Towards the End of the Morning

by Michael Frayn

  ‘Hello; Dyson,’ he snapped.

  ‘Bob!’ he said cheerfully a fraction of a second later, smiling warmly into the mouthpiece. ‘How nice to hear from you . . . ! No, no – not an inconvenient moment at all . . . Who’s with you . . . ? Tessa? Is that your lady-friend from Somerset? Well, give her our regards, Bob . . . Can you do what . . . ? Oh, I see . . . Yes, by all means . . . By all means, Bob . . .’

  Dyson walked back to the kitchen grinning. Ah, bachelorhood! The idea of being a bachelor, and having bachelor affairs, suddenly seemed almost unbearably sweet. A girl coming to stay in one’s flat . . . He envisaged a slight girl with a tender face and dark, tumbling hair, wearing a pair of borrowed pyjamas which came down over her hands and feet . . .

  ‘Bob’s got his girl-friend staying with him,’ he said to Jannie, still grinning, as he sat down at the kitchen table and sipped absently at the cup of coffee which had appeared there. ‘She’s called Tessa. Apparently her parents think she’s staying with friends – Bob wanted to know if she could send them our phone number and say she was staying here. I said we’d be delighted. If anyone rings and asks for her, we’re to say she’s out, then pass the message on to Bob so that she can ring back.’

  Dyson went on grinning to himself. The slight girl with the tumbling hair, he was thinking, would take a shower (bachelor flats had showers), putting her head back and letting the water cascade down between her breasts . . . In the afternoon they would make love, with the great windows open to the sky, and a hot, heavy summer rain falling, crushing the flowers and filling the air with the scent of roses . . .

  ‘Did you invite them round?’ asked Jannie.

  ‘No. Should I have done? Wouldn’t they rather just get on with it in peace?’

  Jannie returned to her shopping-list in silence.

  ‘Do you think we should?’ said Dyson. ‘If you’d like to, you go ahead.’

  Leg of lamb for 6, wrote Jannie. Dyson remembered, at the sight of her silently writing, that she had been nagging him.

  ‘Look, Jannie,’ he said, his good humour abruptly vanishing, ‘I’m not going to ring them. It’s the wife’s job to send out invitations and manage a couple’s social life, not the husband’s.’

  Paper napkins, flowers, wrote Jannie.

  ‘Good God, Jannie,’ said Dyson. ‘It was your idea, not mine. If you want to satisfy your curiosity about Bob’s girlfriend, you ring him yourself. I’m far too busy to mess about with this sort of thing today. And that really is final . . .’

  ‘That was John Dyson again,’ said Bob, as he put the phone down. ‘He was inviting us for Sunday lunch tomorrow. I said yes – I hope that was all right. Their kids are quite sweet, as a matter of fact.’

  Tessa watched him, completely absorbed in him, as he sat wearily down at the table again, located the brown sugar among the remains of the breakfast things, and dug a spoonful out to lick at. She was sitting curled up in the armchair like Mrs Mounce, nursing a final cup of cold Nescafé.

  ‘You’re very fond of the Dysons, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he replied. He thought about the Dysons’ solid, regular married life, and it filled him with nostalgia. The Dysons didn’t have to exhaust themselves wondering if they loved each other, and what they should do about it if they didn’t. They weren’t overwhelmed by the sheer mechanics of daily life. Happily married couples, he thought, stood not face to face, absorbed in each other, but back to back, looking outwards upon the world. He gazed despairingly about the room. The breakfast things were still on the table; the bedclothes lay tangled on the floor; Tessa’s clothes straggled across the carpet from her open suitcase. Tessa wasn’t even dressed – she was wearing his old tweed overcoat over her pyjamas. By the time they had got the room cleared up and were ready to go out it would be getting on for twelve. By the time they had done the shopping and got back and Tessa had cooked the lunch (as she insisted on doing in her eagerness to keep house for him) it would almost certainly be something like three o’clock. A world of muddle seemed to enclose Bob like a jungle. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

  ‘Didn’t you get to sleep at all?’ asked Tessa.

  ‘I think I must have dozed off about six.’

  ‘Poor old Bob!’

  He took another spoonful of sugar. It hadn’t been a night they had lived through; it had been the Dark Ages – all seven centuries of them, with wars and oppressions, visions and turbulences. The worst moment of all, he thought, had been at a quarter to nine that morning, when he had been roused from the bottom depths of heavy, dream-tangled sleep by the doorbell, and when, having stumbled across the room, still not knowing where he was or what was happening, he had found Mrs Mounce at the door, asking if she could do any shopping for them.

  Tessa came over and kissed him. He opened his eyes quickly, unaware until then that they had fallen shut.

  ‘I’m going to have a bath,’ said Tessa. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit awkward,’ said Bob. ‘There’s only one in the house, on the landing halfway downstairs. Are you sure you want a bath?’

  ‘Not if it would be embarrassing for you, Bob.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind. I was thinking about you, Tessa.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I’ve burned my boats now.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  He took her down to the bathroom, and turned on the geyser for her.

  ‘Are you going to come in the bath with me, Bob?’ she asked, reddening.

  ‘Well, I think I’d better wash up the breakfast things, if you don’t mind. Otherwise we shan’t be getting lunch till teatime.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten about the breakfast things.’

  Bob had almost finished the washing-up when the doorbell rang. He threw down the washing-up mop and stood stock-still for a moment, gripping the edge of the sink. He thought very carefully what he was going to say. ‘Mrs Mounce,’ he thought he might put it, in a calm, almost pleasant voice, ‘if you ring this bell once more I will call the police and have you charged with causing a nuisance . . .’ No – ‘. . . will instruct my solicitor to proceed against you for trespass . . .’ No, no. The bell rang again. He strode across to the door. The words ‘. . . unless I receive an assurance that you will seek immediate psychiatric advice . . .’ flashed into his mind with horrible pleasingness.

  But it was not Mrs Mounce – it was Mrs Hennessy, the cleaning woman. Bob stared at her with his mouth open.

  ‘Forgotten I was coming, had you, love?’ she said agreeably, rolling hugely past Bob into the room, from one swollen carpet-­slippered foot to the other, trailing brooms, brushes and vacuum-cleaner behind her. She dumped all her equipment down, breathing heavily.

  ‘You could leave it today, if you liked . . .’ said Bob uneasily, stepping on Tessa’s suspender-belt, and kicking one of her shoes backwards under the armchair.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, love,’ said Mrs Hennessy. ‘It’ll only take me ten minutes . . . What have you been doing with your bed, love? Been having nightmares, have you?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Bob. ‘Yes, I did have rather a bad night.’

  Mrs Hennessy looked at the open suitcase.

  ‘Going away for the weekend, are you, love?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Bob, following the direction of her gaze only slowly. ‘I mean, yes, I am.’

  ‘Have a lovely time.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  Mrs Hennessy bent down and began to pick up the bedclothes. Bob bent down, too, and moved discreetly about picking up the more obviously feminine articles of clothing around the floor. He wished he didn’t mind about it, but he did. He wished his first instinct had not been to conceal the traces of Tessa’s existence, but it had been. It was not because he would be embarrassed if Mrs Hennessy knew he had a girl staying here, he told himself. It was not even because Tessa would be embarrassed. They were both a little too adult to care what other people thought. It was Mrs Hennessy he was trying to
protect. It was she who would be embarrassed if she knew, or at any rate, if she knew that he knew that she knew.

  ‘That’s right, love,’ shouted Mrs Hennessy over the noise, as she switched on the vacuum cleaner. ‘If you just clear your little bits and pieces off the floor I can get round with the vacuum.’

  Bob pushed everything into the suitcase and crammed the lid shut, ignoring the various shoulder-straps and corners of translucent nylon which stuck out. He was just looking round for some quiet corner to put the case when faintly above the noise in the room he heard the doorbell ring. God, it was Tessa coming back from the bathroom! He hurried across to the door, still grasping the case.

  ‘Bye bye, love,’ shouted Mrs Hennessy. ‘Have a lovely time.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Thanks,’ shouted Bob.

  He opened the door. It was not Tessa outside – it was Mrs Mounce.

  ‘Bob, darling!’ she whispered dramatically, taking his hand and leading him out on to the landing out of Mrs Hennessy’s earshot. ‘I meant to tell Mrs Hennessy not to disturb you. Shall I get rid of her for you?’

  ‘No,’ said Bob. ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘I just thought I’d offer, sweetie.’

  ‘Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about us.’

  Mrs Mounce looked down at the suitcase.

  ‘You off somewhere, darling?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no. Well, you know, we might go somewhere.’

  ‘Well, don’t forget I’m downstairs if you want me.’

  ‘I shan’t forget.’

  He shut the door and carried the suitcase back into the room. Mrs Hennessy looked at him in surprise and switched the vacuum cleaner off.

  ‘I thought you’d gone, love,’ she said.

  ‘Well, not quite.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Forgotten your pyjamas? Here they are, love – I was just going to put them under the pillow.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ said Bob. He opened the suitcase and crammed the pyjamas inside.

  ‘Got everything else, have you?’ asked Mrs Hennessy. ‘Got your shaving kit? No, I can see it over by the sink.’

  She rolled effortlessly across to the draining-board and fetched it for him.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bob, stuffing it into the case.

  ‘You’ll forget your own head one of these days,’ said Mrs Hennessy. ‘What else haven’t you got? Slippers? Look, they’re on the floor here all the time!’

  ‘I don’t really want slippers, thanks.’

  ‘Course you want slippers! Catch your death on some of these cold floors. Come on, love, put them in. What about your dressing-gown? Your dressing-gown’s hanging up behind the door! There you are, then. Now, are you sure you’ve got a change of socks?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘And plenty of warm woollies?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes.’

  Reluctantly, Mrs Hennessy bent down and switched on the vacuum cleaner again. Almost at once the doorbell rang. Bob hurried to answer it, trying to force the lid of the overloaded case shut as he went.

  ‘You off then, love?’ shouted Mrs Hennessy. ‘Ta-ta. Have a lovely time.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ said Bob. ‘Yes, I will.’

  This time it was Tessa, holding her pyjamas in her hand and wearing nothing but the tweed overcoat pulled tightly around her.

  ‘Oh, Tessa,’ whispered Bob, pushing her back on to the landing and pulling the door to behind them. ‘It’s a bit awkward at the moment. Mrs Hennessy’s here.’

  Tessa gazed at Bob seriously.

  ‘Who’s Mrs Hennessy, Bob?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s the cleaning woman, Tess.’

  ‘Another woman who does your cleaning, Bob?’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Hennessy’s just, you know, the char. Look, I’ve put all your things in the suitcase. Take it back to the bathroom and get dressed there, Tess.’

  Tessa gazed at Bob sadly in the half-darkness of the landing, and shivered slightly.

  ‘I don’t think you ought to be embarrassed about me now I’m here,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not embarrassed, Tess.’

  ‘Well, I’m not, Bob.’

  ‘I know. It’s Mrs Hennessy I’m thinking of. I don’t think we ought to embarrass her, you see. Look, all your clothes are in the case. I’ll come and call you when things are a bit less hectic.’

  He watched Tessa start reluctantly down the stairs, cradling the open suitcase in her arms, then went back into the flat, wishing it were the middle of the night once more.

  ‘Back again?’ said Mrs Hennessy, turning off the vacuum cleaner. ‘What have you forgotten this time, love?’

  ‘Oh, you know, I thought perhaps I’d just check through things and make sure.’

  He began vaguely opening drawers and cupboards, trying to see out of the corner of his eye whether there were any more of Tessa’s belongings lying about the floor. For a moment they caught each other’s eye. Bob looked away hurriedly, and Mrs Hennessy bent down and switched on the vacuum cleaner.

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Off again, are you?’ said Mrs Hennessy, watching him run. ‘Ta-ta, then.’

  ‘Bob, I’ll have to come in,’ whispered Tessa. ‘Mrs Mounce is in the bathroom.’

  Bob pushed her back on to the landing once again, and again pulled the door to behind him.

  ‘We can wait out here for a bit, can’t we?’ he asked. ‘Mrs Hennessy won’t be a moment, Tess. Let me carry the case for you, anyway.’

  They stood, not looking at each other, with Bob holding the case. Tessa started to shiver.

  ‘George God strikes again,’ whispered Bob.

  ‘What?’

  ‘George God – he’s getting at us.’

  ‘Who’s George God?’ asked Tessa. Her teeth were chattering.

  ‘I know,’ whispered Bob suddenly. ‘Mr Mounce is away, so if Mrs Mounce is in the bath their flat must be empty, and she’s probably left the door open. Go and dress down there.’

  Bob watched her all the way down the stairs, agonized on her behalf; still more agonized when it occurred to him, just as she went out of sight, that he should have gone down with her and carried the case.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mrs Hennessy, turning off the vacuum cleaner once again as he came into the room. ‘You remind me of radishes, the way you keep returning. I know what it is this time, though, love.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Bob. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’ve left your money on the bedside table.’

  ‘Oh, so I have.’

  ‘Can’t get far without money, you know.’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  Mrs Hennessy collected up her equipment.

  ‘Well, I’ll say ta-ta, love,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget anything else, now, will you? Got your ticket?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s right. Have a lovely time, then.’

  She rolled across to the door, trailing sticks and poles. Bob hastened across and then flung the door open for her. There on the threshold, barring her progress, stood Tessa, still wearing nothing but the tweed overcoat and still nursing the overstuffed open suitcase. She looked desperately from Bob to Mrs Hennessy and back again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bob,’ she said wretchedly, ‘but Mrs Mounce’s husband’s home now.’

  ‘You get something on before you catch your death, love,’ said Mrs Hennessy to Tessa reproachfully. ‘If you’re looking for your undies, I’ve folded them up and put them on top of the TV for you. Ta-ta, loves. Have a lovely time.’

  It was Damian, the Dysons’ younger son, who first brought up the subject of marriage.

  He stood up on his chair all the way through lunch, with the gravy running down his great red face on to his bib, and flying off the spoon he was waving on to other people’s clothes; and in his loud, pharyngitic voice he kept up a perpetual background noise of questions and comments. His brother Gawain ignored him, gazing at the salt cellar or the window for minutes at a time and stolidly chewing. So did Dyson, intent upon pus
hing a heavy agenda through committee – roast lamb, the state of the newspaper industry, the beauties of Tessa’s native Somerset, second helpings of lamb, the shortcomings of primary education, the exact age of poor old Eddy Moulton, apple crumble, and how funny it was that only the morning that poor old Eddy had died, etc. He seemed unaware of the noise Damian was making. Bob’s head ached and filled with fog at the effort of filtering the adult conversation out from it.

  ‘Are Bob and Tessa married, Mummy?’ he became aware that Damian was asking, over and over again. ‘Are Bob and Tessa married, Daddy? Are Bob and Tessa married, Mummy?’

  ‘No, we’re not, Day,’ he said, to halt the noise.

  ‘Why aren’t you married?’ asked Damian.

  ‘We’re just not,’ said Tessa. ‘Not everyone’s married.’

  Damian thought about this, scratching his private parts thoughtfully with his spoon.

  ‘Mummy and Daddy did be married,’ he said.

  ‘Sit down and eat up your lunch, Day,’ said Jannie.

  ‘Jack did be married,’ said Damian.

  ‘Oh, not Jack, please, Damian!’ said Dyson.

  ‘Who’s Jack?’ asked Tessa.

  ‘That’s impossible to explain,’ said Bob. ‘Who did Jack marry, Day?’

  ‘Jack did marry his mummy,’ said Damian. He looked surprised when everyone laughed, then joined in himself, with very hoarse, loud laughter which made everyone start laughing all over again.

  ‘Jack did marry his mummy,’ he said, as soon as the laughter had subsided, and laughed again himself, which made Bob and Tessa start again, too.

  ‘For God’s sake don’t encourage him,’ said Dyson irritably. ‘He’ll go on for hours.’

  ‘Jack did marry his mummy,’ repeated Damian, beaming around the table with the confidence of a man who knows he has a fully pilot-surveyed and market-researched product to offer.

  ‘That’s enough, Day,’ said Dyson sharply.

  ‘Did you know,’ said Damian to Bob in a specially humorous voice, and with a risqué expression on his great round face, ‘Jack did marry his mummy?’

  ‘Day!’ said Jannie.

  ‘Did you know . . . ?’ began Damian to Tessa.

  ‘Damian!’ shouted Dyson.

  ‘Did you know,’ said Damian, leaning humorously across the table towards Gawain, who was gazing transfixed at the top button of Bob’s coat, ‘Jack did marry his mummy?’