by Stan Barstow
'Good evening, Victor,'she says, nice as you please. 'Have you had a successful day?'
'Yes, I think so.'
'If I'd known you were going to be so late,'Ingrid says, 'I'd have gone home and let Mother go to bed.'
'I came as fast as British Railways would let me,'I tell her.
'Wasn't there an earlier train?'
'Not that I could catch.'
'Don't nag Victor so much,'her mother says. 'He's had a long day and he must be tired.'
I have. Up at six to catch the early train from Wakefield, and on the move ever since. A lot of my time's been spent sitting in trains, but that's one of the most tiring ways of resting I know. I catch a yawn.
'Yeh, I am a bit tired. Be nice if I could lie in in the morning.'
'A few hours' sleep and you'll be as right as rain again. You've got your health and strength, that's the main thing.'
'How are you feeling today?'this reminds me to ask.
'Oh, not too bad. It comes and goes. Some days are worse than others.'
I look at her, wondering how much of it's kid or imagination. There's no doubt about it, she has aged in the last few years. Her face is thinner, sallower. Whether it really is bad health, or losing her husband, or me just really looking and noticing a few more years on her, I don't know.
'Your mother seems a bit better,'I say to Ingrid when we're walking home.
'It's like she says, she's better some days than others.'
(No, she said she was worse some days than others.)
'Can't anybody find out what's wrong with her?'
'She's going for an X-ray next week. Then p'raps they'll find out. You know what she thinks it is, don't you?'
I grunt. 'They might find out it's something they can cure without a lot of trouble.'
'Yes, but she's scared. She doesn't say a lot about it, but I can tell. And this other thing doesn't help.'
'What's that?'
'The idea that I might go away and leave her.'
'Have you been talking about it?'
'Of course we've been talking about it. I had to tell her where you'd gone today. And besides, she's a right to know, hasn't she?'
'Whatever happened you wouldn't have to move for a bit. Not until I'd settled in and could look for a house.'
'But it's all upsetting. People don't know where they are. I don't know why you had to start all this just now.'
'Look, I didn't know old Mr Van Huyten was going to snuff it, did I? And Conroy's job's going now, not in six months' time.'
'There'll be other jobs.'
'Mebbe not with good money and prospects like this one, and among friends.'
'You sound as if you liked what you saw.'
'I liked what I saw,'I admit.
'Did you tell them you'd go?'
'No, I said I'd think about it.'
'When do they want to know?'
'I said I'd write within the week.'
'That's no time at all.'
'I wouldn't have to go next week. If I said yes they'd mebbe give me a month to clear things up at the shop.'
'It's still quick, all in a rush. We've never even talked about wanting to move away from here before.'
'It's the way things happen. As far as I knew I was settled at the shop. Now I've got to do something else. Make a decision that Could change our lives.'
'I like my life well enough as it is.'
'It's all right for you. You'll give up working sometime and stop at home. I've got a lifetime of it in front of me. I just want to make a proper start, that's all.'
She says nothing, pulling her collar up closer round her neck as we walk along. There's frost sparkling on the pavements in tiny flashes of crystal. They say we're in for a hard winter.
When we're in the flat Ingrid asks me if I want some supper.
'I'm not bothered. The fire's gone out and it's too late to get another one going.'
'When did you eat last?'
'I had a sandwich about six.'
'You ought to have something, then. You must be famished.'
'Oh, I'm past it now. I'm not bothered.'
'Why didn't you have a meal on the train?'
'What, at that price? I'll have a cup of cocoa and drink it while I'm getting undressed.'
'I suppose I should have had your supper waiting when you came home.'
'I'm not complaining.'
She makes the cocoa and I drink it in the bedroom, draining the last of it just before I click off the light and slide down under the bedclothes. Ingrid's quiet now, lying with her back to me. I move in close, fitting myself into the shape of her body, and put my arm over the front of her. She mutters something I don't catch.
'What?'
'I said, it's the wrong time.'
'Well I know it is. Oh Christ!'
I roll over on to my back and look up into the darkness. In a minute she speaks again.
'I've been hoping all day you'd come back and say it was no good.'
'I can't say that.'
'It still doesn't mean you're forced to take it.'
'No ... I'm not forced to. But somehow I feel I've got to. It's a ... it's a sort of challenge, somehow.'
She's quiet for a minute.
'Do you want to get away from me? Is that it?'
'What? Don't be daft.'
'I should have to stay here on my own.'
'But only for a while, till I get something fixed up.'
All at once I begin to see further than her mother's illness, to what might be the real thing that's bothering her. She's not sure of me; whether I want her or not.
'Is that what you're really bothered about?'
'I don't want to be on my own.'
'It wouldn't be for long. And I'd be able to get home.'
'You wouldn't be able to afford it every week.'
'I suppose you could move in with your mother for a while. Keep her company till she gets better.'
'Where would you stay then, when you came home?'
'Oh, we'd have to keep this place on.'
'It's all expense.'
'It will be till we get settled down.'
'I don't think it's worth it. I don't see any need for it.'
'I just don't want to go back into engineering round here. I don't think I can face it.'
'You've made up your mind, haven't you?'
'No, not yet. I want you to see it my way.'
'D'you think we could take my mother with us?'
'What?'This really shakes me. In that case it's out. But definitely. 'I can see that working. You know what happened last time.'
'But we're more settled now. Aren't we? It wouldn't be the same.'
'It'd be just the same. You know the only way your mother and I get on is to see each other as little as possible. That way we can be nice and polite.'
'I don't want to leave her on her own.'
'She's not an old woman.'
'But she's not well.'
'She will be, then she'll be all right.'
'She might never be well again.'
'Oh Christ! I'm only trying to do what's best for us. I can't think for everybody.'
'You've got to consider other people. She is my mother. And I'm all she's got.'
'And she's capable of looking after herself. You know, I thought we'd finished with all that long since, but here we are - up against it again.'
'Circumstances alter cases.'
'They've altered mine all right.'
'You sound very bitter.'
'Do I?'
'Are you?'
'What about?'
'You know what about.'
'I thought we'd put all that behind us.'
'I have.'
'You're still thinking about it, though.'
'I can't help it sometimes. You don't let me.'
'What have I said-?'
She stirs beside me. 'You know what I mean.'
'No, I don't. If you're going to carry on all the time looking for hidden
meanings in everything I say or do, we shan't get anywhere.'
She turns towards me now. 'Do you love me?'
Ah, dear God, words, words, words. I'm here, aren't I, married to her, living with her?
'If you weren't unwell I'd show you.'
'You know that's not the same thing. There was always that.'
'Yen, but we've been married three years. It can make a difference.'I find her hand and guide it down to me. 'Look what still happens when I get near you.'
'And what happens when it's over?'
Oh, but she should know better than to start all this. We got off on the wrong foot and we've never really found the step; but we're here, together, after three years, still making the best of it. And talk like this won't do us any good at all. When all's said and done we're no worse off than thousands of couples who walked down the aisle with the idea that eternal paradise was waiting for them on the other side of the vestry door.
'Well that's a law of nature, love. You can't blame me for that.'
'I wish you'd be serious.'
'I thought we were being too serious.'
'Do you really and truly want to take this job?'
'I think it'll be best for us. A change always does us good.'
'I don't want to be a drag, Vic.'
'I know.'
'It's just that...'
'Look, why not forget it for a couple of days, then let's talk about it again?'
'What's the town like? Are there some good shops?'
'Lots of them. And London's only forty minutes away. You could go up there once a week if you wanted to.'
'I'll bet it costs more to live than it does up here.'
'Oh, I don't know. I think there's a lot of rubbish talked about that sort of thing. Anyway, I'd be getting more money.'
'What about houses?'
'We'd probably be better off in a flat to begin with. You know, till we need more room.'
'You mean, when we have a family?'
'Mmm.'
'Do you feel like trying for another baby now, Vic?'
'It's up to you, love, really.'
She moves closer till I can feel her breath on my face. 'I want your baby,'she whispers. 'I want a boy who'll look just like you.'
'Well, the solution's in your hands,'I say.
I feel her begin to shake, her body close to mine, and for a second I think she's crying. Then I realize she's laughing, giggling fit to burst. And I wonder why I don't make her laugh more often.
The next day she capitulates. It's up to me, she says. I'm the one who earns the main living and one day I'll have to earn it all. So I can make the decision. If I want to go all that badly she won't stand in my way. But I can't expect her to be happy about it. Not yet. We shall have to wait and see. And contrariwise, now the way's open, I'm more undecided than ever. I had to put up the arguments for it to Ingrid and make her think I was keener than I really am. But I hadn't decided. I still had the feelings I had on the bus. Why not stay where I know my way around?
It's my mother who does decide me. She comes her usual wet-blanket act when I tell her, doing what she's always done when there's a smell of change or something new in the air, and using all Ingrid's arguments and a few of my own on me again. It's got nothing to do with her, of course. Oh no. She doesn't want to influence me. I'm old enough to know my own mind. But...
And then I know why I have to go: to get out, once and for all, of this dead, dreary, do-as-you've-always-done atmosphere to somewhere where I can stand on my own two feet in some good free air. I want to escape and it would have been better if I'd done it years ago, before I met Ingrid. Am I saying I wish I'd never met her? In a way I suppose I am. It's not that I don't like being married to her now. I've settled down to it in a way. It's not a bad life. Better than being at home. And I'm fond of her. I could even say I love her in a way. Her life's tied up with mine and that's all there is to it. It wasn't the way I wanted it to happen but it's the way it did happen. And if I'd got it in the way I always wanted it, it might well have come to this by now. You can waste a lot of time brooding about happiness. Maybe it just means jogging along and doing your best and taking your pleasures as they come. And when you add up all those pleasures that's where your happiness is. No, it's all right -I don't believe it; but it's all most of us have got.
The Old Man's on my side. He doesn't say much in the house but when I leave he comes out to the gate with me.
'Don't take any notice of your mother, Vic,'he says straight out. 'You weigh it all up for yourself then make up your own mind. You can't blame her, I suppose. There's Jim away at university and David after this job in Leicester. She just thinks she's losing all her family at once.'
'It's not just that, though, Dad. She's always full of sour grapes. She just resists any sort of change.'
'That might be her age and upbringing, you know, lad. There's safety in what you know. When you've been through hard times like your mother has you can't forget 'em. You've allus half a feeling they're waiting round the corner again.'
'It ... it just sometimes gets you round the throat and stifles you.'
'Well you break clear of it, lad. You've your own way to make in t'world and there's nobody knows better than you what you want. If you and Ingrid can agree about it there's nowt else matters.'
The man from Fenwicks has fair, slightly wavy hair, prominent fish-eyes and not much chin. I'm stocktaking in the shop with the door locked when he appears against the glass and taps on it, his face floating up close like a trout in an aquarium. I go over and open the door, thinking he's just another to add to the number who can't read the notice stuck to the inside of the window: 'Closed due to bereavement.'
'I'm sorry, we're closed.'
'I know,'the chap says. 'I'm from Fenwicks. The bank said it was all right for me to come round.'
'Oh, come in, then.'
I let him by me and lock the door again.
'You'll be Mr Brown.'
'That's right.'
He sticks his hand out. 'My name's Harrap.'He moves up the shop, carrying a fat briefcase. 'Is it all right if I have a look round?'
'If the bank says so.'
'Yes, they do.'
"Then it's okay by me.'
'What are you doing?'
'Stocktaking.'
'I'll try not to get in your way.'
'That's all right. Anything I can do to help, just say so.'
He looks at some stuff on the floor at the end of the counter. 'Sheet music? Have you been selling this?'
'No, I found it tucked away upstairs. I thought of chucking it out but I expect it ought to be accounted for.'
He picks up the top sheet.'"Lily of Laguna". Good grief!'
I grin. 'There is some a bit more recent than that. It was Mr Van Huyten's main line at one time. That and pianos.'
Harrap looks round at me. 'You didn't find any pianos upstairs?'I shake my head. 'No, no pianos.'
'That's all right, then.'
He's a man of about thirty-five, medium height, nice build, dressed in a neatly cut brown suit with trouser bottoms just that little bit too wide. He's from head office, he tells me, here to look the business over and put in a report to his bosses. With his easy manner he gives the impression of knowing not all the answers but all he needs to know to get by. The rest he probably doesn't bother about. I'm always interested in people who seem to have it sorted out.
'Just records, television and radio, isn't it?'
'And a few electrical appliances.'
He nods.
'We did all right,'I say defensively.
He nods again. 'I know. I've seen the books ... The owner hadn't been very active for some time, I understand.'
'No, he was an old man.'
'And you really ran the place.'
'I used to talk over most things with him, and he signed all the cheques.'
He walks to the window and gazes into the street for a minute before turning to look down the length of the shop.<
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'It's a good position, and a nice roomy interior. A lot could be done with it.'
'There were things I wanted to do, but Mr Van Huyten was too old for expansion and change.'
'You can't stand still these days,'Harrap says, 'not with the competition there is. You either go forward or slip back.'
'Unless you know your time's short anyway,'I say; 'then you don't care.'And for no new reason I'm suddenly full of bitterness and resentment, and anger with myself for not seeing that Mr Van Huyten was too far gone to plan for a business that would carry on in the same way after he was dead; a business that would perpetuate his name instead of becoming one more link in a growing chain. I'd have done it for him, and been proud to do it. But who'll ever know what went on in his head towards the end, or what changed between me coming to work for him and him losing his grip? Or even what he actually meant when he offered me the job with all kinds of hints about the future? Perhaps I should have seen the signs myself and put the cards on the table in time; told him straight the understanding I'd been working on. And perhaps a man like Harrap would tell me I should never have come in the beginning on such a half-baked pie-in-the-sky basis.
'What would you have done?'he's asking me now.
'Well, I'd have had this counter out for a start and a shorter one put in over there. It takes up too much floor space.'He nods. 'Then I'd have knocked the door to the stockroom out and made a showroom through an archway so's people could move about and see what we'd got.'
