The Watchers on the Shore

by Stan Barstow

  Which reminds me that although I live close to Conroy and drink with him, he's still my boss. I remember about the phone call from Donna, think I'll tell him, then decide it'll keep till he's in a better mood. The thought of the party lights a little glow of pleasure in me and sets me whistling softly to myself again, though I hardly realize I'm doing it till Conroy's voice growls up again from behind me:

  'Look, Vic, let's keep the musical renditions for later, shall we?'

  I stop whistling and don't look round. My mind flashes up a couple of snappy answers but I know that to use them will only rile him more. So I let it go. He'll come round.

  The tall bloke in the corner by the gas-cooker gives me a shock for a second. Standing there in sweater and slacks, his back to the room, head bowed and hands somewhere in front of him, he looks for all the world as if he's having a leak; and it's only when I reach down for the half-full bottle of light ale that I've hidden out of the reach Of grasping hands that I realize he's got a bird in there with him: a shapely little bit whose head comes up only to his chest. Neither of them takes a blind bit of notice of me and I turn away from the intimate little scene and pour beer into my glass.

  The kitchen's quieter now than at any time since we arrived, nearly an hour ago, the draining-board littered with opened bottles of cheap wine and orange squash, and empty light ales. The standard drill for parties like this seems to be that you bring a bottle of wine and drink somebody else's Scotch if you can find where the crafty devils have hidden it. Conroy and I compromised and brought half a dozen pint beers apiece which we've stowed from the gaze of rapacious eyes, of which theatrical companies seem to have plenty. In terms of free .booze, I mean. As far as the other thing's concerned I wouldn't presume to judge at this point because apart from the bloke and the bird snogging in the kitchen -and it wouldn't be any kind of party without a bloke and a bird snogging in the kitchen - the whole affair is carrying-on on a level a lady lay-preacher could hardly take exception to.

  A bird without shoes prissies in, shoots me an automatic smile from big baby-blue eyes, steps on a bottle top and says 'Ooh!' reaches the draining board, tops her glass up from a bottle of Spanish sauterne, sees the couple in the corner (or maybe only the bloke, like I did), says 'Ooh!' again, but with a different inflexion this time, and prissies out. All wrapped up in a tipsy haze.

  I wander over and stand in the doorway. There's perhaps a couple of dozen people in the living-room, some standing in corners, others sitting on the sofa, and others with their arms round each other, their eyes looking soulfully into their partner's as they slur their feet quietly over the carpet to the music from the record-player. It's not a bed-sitter but a proper flat with a bedroom and bathroom besides the two rooms I've mentioned, and it's part of a few built into a newish block which has shops on the ground floor. Not cheap for a girl to rent on her own, and it strikes me that if the money in rep. is as bad as Donna makes out she must have some loot coming in from elsewhere.

  Somehow I know by a curious instinct that she's not in the room even before my eyes have begun to look for her, and as I'm leaning there against the jamb watching Conroy chatting up the bird who's just been in the kitchen and now gazing at him with a glassy look that he might be taking for rapt attention but which looks to me like she simply can't focus properly, she comes through the doorway on my left, from the hall.

  She smiles. 'All right?'

  Yeh. Lovely party.'

  'Gosh, it's warm and smoky in here now.

  'It'll get worse before it gets better.'

  She laughs. 'So you keep saying.'

  Can I get you something to drink?'

  'Not just now, thanks. What's the time?'

  'Four minutes to twelve.'

  'Good lord, we're going to miss it.'

  'What?'

  'Letting in the New Year.'

  She's up on her toes, scanning the room. 'Where the devil's Paul gone?'

  'Who?'

  'Paul Merrick. He promised earlier ...'

  'There's a bloke in the kitchen.'

  She leans past me, one hand on my arm, the scent of her in my nostrils.

  'Yes, that's him. He's dark enough, isn't he?'

  'I should say so.'

  'I'd better get him out.'

  I go with her into the kitchen. She grabs Merrick by the arm. ' Paul.' He twists and grunts at her.' Come on, Paul, do your duty. Sheila will still be here when you get back.'

  'Have you got a lump of coal?' I ask her.

  'Not a bit. Should I have?'

  'Well, strictly speaking. To do it right.'

  'We'll have to manage without.'

  'Well give him some bread.'

  She opens a cupboard, takes out the remains of a loaf and pushes it into Merrick's hands. We usher him out of the kitchen and into the hall. He stands there, acting stupid.

  What am I supposed to do - eat the bread?'

  Donna opens the door.

  'You just go out now and come back in when it's struck twelve.'

  'I haven't got a watch.'

  'Listen for the church bells.'

  'With that row going on?'

  Donna throws up -her hands.

  'Oh, my Gawd!'

  'I'll go with him,' I say.

  'Yes, go on, Vic, there's a love. Only make sure he comes in first.'

  'I'm dark, so it won't matter all that much.'

  'No, but he said he'd do it and he will. God knows what kind of luck he'll bring me, though.'

  We nip out with about half a minute to spare and stand on the landing outside the door, Merrick leaning on the rail with his black shaggy head down and his eyes closed.

  'I've been trying to make that Sheila for the last six months,' he announces suddenly without looking up.

  'She looked cooperative enough to me,' I say.

  'She's got a grasshopper mentality, though,' he says.' She'll be in a corner with somebody else when I get back. All my good work gone for nothing.'

  'You'll manage,' I tell him. Then 'Listen!'

  'What?'

  'The church clock - striking midnight.'

  'You have remarkable powers of hearing, my friend. All I can hear is that bloody gramophone.'

  Suddenly the gramophone cuts off in mid-record.

  'They've turned it off.' I look at my watch. 'Half a minute past.'

  'Is it time for my entrance?'

  'It is.'

  He straightens up off the rail and starts for the door, checking for a second to look back at me.

  'What's the line again?'

  'Happy New Year!'

  'So it is.'

  He throws the door open and charges in clutching the half-loaf. ' Happy New Year! Happy New Year!'

  I follow him in as the hubbub of greetings starts on all sides. Merrick has hold of Donna, shouting something about kissing the hostess. She lets him plant one on then wriggles free and pushes him off on to somebody else, turning to laugh at me.

  'Thanks, Vic. Happy New Year.'

  'A pleasure, love. Happy New Year.'

  There must be something in my face because the expression in her eyes changes as I put one arm out to bring her close. Then I have her, both arms holding her, her mouth under mine; and through my mind a chant is going. Not' Happy New Year' but' Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ.'

  There's a little smile on her lips as soon as we break away, but it's accompanied by a faint flicker of puzzlement in her eyes. I cover as quick as I can, knowing that the moment's got to break and wanting me to do it rather than her. So I plant on a chaser, a quick light stab of my mouth at hers.

  'Astonishing good luck, then.'

  'All the best to you.'

  Her expression is lost to me as she turns her head at somebody's call. The moment's gone and I wonder if the complexities of it weren't just in my mind, and only there. When Conroy moves round my way I'm looking at her standing across the room with her back to me as she chats to a couple who seem to be getting ready to go.

&n
bsp; 'How're you doing?'

  'All right, Albert.'

  'Not a bad party, is it? Is there any more booze?'

  'Under the draining-board in the kitchen. Behind the waste-bin.'

  Crafty snake.'

  I follow him, looking round for my glass as he roots about under the sink and comes up with an unopened pint bottle. There are a few used tumblers about but I can't remember which is mine so I take one and rinse it out under the hot-tap and Albert fills my glass and his. I light a fag and we lean against the sink, quiet for a moment, listening to the sounds of chat and laughter, and the record-player that somebody's turned on again now, in the next room.

  'I was a bit short the other day,' Conroy says all at once.

  'Eh?'

  'Ratty ... in the office.'

  'Oh, that... I'd forgotten.'

  'It's always a mistake, mixing business with pleasure.'

  'I don't get you.'

  'Cynthia.'

  'Oh . ..'

  'I used to take her out a bit at one time.'

  'I see. Didn't it work out, then?'

  'She's the biggest tease I've ever come across. A professional virgin. Works you up then won't let you get there without raping her.'

  'Perhaps that's the way she likes it, as if it's rape.'

  'They're no good to anybody, birds like that. They want your cods as souvenirs.'

  'I thought you said she was sweet on Franklyn.'

  'She is. Just what it amounts to, I don't know. I think he's too canny to let her get her hooks into him.'

  'Perhaps he's got too much to lose.'

  'Everybody's got too much to lose. There's always a time to retreat in good order.'

  'I dunno .. . I...'

  'What?'

  'Well, it just seems a bit cold-blooded, Albert.'

  'You've got me wrong, Vic... I was married for a while, as you know ...'

  He turns round and tops his glass up while I keep dead quiet, interested in what he's saying and wanting to let him talk if the mood's on him.

  'She took a fancy to somebody else . .. She couldn't help that. These things happen. But she had to go away with him. Couldn't live without him. I was the big magnanimous gent. I let her go. Twelve months later she wanted to come back.'

  'She made a mistake.'

  'Aye, but the trouble was, I didn't want her any more. I wasn't being vindictive about it. I just wasn't interested.' He looks at me. 'The trick is to see the mistake before the damage is done. Before it's too late. You've got to use this...' He taps his temple with his finger.

  From the way he's standing there looking at me I get the impression that he's doing more than talk for his own sake; that he's trying to tell me something, that he might even have started the conversation off with this in mind. I want to take him up on it while the moment's ripe but I'm stopped by Fleur, who appears in the doorway, somewhat stoned, very flirtatious, and a living hymn to what in effect I've been saying I don't approve of- casual sex.

  She pouts at Albert. 'I thought you were getting me a drink.'

  'So I was, my sweet. What do you want?'

  'A gin and tonic.'

  'You'll be lucky!' He pokes about among the bottles on the side of the sink. 'A drop of Spanish sauterne ... no, that's empty. South African sherry. So's that.' He turns to her.' You'll have to be satisfied with a sip of mine.'

  She comes up close to him, pressing her breasts against his chest and gazing up into his eyes as he tilts the glass to her lips. He speaks to me without taking his eyes off her.

  Isn't she just a living doll?' To her he says,' What can I tell my mother about you?'

  She carries on looking at him, dozy-like, without saying anything.

  'I want to kiss you all over and then eat you up,' Albert says.

  I reckon it's time I left them to it so I go to the doorway, then turn and call to him. 'Albert.' He looks at me and I put my finger to my temple and grin at him. As I go out he's matching his words by cramming the fingers of one of her hands into his mouth and then, a second later, covering her neck and one half-exposed shoulder with kisses while she squirms in his arms in a way that could be either protest or enjoyment.

  I squeeze my way round the edge of the room and get a seat on one end of the sofa, a loose-covered piece of furniture which seems to be passing into a comfortable old age with only the odd occasional grumbling twang from the springs. I wonder if Donna carts her own furniture around from place to place or if she chooses furnished flats. One of the few personal things I can see is a painting over the fireplace, an abstract effort: a great ball of orange like the yolk of a fried egg on a pea-green plate seen after a heavy night on the booze. I think of Donna moving about as the jobs come, and all the people here, a lot of them younger than me, who came from somewhere and might end up somewhere else, but now to me don't really exist as people because there's no frame round them. And this is like admitting that I can't see myself without my own frame; that the thing they rely on, that hard core of personality that makes a man what he is wherever he is, is something that in my case doesn't exist outside its context. Context... familiar places - a quick easy answer that covers the recognition of a lot of people and the love of a few ... Lonely people turning to God, the great portable context... Lonely man sitting on the end of a sofa at the fag-end of a party with people who all know one another but who he doesn't know, thinking dreary depressing thoughts in the early hours of an unspoiled year.

  'You're looking sombre.' This from Donna, who perches with her thigh on the arm of the sofa near my shoulder. A long, tender, compassionate thigh that I feel a sudden soft urge to rest my head against. 'Deep and complex thoughts?'

  'Dreary and woolly thoughts,' I tell her, answering her smile and covering up with, 'I must suddenly have gone tired.'

  'The party's nearly over.'

  'They look good for hours yet.'

  Oh, they'll pack up quite suddenly. Except for a few stragglers who'll want to sit about till morning drinking coffee and talking about the meaning of life.'

  'I'd better find Albert.'

  "I'm not pushing you out.'

  'No, love. But he was getting very friendly with Fleur the last time I saw him. If I'm walking home I want to know in good time.'

  'I can set your mind at rest about that. Fleur's sleeping here tonight.'

  I've got to laugh. I get up.

  'Early call tomorrow?'

  She shakes her head, smiling. 'Nothing till the show tomorrow night. That's the best of Christmas productions; they go on a nice long time.'

  'Well, I'm on at nine o'clock sharp.'

  'Sharp?'

  'I'm always punctual.'

  'Would you like some coffee before you go?'

  'You don't want to start that now or you'll be making it for everybody.'

  'Oh, I think I could do it discreetly.'

  She stands up.' I'll come with you, anyway. See what Albert and Fleur are doing.'

  We find Albert on his own in the kitchen, standing with his glass topped-up again and one hand scraping about in the bottom of a big potato-crisp packet.

  'Donna was asking if we'd like some coffee before we go.'

  'Oh, are we going?'

  'I don't know, Albert. I'm ready when you are.'

  'I thought Fleur was in here with you,' Donna says.

  'She was. But she went off looking green and saying she didn't feel well.'

  Donna says, 'Oh, dear. I don't know why you men can't...' Her voice is a touch peevish and colour's come into her face as Conroy chips in:

  'Look, don't blame me. I've just been keeping her off it.'

  'That's right,' I say, realizing now that he could have given her a drink if he'd wanted to.

  'Everybody knows she can't drink, yet they go on giving it to her,' Donna says, as though she hasn't heard him.

  'They might,' Albert says. 'I prefer 'em sober then they know what they're doing.'

  'Look, I wasn't saying anything about - '

  'I d
on't know what you were saying,' Conroy says. 'I'm just telling you where I stand.'

  A sudden sharp little exchange, and me wondering what can have brought it on; the obvious answer being that Fleur's given Albert the brush-off and he's feeling narky about it.

  Oh, I'd better go and see if she's all right,' Donna says and stalks out. She's a fiery little piece, I'm thinking, when she's got her dander up. Plenty of spirit under that calm, gentle outside.

  'Are you ready for off?' Albert says to me.

  'Any time, Albert. But don't let me drag you away.'

  'No, I've had enough.'

  He looks at his glass then takes a good swig followed by a rousing belch which he apologizes for, patting his belly.

  'Only way to sup bottled beer. Let the gas come out ...'

  He takes another drink that empties his glass, then we go to find our coats. They're in the bedroom and I'm a bit cautious in opening the door in case Fleur's retreated in there. The room's in darkness and Conroy reaches up past me and flicks on the light. It's a small room with cream-painted walls and just enough space for the single bed, wardrobe and the dressing-table, which shows the feminine touch in the frilled skirt round its legs. We get our overcoats out of the duffels, donkey jackets and macs piled on the bed.