by Stan Barstow
good.'
'How do you know till you try?'
'You can't just barge on to a golf course slamming balls all over the place. It'd spoil it for everybody else.'
'We could pick quiet times and I'd show you the ropes. Who knows, you might have a hidden talent. And it would do my ego good to play with somebody worse than myself for a change.'
'Playing the gramophone's more in my line.'I go over to Conroy's record-player and look at the rack of L.P.'s in their bright-coloured sleeves. Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, Schubert's Great C-Major, the Verdi Requiem, Bach, Vivaldi, Purcell, Vaughan Williams - the serious stuff, with a strong classical and English streak running through it - and some jazz, Ellington and Basie among it but most of it by small pick-up groups.
'You've got some good stuff here.'
'Well, of course I have. You don't think I spend my hard-earned loot on crap, do you?'
'One man's crap is another man's caviare. You'd be surprised the amount of money the kids pass across the counter for stuff that won't be worth listening to a fortnight next Thursday.'
'I reckon it's fine. Let them buy all they want. It subsidises the stuff we want, doesn't it?'
'True enough: There's more of that being sold than ever before as well, though. We had a chap used to come into the shop. Mind you, he wasn't typical, but he used to come in Saturday mornings and spend a couple of hours or more poking about among the racks and playing records in the booths. He always bought something and usually it amounted to four or five quid. He was a bachelor, a working chap, without much to say for himself. He didn't drink or smoke and he lived on his own, him and his hi-fi. I think he must have had the standard repertory a couple of times over. One time he thought he'd have a real go at Mahler so I ordered him all the symphonies there were on record. A nice little packet that cost him.'
'I'm just coming round to Mahler meself,'Albert says.'I suppose I'm a slave of fashion.'
'Yeh, he is on the up and up. And Sibelius is going down. To read some of the critics you'd think he was going for ever.'
'But you don't think so?'
'Well, honestly, Albert, all you need is a pair of ears to know that he's in a direct line that goes back to Mozart and Haydn. Carrying on the great symphonic tradition. I don't see how anybody can deny him his permanent place.'
'Aw they'll change their minds in a few years' time. When he's been dead long enough.'
'And then they'll realize what nits they are.'
'Oh, they won't do that. They'll say they told you so all the time, even though they're on record as saying something else. Human nature, Vic.'
'Have you got anything?'
'Only the Second.'
'Well, that's all right. Very exciting and all that, but you want the Fourth, Sixth and Seventh. They're the ones. Marvellous. Christ!'
Conroy's watching me with a little smile on his face.
'I must say it does my old heart good to hear somebody enthusiastic about summat worth-while. What does Ingrid say when you carry on like that?'
'Ingrid? Oh, I don't talk to her about music... Can we have something on?'
'If you like. What do you fancy?'
'I dunno.'I have another look through the rack. 'You don't have any trouble playing the thing, then?'
'Oh, I've got to keep the volume down a bit, you know. And I never play it after ten at night unless I know I'm in on my own. It's a bit restricting.'
'I know what you mean. I like to belt it out meself. Here.'I pass him an L.P. of mixed overtures and short pieces. 'Let's have the Roman Carnival, eh?'
Albert puts the record on the turntable and drops the stylus on to the Berlioz track. The old Wizard's orchestration flashes into the room like a drawn sword. Then on it winds through that lovely cor anglais tune and climbs to a climax that's all snapping, snarling brass... doo-ah rratatah dee doo doh dah, rrumdidumdidumdidum-didumdumdah Dooooh daaaAH!
In the electric silence that follows, Conroy and I grin at each other like a couple of kids.
Part Two
7
Starting a new job is like any other big change in your life. It's a time when you begin thinking about turning over new leaves, chucking out the bad old habits and approaching life full of conscientiousness, vim and vigour. No more pushing it till the last minute in a morning: you'll be up with the sparrows and have time to spare. You'll see that your shoes are polished the night before and that your trousers are always pressed. There's a new orderliness and with it a fresh enthusiasm for little things. You decide to have your hair cut regularly and wash your feet before you go to bed; and perhaps this is a good time to cut down on smoking, or even pack it in altogether. The novelty of the whole situation means you can carry it through. For a while, at any rate. Then you probably slide back into the sort of sloppy ways you had before.
The first couple of weeks slip by quickly while I'm working my way into the new routine, finding my way about, sizing up the job, and generally taking things steady till I know who's who and what's what. Conroy and Jimmy are a great help. Knowing I've been off the board for a few years they do all they can to smooth the way back for me. And with the people they're in a position to show me that certain little bits of behaviour that might seem odd can be put down to our old friend factory politics - the petty intrigues, enmities and spites that no works (in fact, no collection of human beings) seems to be free of. Not that Joyce's is riddled with plots and backbiting and so on - or if it is it doesn't show all that much on the surface. By and large the people I come in contact with seem decent enough and ready to help the new boy, some of them to the extent of going out of their way to do it.
This goes for Martin, too, the other draughtsman in the office, who keeps himself to himself unless he's approached, when he's very careful and correct. He's been a soldier at some time or other and it shows in his appearance. He'll be in his middle forties, with greying hair and a neat moustache. His favourite dress seems to be a navy blue double-breasted blazer with an R.A.S.C. badge, dark grey slacks and an R.A.S.C. tie. He hasn't come very far in the engineering world, having taken some sort of crash course in draughtsmanship when he left the Service, and he sticks to detailing. That's to say, he breaks down into detail component drawings somebody else's design schemes. This is the kind of work I start on to get my hand in again.
When I go home at the end of the fortnight I find Ingrid very loving and glad to see me because she's missed me. She's also happier about things in general. Her mother's been examined by a specialist and booked for a hysterectomy. I don't know what this is till Ingrid explains and then I remember hearing my mother talk about women having it done, only she called it having everything taken away. It's no picnic and it'll knock Mrs Rothwell up for a bit; but as far as I can gather it's not usually something women die from, and once it's done it's done.
I find myself going out in the evenings a lot more than I did at home. There's no telly to gawp at and my room isn't really" a suitable place to just put your feet up and read. It's possible to turn one room into a kind of home, but this place is somewhere to keep your clothes and sleep. What reading I do I do in bed, but this grows less and less because a couple of pints are a marvellous nightcap and as I'm having a couple nearly every night I find that two or three pages are all I can manage before my eyes are too heavy to take any more.
I begin to wonder how I spent my evenings at home. I never went out much except to take Ingrid to the pictures perhaps once a week; and I didn't often go into a pub. But I suppose that in your own home, even if it is only a flat, with all your things around you, you can always spend a pleasant evening pottering about doing nothing very much. Having somebody around helps as well. You couldn't exactly call Ingrid and me exponents of bright intelligent conversation, but idle chit-chat about nothing in particular takes up a fair bit of time and there's comfort in a matey silence.
Conroy being a lone wolf, and living in the same house, he and I go out a lot together. We never see much of Jimmy outsid
e working hours. He's knocking this bird off, the daughter of the people he's lodging with on the other side of town. He's the only lodger they have, and treated like one of the family. In fact, he's as good as married and living with his in-laws, except that he doesn't sleep with the bird. I think it's a very funny situation for a bloke to get himself into. The maximum of temptation with the minimum of opportunity. You might say he's at least in a position to get the full inside story and know the worst before he commits himself; but for my money he's committed already and the only way out for him if he ever changes his mind is through the bedroom window at dead of night.
Conroy knows a lot of people to say he's been in the town less than a couple of years and made all his contacts from scratch. Whichever pub we go into (and I see the inside of quite a few different ones in the first few weeks) there'll be somebody he'll nod to or pass the time of day with. If he chats with anybody he'll introduce me, but as I'm not good at catching names and they're complete strangers to me, it's not till afterwards when I get Albert to fill me in that I can fit them into any kind of slot and get some standpoint for joining in the conversation the next time we meet. Publicans, businessmen, tradespeople, a councillor or two, a doctor, a bank manager, and a journalist on the local evening paper: all kinds of people.
But all men (except for wives), and all, it seems to me, casual acquaintances without a steady friend among them. I begin to wonder if he takes women out and if he's knocked about on his own before I arrived, because he seems happy enough with my company now and I can't see that I've pushed anybody out. He looks easy-going and self-sufficient but it strikes me that under it he might be a lonely bloke; and then I tell myself to stop trying to weigh him up according to my own character. There are people who are happy on their own, friendly with a lot of people and really intimate with nobody; And there are men who are born bachelors, who don't need women except as an occasional little bonus on top of everyday life. Perhaps Conroy's one of these, who's had a bite at the apple, got a bad dose of bellyache, and doesn't intend to go back for more.
One night we're having a pint in a pub called the Mitre, standing by the open bar, when a party of people come in. They're all young and dressed casually and there's something vaguely arty about them that I can't put my finger on. Conroy tells me they're part of the company from the Palace and I remember that the theatre is only just round the corner. A tall bloke in sweater and slacks and a cravat in his open-necked shirt is getting the drinks. They all drink bitter, pints for the men and halves for the women. There are four men and two girls and one of the birds is the most gorgeous thing I've ever clapped eyes on.
'That redhead's a stunner,'I say, and Conroy nods.
'Fleur Dunham. She is a bit of a knockout.'
As I'm looking at her she sees Conroy and lifts her hand and smiles. At the same time the tall bloke turns from the bar and spots Albert as well. He raises his arm in a mock salute.
'You know 'em, then?'I say.
'Yes, 'course I do. Want to go across?'
'I don't mind.'
'Come on, then.'
'Hang on a sec. What d'you say her name is?'
'Fleur,'Albert says. 'Flower to her friends.'
He winks. I don't know if he's kidding or not as he sets off across the carpet with me hi tow and suddenly wondering if my flies are zipped up and whether there's any snot on my face from the last time I blew my nose. These things do happen, you know.
There's the usual round of introductions with me missing most of the names, then Conroy says:
'Vic wanted to touch Fleur to see if she was real.'
The men laugh and I say, 'Now just a minute, Albert,'and shoot a glance at the other bird in the party, wondering how she'll take what seems to me like a stupid and tactless remark. But she just stands there holding her glass with a faint smile on her face and it occurs to me that she's probably used to waiting in the shade while this Fleur dazzles every bloke within thirty feet.
Fleur isn't disappointing from close up, either. No rough complexion or lines you can't see from some way off. It would be surprising really if she did have lines because she can't be more than twenty-one or -two and absolutely at the peak of her condition. She might be one of those women who weather well and get really interesting in their thirties but this combination of looks and freshness is something that can't last for ever and I wonder if somebody's having it off with her, because if there isn't it's a rotten crying shame. I don't know if she takes Conroy's remarks seriously or she's just being polite but she holds out her hand and I take it for a second and say hello. Just then I remember reading somewhere about a country where a man compliments a woman by saying, 'You look so beautiful I want to take all my clothes off,'and I turn away to hide my grin.
Nobody seems to notice but the second bird, who lifts her eyebrows at me as the others start a conversation.
'That was an amusing little thought you just had,'she says, and I feel my grin widen. 'It was, but I can't share it with you. I don't know you well enough.'
'Oh,'she says,'like that, is it?'
I shake my head. 'No, not really.'
Apart from not knowing her I can't offend her by repeating the thought in connexion with another bird. Because this one is something of a looker in her own right - small face with nicely modelled cheekbones and fair hair with paler blonde streaks that look as though it's been bleached in the sun - and it's only Fleur knocking your eye out that stops you from noticing straight away.
'Have you been, er, performing tonight?'I ask her, and she nods.
'Is this the pub you usually use?'
'Yes. It's the nearest. By the time we've got our make-up off it's too late for more than a quick one.'
'How do you come to know Albert?'
'He once did some work for us. We wanted a light metal structure for a play we were doing. A very symbolic piece with skeleton sets. Esther Franklyn is interested in the theatre so she spoke to her husband and he sent Albert to help us.'
'My mother-in-law's first name is Esther.'
'Oh?'
'Yes. It's not a common name, is it?'
'No, I suppose not. You're married, are you?'
'Yes, only my wife's still in Yorkshire. She'll be coining down here when I get us a place to live.'
'And you work with Albert?'
'Yes. I used to work with him once before, back home. I've only been here a few weeks, though. I'm just finding my way round. I've seen most of the pubs but not much else.'
'Oh, it's not a bad town, and it has the great advantage of being close to London.'
'Can I get you another drink?'
'Is there time?'
'Just, I think. Anyway, I want another one before he puts the towels on.'I look round at the others. 'What about your friends?'
'Oh, I shouldn't bother. Don't get a full round.'
'Why not?'
'We usually pay for our own.'
'Are you proud, or something?'
'No, just broke most of the time.'
'Don't let me be awkward.'
I go and get the glasses filled, hoping she won't get absorbed into the other conversation while my back's turned, because I want to talk to her some more.
'Here you are, then.'
'Thank you. Cheers.'
'Cheers . .. Isn't there much money in rep., then?'
'Not that you'd notice. Most of them run on a shoestring.'
'How many are there in the company?'
'About ten permanent and some who double acting with stage management.'
'Do you get a salary or are you paid on a kind of piecework basis?'
'Oh, a salary. So we have to be kept working or we're so much dead weight. But we're luckier than most, really. Where they do weekly rep. you could be doing a play at night, rehearsing another one during the day, and learning a third in your own time.'
'Crikey!'
'But we're on fortnightly, so it's not so bad. Sometimes you alternate a big part with a small one, and
sometimes you have a fortnight off altogether.'
'But not too often because you have to earn your keep, eh?'
'No, not too often. They watch that.'
'I noticed when I came down for my interview that you were doing An Inspector Calls. Were you in that?'
'Mmm. I was a maid.'
'What part are you playing this week?'
She pulls a face and grins. 'A maid. But I have a different wig.'
'They seem to have you in a corner.'
'No, it's not as bad as that. I've had some big parts. Lady Macbeth, Hedda Gabler; really strong meat. Next week I'm doing Blanche Dubois in Streetcar.'
'All sweat and suggestive looks.'
'If that were all you needed... It's a big part, and a scaring one.'
'Phoney Deep South accent and all that.'
'That's the least of my worries, though that's bad enough.'
'I'd like to come and see you.'
'You know the procedure. You buy a ticket at the door and walk right in. But don't come this week. It's a ridiculous play.'
'Oh?'
'A thriller.'
'You never know, I might like it.'
'I don't see how you could.'
'Somebody must like it or they wouldn't have put it on.'
'If it comes to that, I suppose you can find audiences for almost anything.'
Her voice seems cool now. She looks sideways at the rest of the group as though dropping the conversation, and me with it. Perhaps I'm reading her wrong but at the same time I could kick myself for going out of my way to make her think I might be a moron when I was getting on so well with her and, in fact, wanted to impress her. I can't remember talking to many bright birds, and this one is attractive into the bargain.
