by Stan Barstow
I set off straight after work one night, armed with an A to Z street guide, catching a train to Liverpool Street and transferring to the Underground there. It's a station I'm sick of the sight of; that and King's Cross. Which is quicker: change at Tottenham Court Road for Belsize Park or Oxford Circus for Finchley Road? I settle for Finchley Road. Just let me get there quick. It's nearly two months since I've seen her. I have to concentrate to see her face clearly in my mind.
Once off the main road at the other end I'm in a maze of curving avenues of big houses that I'd be hopelessly lost in without the guide. There are cars parked along practically every foot of the kerbs. Gascoigne Gardens. Here. It's beginning to rain. Number fifteen. Three bells. Royd on top, Lister below, Dunham in between. Press and wait. I'm here, Donna. I love you and all is forgiven.
In a moment there's a shadow looming behind the glass. The door opens. It's Fleur.
'Hello, Fleur.'
'Vic .. . Come in.'
I step into the hall and she shuts the door.
'Is it raining?'
'It's just starting. Is Donna in?'
'You'd better come up.'
I follow her shapely behind in tight tan trousers up the stairs and into the living-room that's sparsely furnished with a square of carpet and a few pieces of furniture. The fried-egg picture hangs on one wall.
'Did you ring up earlier?'
'No.'
'I wondered. I came in as the phone was ringing but it stopped before I could get to it.'
'Isn't Donna in?'
She's got a queer look on her face now but it's hidden as she bends to pick up cigarettes, the mane of red hair falling over one eye. We both take cigarettes and go through the business of lighting up.
'I'm afraid you've missed her.'
'Oh hell, what a shame. Will she be late back, do you know?'
'She's gone home.'
'What, to Cornwall, you mean?'
'Yes.'
'When's she coming back?'
'I don't know.'
'Well, she is coming back, isn't she?'
'Not for some time, I don't think.'
'Is there something wrong with her or something?'
Fleur gives a queer little shrug and pushes back her hair with one hand. Suddenly her eyes are closely watching my face.
'She thinks she's pregnant.'
I'm speechless. My mouth must look as if it's saying 'But... but ...only no sound comes out. They talk about history repeating itself, but this is ridiculous. I look behind me for a chair and sit down. Then I finally manage to say 'Oh Christ.'
The next one is one I should see coming but don't. First the feint with the left and then the right jab, rock hard and brutal, straight to the heart.
'I don't think she's told him yet.'
'Who?'
Who? Carter. Who else?' Her eyes are still on me. 'Didn't you know about them?'
'I... I knew that... before ...'
'I thought that was why you weren't seeing her any more.'
'You knew about us?'
'Yes, of course I did. You hadn't a price, Vic. She couldn't promise you anything with him around. She's been mad about him for years. When he came out to Longford it stirred it all up again.'
'That was why she couldn't make her mind up about the play.'
'Yes. And then the swine has to go and make her pregnant. I told her to get rid of it and make him pay. A friend of mine knows a place. A private nursing home. Clean and safe. A hundred guineas and no comeback. But she wouldn't listen. Said she'd go home and have the baby, if there was one, and try to sort herself out.'
'She isn't sure?'
'She's practically certain. I must say it looks like it to me.'
'Oh God, what a mess. I mean, what about her career and everything? All those parts ...'
She's just recorded another play. The other things fell through.'
I can't think straight. My mind's numb with shock.
'Will they get married, do you think?'
'I don't know.' She shrugs again and sits down across the room from me, smoking in short nervous puffs.' It didn't work out when they were together before so I don't see what difference a wedding ring will make.'
'But the baby... and Donna's parents.'
'Donna's people aren't Victorian tyrants. They won't turn her out of the house.'
'God, what a mess,' is all I can think of to say again.
'It's all happened before, and it'll happen again.'
'You're right there.'
She uncurls herself and gets up.
'Would you like a drink? I expect you feel like one.' She crosses to a corner cupboard-cum-bookcase. 'I can't offer you any beer but there's some gin and some tonic to go with it. Oh, and a drop of sherry.'
'Gin and tonic, please.'
It's not my favourite tipple but it'll do for now.
'What about you, then? What are you doing now?'
'Oh, I'm all right. I'm doing commercials for bath soap.' She poses with one hand lifting her hair at the back. 'I sit around dressed in bubbles all day and get well paid for it. It's much easier than acting.'
She pours the drinks and hands me mine.
'Drink it down ... It's not the end of the world, is it?'
'It feels bloody near, Fleur.'
'But you hadn't known her long.'
'It doesn't take long, love.'
She's having his baby, carrying it. I wish, I wish to God it was mine. A spasm of jealousy seizes me, so ferocious that I actually tremble and the glass shakes in my hand.
'You hadn't a chance, you know,' Fleur says.
'I didn't try hard enough,' I tell her.
I gulp at my drink. It tastes sour and strange, setting my teeth on edge and making me shudder.
'I'd better go,' I say in a minute. 'You'll probably be wanting to go out.'
She shakes her head, the thick glossy hair catching the light.
'No, I had a date but it fell through. I was going to have a quiet evening watching the telly, but you can take me out for a drink if you want company.'
'Some other time, Fleur. Thanks all the same.'
'Is that a promise?'
I look at her, feeling dim surprise. 'Well... yes.' I don't know if I mean it or not.
She comes downstairs with me. The flats open straight off the landings, the bottom one directly off the hall. There's a wireless playing very loud in one of the downstairs rooms, a man's voice booming at an audience who respond with laughter and applause.
'Anyway, don't let it cut you up,' Fleur says. 'There's plenty more pebbles on the beach.'
'Like my wife, for instance.'
It's a terrible thing to say, but what does she think all this is about?
We stand for a moment in the hall. She's got her hand on the knob but she doesn't open the door.
Give me a ring when you're coming up again and we'll arrange something.'
'Okay, thanks.'
She moves slightly forward and to one side, looking directly at me. It's only a tiny movement, more a settling of her stance than anything else; but it tells me as plain as words that she wants me to kiss her. I take one step forward and pull her in, jamming my mouth down on hers with a force that presses her lips hard against her teeth.
'I always did like you better than Albert,' she says as we part. Poor old Conroy, I think. Is there no bloody justice in this world?
The rain falls steadily on me as I walk back to the station. Brown, the demon with women. Have I been carrying some charm about with me all these years that I didn't know about? I've asked myself before what it would be like to have that gorgeous body and now I know I could find out. Not tonight, perhaps, but another time, with a bit of application. And do I want it? Oh yes, I do. I remember the press of her thighs and the firmness of her breasts under the thin wool and it rages up through me as I walk along: animal longing, pure and simple. I'm almost tempted to go back, nursing some idea of purging my feeling for Donna through outrage.
I just miss a train and I'm by myself on the platform for a time. I stand near the edge and look down at the rails, the live one proud of the others. They usually wait till the tram's rushing in, don't they? Then one step forward and out. Easy, but public, and more obviously violent than say a gun. They win hands down. The mood brings on the inclination to toy with the weapon, try it in the death-dealing position. Then the simple pressure of one linger. In private, at leisure. Pick your own moment. Messy for somebody, but not for you; you're finished with all messes. You're out of it. Out of the rotten cheat that runs through the middle of everything.
On the tube train I mull over the notion of getting out in the West End and walking about among the bright lights for a while, perhaps having a drink. I ought to eat as well. But I'm not hungry and it's a big, lonely town, too frightening for me.
God I hate railway stations. There was a time when they seemed romantic places, the entrances to holidays and exciting journeys. Now all I seem to see on them is derelicts and weirdies; like one chap standing very still watching the place names click over on one of the indicator boards. He's stocky and muckily dressed in a long overcoat over trousers with wide ragged bottoms that slop over his boots and touch the floor; a red ugly face and this 'awful round fiat depression in his skull that looks for all the world as if somebody's clouted him with the business end of a hammer. I stand beside him for a moment to check what time the next train for Longford leaves.
On that train, with forty minutes in front of me and nothing to read except the postal information in my diary, I try cursing Donna, thinking about her hopping out of bed with me and in with Carter. What if I'd gone to London straight away? Would she have slept with both of us? The cheap tart, the rotten little bitch. But it's not true. I don't mean it. I love her and I'm calling her to relieve my feelings and it doesn't work.
A pint. Drain off some of the tension. I go into the first pub I find after leaving the station, entering by the first door I come to. I sink a quarter of the first pint in one go then put my change away, open a new packet of fags, light one and try to take stock. I'm a nit; I ought to be back there in town chatting Fleur up instead of moping here on my own. I'm flattered. I didn't know I had the physical magnetism to attract a bird like Fleur. She must have plenty of offers. She's not without choice. Perhaps it would work on other women as well. Maybe I ought to put it to the test. Have every one that's willing. Have 'em and heave 'em. Spit on women in my career as a ram. To prove what?
She wouldn't have gone with Carter if I'd followed her straight away instead of nursing my pride. She didn't hear from me, thought I'd done with her. I could have gone to her and played for time enough to make her see things my way, persuaded her that I needed her and it could work for us. I just didn't try hard enough.
There's another room behind the partition, a bigger, posher place, and the mirror behind the bar lets me see into it. Among the flash and colour of bottles and glasses I catch a reflection of pinkish candy-floss hair. A second later a chap blocking my view moves aside and I can see that it's Wendy Bamforth. Sitting with her, in a black suit, white shirt and narrow scarlet tie, his hair slicked up with grease, is Wally Chisholm, a smirk on his face as he talks to her and she listens, her eyes fixed on him in an expression that tells him he's Rock Hudson's measure any day of the week.
I'm so surprised I nearly drop my glass. I step back out of their view and lean on the partition, thinking now about something that's suddenly as plain as the nose on your face.
I wait half an hour for them to move, drinking another two pints and keeping an eye on them as best I can without letting them spot me. When they both stand up together I empty my glass and follow them out, giving them a start before stepping out of the doorway and walking after them. They take their time, strolling along with their arms round each other in a touching picture of young love, and I have to keep stopping and looking in shop windows, hoping neither of them will turn round and see me in the light. Once they leave the main road, though, it's tricky in another way: there's less chance of them recognizing me now but more of them realizing they're being followed; especially as they don't step up the pace at all.
But I manage to trail .them without arousing their suspicions and they lead me into a council estate on the edge of the town. They stop for a moment at a gate then open it and go through. I'm thinking that if he's got his feet under the table I'll be in for a long wait. But no, they walk into the shadows along the side of the house. I can hear them talking in low voices as I pass by, and make out the shape of them as they snuggle together for a good night snogging session.
I cross the road and walk back on the other side. I'm about ten yards past the house going back the way we came when Wally comes up the path and I hear the gate-latch click. I let him draw level with me than start to cross over, calling to him:
'Chisholm. Hey, Chisholm.'
He checks for a moment, looking round.
'Who is it?'
'I want to talk to you, Chisholm.'
He begins to run. He goes fast but he hasn't got much of a start and though I'm not as sound in wind and limb as I once was I don't have any bother keeping close behind him. Instead of making for the lighted main streets where I can't get him he turns off down a side road. At the far end there's a group of half-built houses with piles of bricks and timber and rubble round them. He makes into these and for a minute I think I've lost him. Then I hear the clatter of his feet on a plank as he crosses a trench and a second later he falls full length over a wheelbarrow. I follow the sounds, stepping as carefully as lean among all the hazards there in the dark, and come on him as he's picking himself up, swearing.
'Now then.'
'What's wrong?' he says. 'What do you want?'
'Don't tell me you don't know, Wally boy.'
He looks at me, pretending to recognize me for the first time.
'I didn't know it was you.'
Who did you think it was?'
'There's some blokes. They've got it in for me. There was some trouble in a pub one night.'
'What have you been doing to 'em? Sending letters to their wives?'
'I don't know what you mean.'
I manoeuvre him so he's got his back to the wall of a contractor's shed and I'm blocking his way out. He looks at me all innocent.
'I don't know what you mean, honest.'
'You're a nasty malicious little tick, Chisholm. You want stamping on. Just because I once showed you up in front of your old feller you have to get your revenge. Well he was the one to blame. Why don't you send letters about him to your mam?'
Look, I don't know what you're on about and I'm not standin' here talking all night. I've got to get home.'
'You'll go when I'm ready to let you go, lad. I'm interested in the way your warped little mind works. Wendy Bamforth knows already.'
'What's she been saying about me?'
She's your girl friend isn't she? What would she say? You wrote some anonymous letters to my missis and Wendy's so bloody overseen in you she typed 'em up and got my address out of the office file.'
You're barmy, mate.'
'Am I, then? Would you like me to take it to Franklyn? He'll soon have the truth out of her.'
He sneers. 'You wouldn't dare do that. You wouldn't dare.'
'Oh? How's that, then?'
He's given himself away and he covers as quick as he can.
'If she's been saying things like that she's - '
'She's what? Suppose I tell you I worked it all out for myself?'
He's losing his front. He can't carry it off.
'You daren't tell Franklyn. You'd have to tell him you'd - '
He stops again.
'Tell him what, Wally? What wouldn't I like him to know?'
'You know.'
What, Wally?' I get hold of his lapels and pull him close. 'You tell me.'
'About that bird at the theatre.'
'Why, you vicious little get!'
I slap him twice acros
s the face, once with the front of my hand and once with the back, on the return stroke. It rouses him. He swings at me. He's no waster, Wally, and there's some weight behind his fist. But when I dodge that same weight carries him forward off balance so that I can land him one that slams him back against the side of the hut.
'I'll bloody teach you to interfere with me.'
There's all the rows and worry about the letters plus the loss of Donna packed into the next one. It buries itself in his guts, punching the wind out of him in a grunting gasp and sending him down. He groans and one arm comes up to cover his face.
'Leave me alone.'
He must be expecting the boot going in, which is probably what he'd do to me in his position. But I've finished.
'Just remember, mate, I'm watching you from now on, and if you step out o' line just once I'll really get you.'
