The Watchers on the Shore

by Stan Barstow

  It's on this night that I first get some idea of what people are on about when they talk about the excitement of the theatre. Oh, I've felt the little flutter in my stomach when a pit orchestra strikes up and the lights dim before the curtain rises; but that was variety. What few plays I've seen, though, were either full of french windows and people with terribly posh accents who had nothing at all to do with me, or else they were thrillers that I think come off much better on the pictures. I wouldn't have reckoned I'd find much common ground with a bunch of rum customers in New Orleans, come to that, but they seem to me like real people even if most of them are oddballs with more steam rattling the kettle-lids than in a season of chapel faith-teas.

  I have to look again to see that the bloke playing Kowalski is our tall cravated friend from the Mitre, and playing him very well with an accent that doesn't turn me up and a performance that's his own and not a scratching, mumbling fourth carbon of Brando. I look him up in the programme and find he's called Leonard Reeve. I can't see him being a hit with a name like that, but maybe he loves his mother, and how was she to know her little lump of squealing, mewling baby flesh was going to strike out for fame and fortune on the stage. And if it comes to that I suppose a doubt or two must have crossed Albert Finney's mind in times past.

  Fleur hasn't much to do but she does it well enough. Donna comes on, looking smaller and frailer than I remember her in the pub, in a wispy flowered chiffon dress, all great dark eyes and high-strung movements of her hands and arms. The regulars know the actors and give them little rounds of applause as they .appear for the first time. Donna wrings their hearts. Perhaps she brings out the fallen woman in all the women there. A lady next to me feels for her handkerchief and sniffs as she touches it to her nose. My pulse rate is up for some reason as Conroy and I make for the bar in the first interval.

  Sitting on the aisle lets us be first in there. Albert passes me a bottle of beer and a glass and we edge into a corner out of the crowd that's followed us in.

  'How're you liking it?'

  'They're very good, aren't they?'

  'You didn't think they were amateurs, did you?'

  'No, but professional standards vary, don't they?'

  Conroy nods. 'Yes ... Yes, they are good. I can't see Donna being here for very long. She'll get her break or I'm a Dutchman.'

  'Oh, but they're all good.'

  Conroy quizzes me with his eyes.

  'Don't let your new-found enthusiasm for the theatre run away with you. Donna's really exceptional.'

  I don't get what he's driving at for a second, then the penny drops. I think of setting him straight, then decide that protests from me will only convince him more. He's so sure I've got a lech for Fleur and I can't think what I've done particularly to make him think so.

  'What about Fleur?'I say, wondering if there's a tell-tale gleam in my eye.

  He looks away from me and round the bar.

  'Oh, with looks like hers she doesn't need to be able to act, does she?'

  It's all just that bit too casual. Oh, but you're a deep boyo, Conroy, I think. How long have you been trying to climb hi beside her yourself? Is that why you keep bringing her name up?

  We're in the Mitre for twenty minutes before they come in, in a group, some I've seen before and some I haven't. Conroy turns to the bar to get some drinks and I join him.

  'Let me help you with this lot, Albert.'

  'You can hand some glasses round.'

  'No, I mean share the round.'

  'Go on with you.'

  'Look there's only time for one and you don't want to be saddled with the lot.'

  'Are you insisting?'

  'Aye, I am.'

  I've got two half-crowns in my hand and I plonk them down in front of him and pick up the first two glasses. I hand one to a bloke I've never seen before except on the stage tonight and the other one to Donna who's standing nearest. I reach for my own half-drunk pint as the bod lifts his glass.

  'Cheers.'

  'Astonishing good luck, mate, and thanks for a nice evening's entertainment.'

  Donna turns her enormous eyes on me. Funny I didn't notice before how big they are.

  'Have you been to the show tonight?'

  'Yes, we have. I told you we'd come.'

  She says nothing. I don't suppose she can ask how it was.

  'I thought you were marvellous.'

  'Oh, really!'

  'Yes, really.'

  'You'll have me suspecting your judgement.'

  Somebody's started talking to the bloke on the other side and he's not listening to all this.

  'No, honest, I'm relieved I can tell the truth.'

  'You mean I might have been dreadful?'

  'Well I didn't know, did I?'

  She laughs suddenly, a really amused laugh that comes from deep in her throat.

  'That's true.'She looks directly at me. 'And I don't think blarney would be one of your weapons.'

  'Weapons? I'm just telling you I liked you in the play, love, that's all.'

  'Luv,'she says, mimicking me; but there's good humour in her eyes and I suddenly know she likes me.

  A middle-aged woman touches her on the elbow. I've noticed her and the man she's standing with eyeing Donna and obviously talking about her.

  'Excuse me, Miss Pennyman.'

  'Yes?'

  'Forgive me interrupting your conversation but my husband and I enjoyed your performance so much I felt I had to tell you.'

  Donna excuses herself with me and politely turns to talk to the woman.

  I drink my beer and glance at the group. Albert's standing next to Fleur and saying something to her that makes her laugh in spasms, her hand to her mouth as though she's got bad teeth or expects her dentures to shoot out. The rest of them stand around grinning. I can't be bothered trying to catch what's going on and I turn away again, wishing the woman would let Donna go. I look at my watch. . We've only two or three minutes left.

  The woman is talking intently to Donna, her face flushed with pleasure while her husband stands by with a small smile round his pipe-stem. Donna listens seriously to what the woman's saying. She's holding her glass high in her right hand and one finger of her left hand traces circles underneath. I'm conscious of the length of her fingers and the thinness of her wrists with the blue veins showing faintly through the white skin. And just then, at that moment, all the evening concentrates itself into a feeling that's a tender yearning ache under my heart; a feeling I haven't had for a long, long time; a feeling I hardly expected ever to have again.

  9

  Home for Christmas. Your real home, the place where you came from. The place married people refer to when they stand in their own house and say, 'I'm going down home.'The family home. Where the heart is ...

  In the week before the birds have hung a few streamers and paper chains round the office with bits of mistletoe in strategic places, and on the afternoon we pack up for the holiday some bottles are brought in and we all gather in the drawing office -the one with most space - for a drink and a friendly laugh. Franklyn provides a bottle each of whisky and gin and a box of cigars and we stand about like lords, filling the place with the smell of good living. There's a few half-hearted embarrassed tries at getting friendly with the birds under the mistletoe but somehow the atmosphere isn't right for it until somebody brings in a tape-recorder with a reel of pop music on it and dancing starts.

  Jimmy and I stand by the window watching the men who've had their Christmas dinner and a free bottle of beer in the canteen drifting home across the frosty yard. Franklyn puts his sheepskin coat on and goes out to see that everything's all right. Things loosen up a bit then and Conroy, dancing with Cynthia, pulls her to a stop under the mistletoe hanging over the door and puts her one on, her responding quite enthusiastically until somebody cheers and she remembers her dignity and pulls away, smiling in a funny way, her face a bit flushed from the whisky.

  Jimmy tops my glass up from a half-empty bottle of beer.
>
  'Steady on, Jimmy. I want to get home sometime today.'

  'You can sleep it off on the train.'

  'I want to find time to buy some things in London, though ... When are you coming up?'

  'Monday. Spend Christmas Day with the old folks, then back here Boxing Day ready for starting Thursday.'

  'Taking your girl friend?'

  'Uh uh!'Jimmy shakes his head.'Not this trip. No, it's a case of doing my duty as a loving son and getting it over with.'

  'It's awful really, the way you grow away from your parents.'

  Jimmy looks at me. 'You've never met my mother and father, have you, Vic?'

  I say no, I haven't.

  'Younger than yours, I think. The old lady's a simple soul, a bit vacant. The old man's dead ignorant. When he's had a couple of pints he can solve all the troubles of the world with a few glib simplifications. We shall have a row before Christmas Day's out, that's for sure. He'll tell me I haven't brought Pamela home with me because I'm ashamed of them. And he'll be dead bloody right.'

  'You'll have to let them meet her sometime.'

  He shrugs. 'Sometime.'

  'What are her parents like?'

  'Oh, just ordinary people. But nice, likeable. They haven't got this dreadful crafty guile that passes for intelligence among some working folk.'

  Well, that's one problem I've never had to cope with. My parents aren't the brightest people in the world and there are times when the Old Lady drives me clean up the wall; but I was never afraid of taking Ingrid to meet them and I still like seeing them in short doses.

  I shall have to come back on Boxing Day as well, so Jimmy and I start comparing notes about trains so's we can travel down together. And as I'm thinking if the party doesn't finish soon I shall have to leave Conroy and catch a bus into town, Franklyn comes stamping in out of the cold and suggests we start breaking it up.

  We hide the empties in a cupboard and the girls take the glasses and cups and wash them up in the cloakroom. Then we leave, with shouts of 'Merry Christmas!''Have a good time,''Don't get drunk more than twice a day,'and so on. Albert runs me down to the digs. He seems a bit lit up for some reason, though it can't be the booze because he's hardly had enough. He keeps shaking his head in a resigned sort of way at the drivers of oncoming cars, until I ask him what he's doing.

  'It doesn't half put them off,'he says. 'A feller once did it to me and I checked my lights and flickers and finally stopped the car and got out to look round before I realized he was probably lost in his own thoughts.'He laughs. 'Ah, that Cynthia; she didn't half come out of her shell for a minute there. Made me wonder if it wasn't worth pursuing.'

  'Get pursuing, mate. There's nothing to stop you.'

  'Naw, it's a waste of time. You know her trouble, don't you? She's mad about Franklyn.'

  'It's news to me. What does he think about it?'

  'I doubt if he knows. He's got a wife and four kids to keep him in line.'

  'They don't have to keep him in line.'

  'No, but as far as I know he's clean.'

  We call in at the digs for my bag, give the compliments of the season to Mrs Witherspoon (nod, nod, nod), and then Conroy takes me to the station.

  'Give my love to Yorkshire,'he says and I say, 'Aye, right.'

  I have thought earlier that I ought to ask him home with me for Christmas, but then he mentioned he was spending the holiday with some friends in London so I didn't bring it up. Now he gives me a wave from the car.

  'We'll wind it up with a jar on Wednesday night, then.'

  'Aye, right, Albert. See you then.'

  Once in London I take the underground to Oxford Circus and make a quick sortie into Regent Street. It's dark now and the Christmas lights and decorations slung high above the road are all ablaze and the crowds looking at them and moving in and out of the shops are thick and hard to hurry through. I head into the first department store I come to and buy a nightdress and some perfume for Ingrid. They've got some nice costume jewellery that I could pick my Mother's and Chris's presents from, but there's altogether too many people and not enough time. So I make my way out into the street again and dive for the tube and King's Cross. A copy of Esquire and the Evening Standard and I'm on the train, in the warm, my feet on the opposite seat and heading for home. Home. All my roots are there and everybody I'm involved with. It's where you ought to be at Christmas and I am looking forward to it. But at the same time I've a feeling that I'm going away from something that's important to me too.

  Christmas morning finds us all together: Ingrid and me, Chris and David, Jim, and Mrs Rothwell. The Old Lady sent Ingrid's mother an invitation, not wanting her to be on her own at Christmas but not knowing if she'd accept. They've always kept their distance, never mixing much; you don't have to become bosom pals because your kids are married to each other; and last year she was still in her shell after Mr Rothwell's death.

  Today she's ensconced in an armchair by the fireside while the rest of us, except for the Old Lady and Chris, who are busy in the kitchen, are deployed round the living-room as comfortably as possible to say the table's opened out full and taking up most of the space. Ingrid, with my mother supervising and telling her where things are, is spreading the best white linen cloth - the big one that only comes out on special occasions - and laying places for all of us. On the hearthrug young Bobby is playing happily, surrounded by all kinds of Christmas paraphernalia, occasionally getting up to show something to Mrs Rothwell who he seems to have taken a shine to, and her to him. There's a sideboard full of standing Christmas cards that blow over every time somebody opens the door, more on the mantelshelf, sprigs of holly behind the mirror, and paper chains running from the centre light to the four corners of the room. Christmas Day Family Favourites comes through as background on the wireless.

  The Old Man wriggles his toes inside his new slippers and takes his pipe out of his mouth to make a reflection:

  'My, but that's a grand fire.'

  We all mutter yes, aye, it is, and so on.

  'There's nowt like a good fire. They can all have central heating 'at wants it.'

  'There's a fire in the front room,'my mother says, coming through from the kitchen for a minute. 'And more room to sit. I don't know why you're all huddled up together in here.'

  'I'll sit in there, if you like,'Mrs Rothwell says.

  'Nay, you stop where you are, Mrs Rothwell,'the Old Feller says. 'You're all right there. That front room takes a bit o' warming through. We can sit in there after dinner.'

  'D'you fancy a walk up the road before dinner, Dad?'I ask him, and he says, 'Eh?'

  'To the pub, for a drink,'I say, wishing he'd catch on a bit quicker.

  'I've got a bottle or two in the house, if you want one,'he says.

  'I just thought we might stretch our legs; get out of the way for half an hour.'

  'What does everybody else think? What about you, David?'

  David says yes, he doesn't mind a walk.

  I catch Jim's eye and he gives me a wink and a little grin.

  'I suppose it'll give our appetites an edge,'the Old Man says. 'Though I must say I don't like to leave that fire.'

  He puffs at his pipe for another minute or two, then gets up and goes to the kitchen doorway to call to my mother.

  'What time will it be ready, Mother?'

  'It's coming as fast as we can manage it.'

  Jim and I look at each other again, both of us thinking the same thing: why is it so hard to get a straight answer to a straight question in this house?

  'Our Victor's talking about going out for a drink,'the Old Man says, and I could kick him for putting the responsibility on me when he hadn't the sense to suggest it himself.

  'Oh, is he?'the Old Lady says. 'Well it'll be on the table at half-past one whether you're here for it or not.'

  I feel a great spasm of irritation. Why does everybody have to be so short and disapproving about everything? It's Christmas, for God's sake. I get up and go for my coat
, hiding my temper.

  'We've got an hour, anyway,'I say.

  The, Old Man looks at me. 'Are you getting fond of your pint?'

  'Oh, for God's sake, Dad, 'I say, fierce but low, so Ma Rothwell won't catch it;'I just suggest it might be nice to stroll up to the pub and the next thing you know there's an issue made out of it.'

  'Nay, lad, nay. We're all willing.'

  'Well come on, then. Let's have a change of air.'

  The Old Man potters about for another five minutes, changing into his shoes, finding his scarf, feeling to see if he's got any money. Jim and I go out and stroll on ahead.

  'Bloody hell fire!'I say, once we're out of the house, and Jim grins. 'Why do people have to get so stupid as they grow older?'

  We stand and wait for David and the Old Feller. When they come out we walk on ahead again.

  'How's your stock just now?'

  Jim shrugs. 'Not bad. She disapproves because I don't come home as much as she'd like me to.'

  'She disapproves, full stop.'

  'Oh, she's not as bad as all that.'

  'No, I suppose not. Nice to know it's not your everyday lot, though.'

  Jim's just turned twenty now. He used to be a gangling lad who grew too fast for his strength, but now he's broadening out nicely. A good-looking lad too, though he's a bit sloppy about his appearance.