

  "Joe Lampton speaking. How official we sound." There was a pane missing in the kiosk and a cold wind blew in. My hands were shaking with excitement. "I've got two tickets for the ballet on Saturday night, I wondered if you'd care to see it."

  "Saturday night?"

  "I mean evening," I said, cursing myself.

  "I'd love to see it. Just a minute, Joe, I'm all tangled up, I've just had a bath."

  I imagined her nakedness, young and firm and fragrant. Then I put the idea out of my head. It was something I didn't want to think about. It wasn't that I didn't desire her physically; but to strip her mentally was adolescent and pimply, it didn't express my true feelings. This I can honestly say: my intentions towards Susan were always those described as honourable. Any other response to her beauty would have seemed shabby. Even apart from her money, she was worth marrying. She was the princess in the fairy stories, the girl in old songs, the heroine of musical comedies. She naturally belonged to it because she possessed the necessary face and figure and the right income group. And that's how it is in all the fairy stories: the princess is always beautiful, and lives in a golden palace, and wears fine clothes and rich jewels and eats chicken and strawberries and cakes made from honey and even if she has bad luck and has to go to work in the kitchen the prince always spots her because she's left an expensive ring in the cake she's baked for him; and the shock almost kills him when she's brought to him in her donkey skin with her face and hands dirty from menial labours because he thinks he's fallen in love with a common working girl, Grade Ten in fact. But she takes off the donkey skin and he sees her fine clothes and she washes her face and hands and he sees her white delicate skin. So it's all right: she's Grade One and they can marry and live happily ever after. The qualifications for a princess are made brutally clear.

  Susan was a princess and I was the equivalent of a swineherd. I was, you might say, acting out a fairy story. The trouble was that there were more difficult obstacles than dragons and enchanters to overcome, and I could see no sign of a fairy godmother. And that morning I couldn't tell how the story would end. When she left the phone she seemed to be away for a long time; I thought for a moment that she'd hung up on
me but somewhere in the background I could hear a vacuum cleaner and women's voices.

  "I'm sorry for keeping you waiting," she said, "I couldn't find my engagement book. Saturday evening will be all right, Joe."

  The first dragon was killed, even if it was only a small one. I tried not to sound too exultant. "Grand. I'll call for you at a quarter past six, shall I?"

  "No, no," she said quickly, "I'll meet you at the theatre."

  "A quarter to seven then."

  "Golly, here's Mummy. I must rush. Goodbye."

  "Goodbye," I said, feeling a little puzzled. Some of the gilt had already been taken off the gingerbread. Why should she panic when her mother came into the room? It was as if she hadn't wanted it to be known that she was going out with me. Wasn't she supposed to go out with anyone except Jack? And was I, unlike him, not good enough to call at her house?