I Don't Want to Know Anyone Too Well

by Norman Levine

  “There’s a nice spot—just down the road—you can walk it from here. Down a hill. Go to the railway tracks. Then walk along the tracks. No trains run there on Sunday. And you will get to a river. It will be cool by the river.”

  “How is she?”

  “Some weeks there is a step forward. Others not. At least she hasn’t gone back.”

  Marie appeared with Carol.

  “What time do you want her back?”

  “Not later than five,” Mr. Patrick said.

  “Could you order us a taxi for five?”

  “I’ll do that,” he said. “Have a nice time.”

  Carol didn’t say a word.

  We walked along the short drive, to the opening, then along the main road. On the horizon, the white grey hills of China clay.

  “Have you been down this way?”

  “No,” Carol said.

  “They’ve made a poster for Carol,” Marie said. “They put it on the inside of her door. It says ‘Happy Birthday.’ Everyone signed it. I remember my eighteenth birthday. My mother made a large party, invited all my relatives, and I didn’t like it at all.”

  “Have you still the room to yourself?”

  “No,” Carol said. “They put someone in with me on Tuesday.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Seventeen.”

  We walked along the side of the road, down the slope, in silence.

  “Someone else came in on Tuesday—” Carol said. “His name is George. He sits beside me at the table when we eat. He did the poster.”

  “Mrs. Smith asked after you,” Marie said. “So did Flossie. And the woman in the paper place always asks how you are getting on.”

  Where the road levelled out we came to the railway tracks. We left the main road and walked between the tracks. There were trees on either side and overgrown grass. After a while the trees became thicker and the earth sloped more steeply down. There was a path near the top of the slope. We walked on the path, between the trees. It began to get dark. And we could see water.

  It was a strange light. The sun (not able to come through the trees except for a shaft here and another some way along) left the top parts of the trees a bright yellow-green. Halfway between the tops of the trees and the river the light changed from bright to dark. The river was dark—dark green, dark blue, with large rocks in it. Sounds carried. We could hear boys and girls talking and splashing somewhere ahead. A dog barking. It was very still. We were walking in the dark light while above was this bright light yellow and light green. And all the colours seemed softened.

  We sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, on the slope, where we could see the river. And had a picnic from the hard-boiled eggs, apples, grapes, and bars of chocolate.

  “You look better,” I said.

  “I don’t take the pills.”

  And she brought out, from her trouser pocket, some small red pills.

  “They give them to me. I put them in my mouth, but I don’t swallow. If they find out I will be in trouble.”

  “I’ll take them,” I said. “And get rid of them. If they get to know about this they may not let you go out.”

  “What’s the girl like that is in the room with you?” Marie asked.

  “She lies on her bed most of the time,” Carol said. “They brought her in because she took an overdose.”

  “What’s wrong with George?” I asked.

  “He broke all the clocks in his house. Then the mirrors. Then the windows . . . How’s Min?”

  “She had kittens,” Marie said. “In the cupboard under the stairs. Five this time. Four ginger and one black and white.”

  “I miss Min,” Carol said quietly.

  “We painted your room,” I said, changing the subject.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I think home is my room here.”

  We got up and walked by the river stepping over rocks and fallen branches and smelling the mud. The river turned. And as we came around the turn the sun had come through a gap in the trees ahead and we could see, in the shaft of light, a boy, two girls, and a dog. The boy was splashing in the water with the dog. While the others sat on the rock. They were in bright sunlight. The water, near them, a light bright blue. While all around it was dark.

  We clambered up the slope to the railway tracks and into the sunlight, and walked farther along the tracks until we came to a road. The fields, on either side, were lush with grass and wheat. We came to an avenue of trees. They led to wide lawns and banks of flowers. And behind them, slightly raised, a large stone house with farm buildings. We walked on the lawns, picked some flowers. There was a small bridge over a stream. When we crossed the bridge we dropped the white and light pink flowers in the water.

  Then we walked towards the farm buildings. They looked very old and used. A large pile of cut wood was neatly stacked by a barn. Others had machinery. In a stable a white horse with blue eyes had his head out of the stable door. He stood there not moving.

  There was no one about.

  We walked to the house. From the front it had a magnificent view over the lawns, over the trees, and onto a valley with the higher fields and trees on either side. The house was dark. It looked tatty, as if it had been lived in a long time.

  “It looks so feudal,” Marie said.

  We crossed the lawn to go out on the far side. And crossing the stream we saw the flowers that we had dropped at the start, passing by, carried on the slow moving water.

  Some way down the road were two neat cottages.

  “My grandma worked on an estate like this,” Marie said. “She was a teacher on the Royal Estate at Windsor. But that was nearly a hundred years ago.”

  “I would like a small cottage in the country, near here,” Carol said. “I’d have a goat and a cat or a dog. I would grow my own vegetables. And I’d get better, if I can be left alone for a while. If no one bothers me. If there is no noise . . . I looked in an estate office window in Bodmin. There are cottages at two thousand pounds. When I’m twenty-one, I’ll be getting five hundred pounds from the policy—maybe they will take that as a deposit—”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s a good idea.”

  We came to crossroads. One sign said to Bodmin, the other said to Blisland.

  “Let’s go to Blisland,” Carol said.

  “It’s too late,” I said looking at my watch. “We have to get you back by five.”

  “I don’t want to go back.”

  “We’ll go to Blisland another time,” Marie said.

  By the time we came back to the town we were all tired.

  I tried to find a restaurant or a cafe. But all of them were closed. I saw a filling station open. Part of it had a small room with several tables with plastic tops.

  We went in. We all had coffee in silence.

  Then two motorbikes drove up. And four young people in white crash helmets and black leather jackets and jeans came in. When they took their helmets off I could see they were two young boys and two young girls. They talked loudly and laughed a lot. They had soft drinks standing at the counter. One of the girls went to the juke box and put some money in. The music came out loud and clear.

  Nothing’s gonna change my world

  Nothing’s gonna change my world

  We remained sitting, not saying a word. Marie and I finishing our coffee. Carol hunched over looking down at the table.

  “What’s wrong, love,” I asked Carol.

  “It’s the noise,” she said. “I can’t stand it.”

  Nothing’s gonna change my world

  Nothing’s gonna change my world

  I got up and awkwardly we left.

  Outside it was warm. I started to walk briskly. I was first, then Marie, then Carol. And Carol became further and further away. I stopped to wait for her.

  �
�I don’t want to go back there,” she said.

  “You can’t come home yet.”

  “I’ll never come home,” she said.

  We were approaching the hospital when I saw Carol leave the side of the road and start to walk towards the middle.

  A car, coming from the opposite direction, blew its horn.

  “Carol,” Marie shouted.

  I ran over to Carol to try to make her come to the side of the road. But she shrugged me off.

  More cars were coming at speed. They blew their horns. They took evasive action. One angry driver leaned out and shouted.

  “Do you want to get killed?”

  We were near the opening in the wall that led to the short drive and the bungalow-like building. The taxi was there. We waited for Carol. She came, slowly, away from the centre of the road and walked through the opening.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Thanks for all the nice things. I had a lovely time. Will you come next week?”

  “Yes,” we both said.

  “You better go in, love,” I said.

  We kissed outside the door.

  She stood there with a plastic bag that had the remains of the hard-boiled eggs and the apples.

  We went into the taxi that would take us to the railway station. As it drove away we waved.

  And she went inside.

  WHY DO YOU

  LIVE SO FAR?

  Why don’t you go out?” Emily said. “Do you know it’s over a week that you haven’t been out of the house?”

  “I went out on Tuesday to the post office.”

  “I meet people in the street. They all ask, ‘And how is Joseph?’ What can I say? He’s working. He’s up in his room. He’s busy. Why don’t you go out and see people?”

  “It costs money to see people,” I said. “If I meet anyone they say let’s go in for a drink. I’m too old to go bumming.”

  “So what do we do? Play cards, read newspapers, and watch television. I’m tired watching television.”

  “You’re tired when we go to bed.”

  “You expect me to be excited just because we’re going to bed? Why don’t you go out for a walk now? You’ll feel better. Walk around the harbour, or through the town, go to the library.”

  “I hate this place,” I said. “All I can think of is how to get us out. I’ve got a sign up on the wall of my room, You’ve got to get out of here, facing me all the time. I don’t want to end my life in this cut-off seaside joint.”

  The phone rang.

  “You answer it.”

  “Now you don’t even want to answer the phone,” she said and went out of the room to the kitchen.

  I went up to this room, looked at the collection of picture postcards stuck on the large mirror. (When I look in the mirror, to see myself, the postcards give a 3-D effect.) They were from people scattered over North America, Africa, and Europe. I’ve stuck them on with Sellotape with spaces of glass in between. I even have a postcard of Carnbray in with the others. A summer’s day . . . palm trees . . . the sea a shade darker blue than the sky . . . a large green-and-white yacht in the harbour . . . people on a sand beach . . .

  As a postcard, I thought, I could like this place.

  I went to my desk and looked at the pieces of paper listing what payments I expected to come in. They added up to £325. But I had learned not to count too much on other people paying when they said they would.

  Next morning Emily had a letter from her mother in London, and with it came a money order for ten pounds for Christmas.

  I got a small tree and put it up in the front room. I went and got some ivy and Emily put it around the room, on the walls near the ceiling. Cards began to come in. And I went out and had a drink in a pub with people I hadn’t seen for several months.

  On the evening of December 23rd we were waiting in the front room, which looked very nice and warm. We had the fire going in the fireplace. There were some coloured balls hanging from the lights. There was this nice-fitting red carpet. It’s a splendid room with a large bay window and we only use it when people come, or perhaps in summer, for it’s too cold. Emily had made some sandwiches and I got a bottle of sherry and wrapped it in coloured paper, and bought some extra glasses. We were waiting for the people Emily had been evacuated to during the war. They lived near Truro. Since our marriage they’ve sent a chicken for Christmas and I’ve given them a bottle of sherry. We sat in the large second-hand chairs with the scratched sides where the cat sharpened its claws, waiting for them to come. It was past seven. I thought they were late.

  “They have to put the cows away,” Emily said, “and do a lot of things before they can leave.”

  A few minutes later we heard sounds outside the front door.

  “That’s them.”

  “No,” I said, without knowing why. And it wasn’t.

  It was a wizened, hunched-up little woman, determined, thrusting her face forward. It was not a pretty face, although it had new blondish curls.

  “Does Joseph Grand live here?”

  It wasn’t so much a question as an assertion. And it was said by my sister Mona from Meridian. I hadn’t seen her for ten years.

  Afterwards, she said I just stood there not saying anything but shaking my head.

  I went outside and saw Oscar. He looked like a gentle wrestler. A squat little man with sleepy eyes, a hat on, a camera around his neck, a brand-new black coat and black gloves.

  I shook Oscar’s hand.

  “Why didn’t you write or phone or send a telegram?”

  “I wanted to,” Oscar said, “but your sister didn’t let me.”

  I looked into the taxi, half-expected to see my father and mother inside.

  “I bet you’re surprised,” Mona said excitedly when we were inside with the bags and hung up their coats. Oscar kept his hat on.

  “Why didn’t you let me know when you got to London?”

  “We didn’t want you to go to any trouble,” Mona said.

  Oscar said: “I’ve got a movie camera—I wanted to record the expression on your face when you saw your sister.”

  I steered them into the front room. Mona lit a cigarette.

  “You don’t look like your pictures, Emily,” Mona said. “You’ve lost weight,” she said to me. “It suits you. The last time I saw you, you were fat. I thought you had heart trouble.”

  Then the kids were introduced.

  “This is Martha—this is Ella—this is Rebecca—”

  “They’re like dolls,” Mona said.

  “—this is your Uncle Oscar and your Auntie Mona. They’ve come all the way from Meridian in Canada. How was the trip?”

  “Terrible,” Oscar said. “We had to change twice on the train. You know it took longer to come down here from London than to fly from Montreal over to England. Why do you live so far?”

  “If you sent a telegram or phoned,” I said, “I would have told you what train to get. You wouldn’t have had to change—”

  “I told her,” Oscar said.

  “I didn’t want to put you to any trouble—shall we give them the presents?”

  They brought their new bags into the front room and brought out gay bunny pyjamas for the kids. They gave Emily a Norwegian ski sweater.

  “He always wears black,” Mona said. “Why, I don’t know. So I thought I’d get him a white sweater.”

  It was a splendid sweater with a turtle-neck.

  “You smoke?” Oscar said. And gave me several red-and-white flat tins of duty-free cigarettes.

  “Thanks. Why didn’t you write from Canada?”

  “We didn’t know if we were coming or not. You know your sister. She was terrified of flying.”

  “Everyone told us to go to Miami,” Mona said. “At this time of the year, England, they said, would be full of
smog, fog, accidents.”

  “It was a toss-up,” Oscar said, “whether to go to Disneyland or to come here.”

  “Didn’t you know something was in the air when I didn’t write?” Mona said.

  I didn’t say anything to that. I couldn’t remember when she last wrote.

  “Here,” Oscar said to the children, taking out his wallet from his back buttoned-down pocket. “From your Grannie and Grandpa in Canada—your Chanukah gelt.” And he gave them two pounds each. Our kids never had so much money.

  My sister looked at the Christmas tree, the decorations, the cards.

  “Do they know about Chanukah?”

  The kids were silent.

  “Your Daddy will tell you.” Then back to me in the same low disapproving voice: “You celebrate Christmas?”

  “We sort of have a tree—and I give out the presents on Christmas Day.”

  “I always say, how you want to live your life, that is your business,” Mona said.

  The kids went upstairs to their rooms to try on their pyjamas.

  “What would you like to drink?” I said confidently. It was the first time that year I had so much drink in the house. “Scotch, gin, sherry, beer—”

  “You have no rye?” Mona asked.

  “No.”

  “I won’t bother.”

  “Oscar. What’ll you have?”

  “I don’t care for the stuff.”

  “Won’t anyone join me in a drink?”

  “I’ll have some sherry,” Emily said.

  “Let me taste,” my sister said. “It’s not bad. I’ll have a drop.”

  “How’s Maw and Paw?” I said.

  “The same,” she said. “Maw still works at the hospital.” Then suddenly brightening up, “If they could only see the kids—Paw’s got to go in for a checkup when we get back. You should see how nervous he was when we told him we were flying.”

  I remembered the last time I saw him. We were waiting for the taxi to take me to the station. He was in his shirt. A towel around his head. He was in the middle of shaving. “I hope I’ll still be here next time you come,” he said and began to weep. “Sure, Pop,” I said. How pathetic and kind he looked. Then we saw each other in the hall mirror. He pointed to his weeping face in the glass. “I look like a Chinaman.”