by Stan Barstow
'How well do you know her?'
'Now just a minute, Ingrid. You can't bloody court martial me on the strength of this mucky thing.'
I'm not court martialling you and I'm not taking what it says as gospel truth. But I've had three days to think about it while you were two hundred miles away, out of my sight. I just want to know what's made whoever it is write it.'
'Well, malice. Somebody's out to get me- or her.'
'Why should they do that?'
'How the hell should I know?'
'You don't have to shout, Vic. And there's no need to get mad if everything's all right.'
'Look, don't you understand why I'm mad? What if somebody wrote to me about you? How would you feel?'
'Nobody's got any reason to.'
'They don't need reasons, people like this. They could accuse you of anything. Nobody writes a letter like this to be friendly. They're out to cause trouble.'
'You still haven't told me how well you know this woman- or girl, whoever she is.'
'I know her as well as I know two or three other women in the company. They're all in a crowd. Why, they could just as well have picked on one of the others.'
'Why should they pick on her, then?'
'The luck of the draw,' I say, laying the contempt and anger on thick, which isn't hard, because contempt and anger are just what I'm feeling, with a funny underlayer of fear. I find my fags and light one and my hands are trembling.
'Christ!'
She says nothing for a moment, until:
'Vic... look at me.'
I force myself to.
'Tell me it's all right.'
'Don't start cross-examining me, Ingrid.'
'I'm not cross-examining you. I just want to know.'
'What do you want to know?'
'You do like this girl, don't you?'
'I like lots of people. If I can't talk to a woman because I'm married, it's coming to something.'
'There's nothing in it, then?'
She's disintegrating now, the defiance gone from her eyes in the face of mine, which I shoot across at her in a furious glare.
'Nobody had any reason to write this.'
'All right.'
She turns away.
'Well, you do believe me, don't you?'
'I've got no choice, have I?'
'Well, that's a bloody fine thing ...'
Look, all I know is you're miles away for most of the time and I've no way of knowing what you're doing. And I get a letter like that.'
'From "A Friend".'
'You can be sarcastic.'
'Oh, I can; and bloody mad.'
'You've got to admit, it's not very nice.'
'That's putting it mildly.'
'I've been thinking about it for days.'
'I hadn't been home ten minutes before I knew something was up.'
'I wasn't going to say anything. Then I thought why should I carry it on my own.'
'You did right to tell me. If there's somebody gunning for me I want to know about it.'
'Why should anybody want to do you a bad turn?'
'I don't know. It's something I shall have to think about ... How did they know your address? That's one thing.'
There's a silence, then she says:
'It's all right, then?'
'I've told you.'
And this is where the tenderness should come in, with my arms round her, reassuring her. But I can't do it. Partly because that would really be barefaced lying and partly because I'm mad that she was so ready to think there was something in it. All right - if wishful thinking is guilt, then I'm partly guilty. But she doesn't know this, and neither does whoever wrote the letter.
'I'm going to bed . . . Are you coming?'
'In a minute. I want to think about this for a bit.'
'Why don't you just burn it?'
'Oh no, it's evidence. I'm hanging on to it.'
'All right... What time are you going back tomorrow?'
'The usual time.'
She hangs about for another minute then goes through into the bedroom without saying anything else.
Go after her, you nit, a part of me's saying. Make love to her. No need for words. Get cracking. Sweep her away. Reassure her.
I sit there with the letter in my hands, thinking who? Who? They say that when you're burgled, apart from the loss of your property, there's a strange feeling of shock that someone's actually been inside your house and made free with it. An anonymous letter is from someone who's made free with your private life, who's watched you and planned damage. Because, make no mistake about it, there's nothing 'friendly' about one of these things. It's meant to do harm and the worst thing about it is to try to imagine the feelings of whoever's written it when they're putting it on paper and then slipping it into the letter box, and realize you're the one who's inspired it all. You flinch from the shock of knowing somebody can hate you like that. It's like a spat of pure malice from a complete stranger.
But no stranger wrote this ...
Who? I think again. Who? There's only one obvious answer and it sickens me even to think of it.
Sunday morning isn't very nice with this thing between us and Ingrid needing big words of undying affection which I'm not able to give her. If I read her right, what she's thinking, it's not so much what's in the letter as the getting of it which has made her stop and take stock. Knowing the way she got me in the first place- that by marrying her I was doing 'the right thing' rather than what I wanted to do - she's been content to jog along, making a marriage that's as good as a lot and better than some, without the big romantic declarations some young couples might well go in for. But what's the state of the nation now? That's what the letter makes her stop and ask. And with every excuse to go out of my way to show her that I've no regrets, maybe even that getting her pregnant was a glorious blessing in disguise, I'm making no move; acting towards her with no more and no less affection than I've always done. And if the four years have worked no miracle beyond habit and custom and a lack of active animosity and resentment, then why shouldn't there just be something in what the letter is suggesting? And where's her power to fight it?
It makes her sad, and it's her sadness that taps some tender feeling I have for her so that I'm moved to lay a soft hand on her shoulder, its touch bringing her round to face me, her eyes searching mine. No words. I bring her close and kiss her, wondering as I do if her reaction to it won't make it a lie. What does she read into it? That there's no truth in the letter? That even if there is she's got nothing to worry about? That I'm simply playing it smart and covering up as best I can? And for me? It's simply an expression of what I feel at this moment. With no strings.
But I know as we break and I look at her that it was a right thing to do. And better when I make no move to carry it on to something else; destroy its value by making it a preliminary to a quick session on the couch, which is probably what she'd like as much as I would now, but which I can't make the play for.
We're invited to Chris's for Sunday dinner and that and a walk round to the pub beforehand with David takes care of the rest of the day.
I can see it on her mind again as I shove my gear into my bag prior to going for the train.
'Well, back to the grindstone.'
'Yes ... I expect you're a bit fed-up of that journey.'
'It is a bit of a bind. Still, it's only once a fortnight.'
'Do you want me to come out to the bus with you?'
'No, you stay inside where it's warm. Will you go round to your mother's when I've gone?'
'In a while, when I've tidied up here. Have you got your scarf? There's a terrible cold wind blowing.'
Don't worry, I keep well wrapped up. Longford's not the warmest spot I know.'
'I'll see you in a fortnight, then.'
'All being well . .. Look, though, why don't you come down instead? It'll be a change for you and it's really time you had a look.'
'Do you really want me to?'
'W
ell, yes. We can't really talk about anything till you've been.'
'Could I stay with you?'
'I should think Mrs Witherspoon'd let you share my bed for a couple of nights. It's only a single, but we'd manage.'
'It's Mother, you see. She's liable to be called into hospital any time.'
'Well look, if she hasn't gone in by the week-end after next what about coming?'
'I'll see what I can do. I'll drop you a line nearer the time and let you know.'
'I can meet you at King's Cross. You wouldn't have to find your way out there on your own.'
'No, all right.'
'You'll do your best, then?'
'Yes ... What have you done with that letter?'
'It's in my pocket.'
'You won't show it to anybody, will you?'
'It's not a thing I'm likely to flash around.'
'What will you do about it?'
'I'll keep my eyes and ears open. Have a think.'
I wish you weren't going back. I wish you'd never gone. I knew it wasn't the right thing for us.'
'Ingrid ... You can't let somebody writing anonymous letters rule your life... Come on, now, bear up. And don't worry.'
I find myself hoping I can get away before she starts to cry. Don't worry. Glib words of small comfort. I carry away with me the image of her standing there, small and forlorn. I wonder if technically I'll be a bigger bastard if I do what she's half afraid I'm doing already- which I haven't done yet but know I will do if I get the chance - just because she is half afraid I'm doing it already...
13
Poison-pen letters ... Well named. They are poisonous, both in the direct harm they do and the way they pollute your mind with foul suspicions about anybody who could possibly be responsible.
There's the sound of music coming from behind Conroy's door as I go up the stairs. I carry straight on up to my room, dump my case, and go back down to him. He waves me in as I tap then look round the door at him lolling back in his chair with one leg up, the foot jerking to the rhythm of Mozart by Beecham. I sit down without speaking and wait for the record to finish, watching him as he lies back with his eyes shut, looking at his bulk, the square hands, bis heavy head and low forehead under his hair that used to be a shaggy mop in the old days but's now neatly trimmed in a cut his old back-and-sides merchant wouldn't have thought value for money, working as those boys did on the basis of how near the bone they could get in the neck and over the ears.
Looking at him, my mind turning over, thinking that he's given me a few surprises in his time and wondering if the worst is yet to come. If while I've been growing genuinely fond of him he's been nursing a dislike of me that's been turned into black malice by his lack of progress with Fleur and my interest in Donna. Oh, no ... Could I sit like that with my eyes closed listening to music in the company of somebody I'd done a thing like that to? Could I, when the music stopped, open my eyes as he's doing now and say as though it was the only thought in my mind:
Lovely! Smashing!' and look at me and carry on:
But I keep forgetting, you're not really a Mozart man, are you?' No...
Oh, I can listen to him, but I wouldn't miss him if his music suddenly stopped being played.'
'Aye. You mean you like him better than those nits like Rawly who find easy tunes and profess a liking on the strength of it.'
'I saw Rawly last night.'
'That's a treat. Where was he?'
'In a pub in Cressley. Had a bird with him, the usual Rawly type, blonde, snotty-looking.'
'Aye, Rawly always did go for the white-glove type. "Well, I suppose I shall have to handle the beastly thing." '
He looks at me and we both burst out laughing.
'He's got a tash these days an' all.'
'What had he to say for himself?'
'I managed to avoid talking to him.'
'Pity. You might have found out if he wanted another job.'
'Christ, we'd be landed if we got that bugger down here.'
'Poor old Rawly ...' Conroy shakes his head. 'He's some mother's pride and joy.'
And I think yes, poor old Rawly. He can't really help it. He doesn't know what he's doing. And he's not a bad-hearted bastard. I don't think he'd ever write an anonymous letter ...
'Have we time for a pint?' Albert asks.
'Half an hour.'
'Fancy one?'
'Always willing.'
'I can't play any more music or I shall have Madam Wither-spoon up on a visit.'
'Let's just pop round the corner, then. It's far enough tonight.'
Conroy reaches for his jacket.
In the saloon bar of the King's Jester, down on the main road, there's a coal fire that's like a prize after the still, breathtaking cold outside. There's going to be some more snow and with Conroy bothered about it and the effect it's going to have on the jobs we talk shop over the first pint. Franklyn's apparently laid off ten men on Friday.
'He had to,' Albert says.' The job's under four feet of snow with more coming all the time. And there's not enough work for 'em inside. Not that most of them would want it, anyway.'
'It's hard lines for 'em, isn't it?'
Conroy shrugs. 'One of the hazards of the business. They make good money while they are working. It's to be hoped they've put a bit on one side for a rainy day. Or a snowy one, in their case.'
Look, Albert, how much can the firm stand? I mean, this is one of the worst winters anybody can remember. It's going to knock 'em back a bit.'
'I don't think they'll fold up, if that's what you mean.'
'It's a bit unsettling, that's all. Ingrid's coming down here in a couple of weeks to look round. I don't want to get her all adjusted to the idea of moving and then find myself out of a job.'
'Oh, that won't happen,' Conroy reassures me. 'Don't let that worry you. And if the worst did happen you'd soon get fixed up somewhere else.'
'Aye. Every time you move it costs you money, though.'
'There's only the two of you to think about. No kids. Why worry? Move around a bit if you want to. Get some experience. This isn't the end of the line for me. I shall go when the time's ripe. Pastures new, and all that.'
'It's all right for you.'
'It's all right for you. Look, Vic, all due respect to Ingrid, but why should a bloke of your age have to think that every job he takes is going to last him for ever? Time enough to settle in one spot when you've got two or three kids and education to think about. You've made the biggest break - getting out of your hometown and losing all the people who sit on your back and stop you doing what you want to do.'
'I know. I've had all this out with myself.'
'You must have. I'm not saying they tell you what to do, but they put pressures on you just by being there. It's harder for you and Ingrid because her mother's a widow and she feels she's deserting her. I know. Suppose you'd stayed on another couple of years, though, and your old feller had cocked his clog. You'd have felt you ought to stick around for your mother's sake. The lucky ones get out while they're still single and have no ties at all. You've made it just in time.'
I take his empty glass out of his hand and go to the bar for refills. When I get back to him I say:
That's all very well, Albert, but you make it sound as if nobody ought to want to stop at home. I mean, Cressley's no paradise, but Longford isn't either, is it?'
'You can always go back, Vic. People think better of you if you've been around a bit. Even moving away from a firm can do it. If you'd have gone back to Whittaker's when the shop folded you'd have been treated with more respect than if you'd stayed on all the time.'
'Even though it'd've looked as if I'd made a mistake?'
You got out. You showed you weren't dependent on them. You stay too long in one place and they'll think you breathe by courtesy of them. If you went back now you'd get on better still because you've had some experience elsewhere. But you still wouldn't get the money you're getting here. Remember that one. It's the same with
people outside the job. The thing is to have choice. Always keep that power of choice. It's one of my golden rules. Don't let other people put pressures on you and tell you how to run your life.'
At which point, with that letter in my inside pocket, a tight little ironic smile wouldn't be out of place. But I keep my face straight, smiles ironic or otherwise having no place in my feeling about that little piece of composition.
'You can't get away from other people, Albert,' I say.
'I'm not saying you've got to kick everybody in the teeth and look after number one. But you're the only one who can live your life. You're saddled with it, mate.'
'It's funny ... I was giving almost the same advice to our Jim over Christmas. Only that had to do with a bird.'
'It applies,' Conroy says. 'It applies all the way down the line.'
'Ah well,' I say; 'we'll see what Ingrid thinks of it all when she comes down.'
'You've got no plans for her coming to stay yet?'
'No, not yet.'
'I wondered. There's a nice little bungalow development going up out on the Colchester Road. They look to be nice houses. I thought about you when I saw them.'
'I was thinking more in terms of another flat for the time being.'
'It's money gone for ever when you pay rent.'
