Out of the Shelter

by David Lodge

  He heard the muffled sound of the alarm clock ringing briefly in his parents’ bedroom. Shortly afterwards he heard his mother padding downstairs in her slippers. It was scarcely light, and couldn’t be much later than six o’clock. His train didn’t leave Victoria until eleven, and he was all packed and ready to leave; but his parents had an exaggerated fear, which he recognized in himself, of missing trains. They always liked to be early. When they went to Worthing they were sometimes so early that they caught the train before the one they had intended to catch.

  Worthing. It was funny – he knew he’d been bored with the place these last two summers, but now, at this moment, he couldn’t recapture that sense of boredom, however hard he tried. In his imagination Worthing seemed the most charming holiday place in the world: bright, clean, familiar, safe. Only two hours in the electric train and you were there, the sea sparkling at the end of the street, the pier brightly painted and inviting, the lawns and flower beds on the front neatly groomed. What did he want to go to Heidelberg for, a whole day and night’s journey away? Well, he had only himself to blame.

  He remembered vividly the day the invitation had come, a bolt from the blue. He had read Kath’s letter many times since, hoping to find in its vague, casual phrases some clue as to what he had let himself in for, so that he now had it off by heart.

  I’m afraid I shan’t be able to get home after all this year, as I’ve used up all my leave on the skiing holiday at Christmas and my trip to Seville this Easter. I was hoping to wangle another week’s leave this summer, but my boss won’t wear it, and I can’t blame him. Anyway, what I want to suggest is, why doesn’t Timothy come out here for a holiday this summer? If you could pay his fare, I could look after the rest of his expenses. I’d like to give him a treat – he deserves something after all that hard work at school, and I think he’d enjoy himself here. Heidelberg is a charming old town, and there’s lots to see and do. I’m sure he could amuse himself in the daytime, and I’d be free in the evenings and at weekends. Do think about it seriously. Of course you could all come if you think you’d enjoy it, but frankly accommodation might be a bit of a problem as it is very scarce and v. expensive. But it shouldn’t be difficult to find somewhere just for Timothy, and I’m hoping to get him a PX card so that he can use the American eating-places and so on.

  – He’s too young to go all that way on his own, his mother said, when the letter had been passed round the breakfast table. Timothy agreed, but was silent.

  – What do you think, son? his father said.

  – Why don’t we all go? Timothy said

  – Your father wouldn’t enjoy it. Foreign food doesn’t agree with him.

  – What d’you mean, Dorothy?

  – You remember what you were like on that day trip to Boulogne, before the war.

  – That was the crossing. Nothing to do with the food.

  – That’s another thing. You’re not a good sailor.

  – Well, anyway, Kath seems to think it would be difficult to put us all up.

  – It’s plain as a pikestaff she doesn’t want you and me there, said his mother.

  His father looked unhappy. He turned to Timothy.

  – What d’you think, son? D’you fancy going on your own?

  – What about the fares? he said.

  – I expect we can manage it. And you’ve got some money in the Post Office, haven’t you?

  – I was saving it, he said.

  – Of course he’s saving it, said his mother. The idea.

  – Well, what’s he saving it for, then?

  – Not to fritter it away on Continental holidays, anyway. If Timothy wants to go, we’ll pay his fares. I’ve got some money of my own.

  This phrase was one his mother uttered from time to time with the air of making a dark threat. Nobody knew how much money she had or where she kept it. She had never been known to actually spend any of it.

  – I’ll have to think about it, Timothy said.

  – Well, don’t be too long making up your mind, said his mother. I’ll have to let Mrs. Watkins know if you’re not coming with us this year.

  – All right, he said. He had already decided that he wouldn’t go, and was only seeking some dignified excuse.

  But that day, at school, he was betrayed into changing his mind. It was a free period for the first-year Sixth. The ten boys sprawled across the desks, or perched on the radiators. Study proceeded slowly and erratically, interrupted by occasional questions, arguments, and sporadic outbreaks of mock-serious fighting.

  – What’s the past participle of carpo?

  – Carpsum.

  – Carptum.

  – You ignorant twat, Morrison!

  Then two of them would wrestle for a few minutes, locked together like young bulls, staggering round the classroom, colliding with desks and knocking over chairs.

  Timothy, sitting at the back of the room, complained uselessly:

  – Oh, pack it in, will you?

  He was trying to revise his O-Level English texts. His exams were only a couple of months away, but his classmates had no public exams that summer and were indisposed to work. The bright spring sunshine that poured through the windows and glittered on the teeming dust-motes in the air of the classroom made them restless and quarrelsome. After a while they gave up the pretence of private study, and gathered at the windows to gossip. They were talking of their plans for the summer holidays. One was going to a Butlin’s camp, two more were going youth-hostelling, and several tried to conceal the fact that they weren’t going anywhere at all. Gerry Bovington, the athletic, curly-haired darling of the Sixth, worshipped from afar by numerous boys in the lower forms, the only son of well-to-do parents, announced that he was going to France.

  – France?

  – Dinard. It’s in Brittany. My Ma and Pa used to go there before the war.

  – You’ll have to go on a ship, won’t you?

  – Of course he’ll have to go on a ship, twat. Don’t you know England is entirely surrounded by water?

  – Twat yourself. England is joined to Scotland and Wales, in case you didn’t know.

  And then there was another scuffle, in which the boys tried to conceal their envy of Gerry Bovington, and their ignorance of everything to do with Abroad. When they had finished, Bovington said:

  – We’re taking the car over. He unwrapped a toffee and tossed it into his mouth.

  There was a silence, then somebody said:

  – I wonder what old Young is doing this summer.

  – Swotting for his A-Levels, I ’spect.

  Timothy ignored their taunts, until Bovington screwed up his toffee paper, dropped it on to his foot, and kicked it accurately in a high arc on to Timothy’s desk.

  – Three points, said someone mechanically.

  Timothy picked up the toffee paper between finger and thumb with an expression of studied distaste, and dropped it on to the floor.

  – As a matter of fact, he said, I’m going to Heidelberg this summer.

  The immediate effect of this announcement was gratifying.

  – Heidelwhat?

  – Where’s that, then?

  – Germany.

  – Who you going with?

  – Nobody.

  – You going on your own?

  – That’s right.

  – What you want to go to Germany for?

  – To see my sister.

  – What’s your sister doing in Germany?

  – She works for the American Army.

  – Lying bastard!

  – No, it’s true, that’s where he gets all those Yank sweets from.

  Bowed over his books, pretending absorption in study, Timothy felt their glances playing over him with a new curiosity and respect. But already he was beginning to count the cost of his small act of self-assertion, and bitterly to regret it. His only hope was that his mother would have thought of some serious objection to Kath’s proposal during the day. But to his surprise and dismay, wh
en he announced that evening that he thought he would go to Heidelberg, she seemed pleased.

  – Good. I’ve been thinking: it’ll do you good to have a change, after all this studying. You’ve been looking peaky lately.

  And that, as far as Timothy was concerned, was the point of no return. He had accepted Kath’s invitation freely, and was considered lucky by friends and neighbours to have received it. Among the people he knew, a holiday on the Continent was a rare and adventurous undertaking, difficult to achieve even for those who could afford it because of the currency restrictions. Timothy himself believed that these were not the real disincentives – that like himself, other people quailed at the perils and problems of foreign travel: frontiers, passports, tickets, timetables, foreign languages, foreign food, foreign money, foreign customs. But the pretence had to be kept up. Retreat was out of the question, and he could not even admit his misgivings without a serious loss of face.

  The door of his bedroom swung open. His mother shuffled backwards into the room, carrying a cup of tea in one hand and some clean washing in the other.

  – Oh, you’re awake then? she said. I’ve brought you a cup of tea.

  – Thanks.

  He sat up in bed to sip the sweet scalding tea. The rim of the cup chafed a sore place at the corner of his mouth, probably the beginning of a pimple. His mother drew back the curtains and looked out with her habitual suspicious frown.

  – Looks like a nice day, she said grudgingly. Here’s your clean shirt for this morning, I ironed it last night. And I’ve washed you some extra socks and pants. I’ll put them in your bag.

  His bag was on the floor. They both regarded it dubiously. His parents would need the family suitcases for their own holiday at Worthing, which was due to commence the following weekend, so it had been decided to buy a new one for Timothy. But then his mother had remembered that there was a large Air Force grip in the loft, which Uncle Jack had left with them at some stage of the war. It had been mildewed and thickly coated with dust when his father brought it down, but after a good scrub it seemed still serviceable. It was made of blue canvas, and fastened with a long zip. Timothy thought it would be lighter than an ordinary suitcase, and decided in favour of it. It was certainly big enough for his purposes, but as it was packed it seemed slowly to lose its original shape. The two handles scarcely met over its swollen girth, and, when lifted, its two extremities drooped limply towards the ground. Overnight, it had settled on the floor like the bloated carcase of a beached infant whale.

  – They had lovely cases at Marks’ last week, his mother sighed. I expect they’ve all gone by now.

  – It’ll be all right.

  – Well, you’ll just have to get a porter if you can’t manage it.

  – How much should I pay him?

  – Oh, about one-and-six, I should think. Two shillings. I don’t know about the Continent.

  Neither do I, Timothy thought gloomily. I don’t know anything about the Continent.

  His mother, crouched on the floor, fussed and fidgeted, poking the socks and underpants into vacant spaces, wondering aloud if he had enough woollies, or too few.

  – It could be hot there, she said. And then again it might be chilly in the evenings.

  – I’d better get up, he said. He didn’t really want to get up yet, but his mother irritated him, fussing with his bag. At last she zipped it shut and rose stiffly to her feet, tugging her dressing-gown across her narrow chest. Then, with one hand on the door handle, she paused and looked at him speculatively.

  – I hope you’ll be all right.

  – Why shouldn’t I be? he asked, disingenuously.

  – It’s a long way to go all on your own, at your age. Perhaps we should have got you a sleeper.

  – It was expensive, wasn’t it?

  – Shocking.

  Secretly, Timothy was glad they hadn’t got him a sleeper. It would have been another unfamiliar ritual, that he was glad not to have to cope with. And it would have increased the risk, which already haunted him, of sleeping through the stop at Mannheim, where he had to change trains for Heidelberg, and of being carried on into the depths of southern Europe, unable to communicate, short of money, hopelessly lost, hurtling at sixty miles an hour further and further away from home, family, friends.

  His mother still lingered at the door.

  – Kath won’t recognize you.

  This was a problem he hadn’t reckoned with.

  – Perhaps I should wear my school cap? he suggested anxiously.

  – Oh, she’ll pick you out all right. I only meant you’ve grown a lot since she last saw you . . . D’you want me to send on your results?

  – I ’spect I’ll be back before then. I’m only going for three weeks. Better not send them, anyway, in case they’re rotten.

  – Oh, they won’t be . . . Why do you think Kath hasn’t been home since forty-seven?

  The question took him by surprise.

  – Don’t ask me. She seems mad keen on travelling around Europe. I s’pose she thinks it’s a waste of time to spend her holidays at home.

  – But it’s not natural, is it, Timothy? You wouldn’t be like that if you had to live away from home, would you? You’d come home and see your mother and father from time to time, wouldn’t you?

  – Well, yes, I s’pose so. Course I would.

  He was embarrassed, and flinched from meeting the sad appeal of his mother’s pale grey eyes. There was something wrong with the tear duct in the left one, and there was usually moisture gathering in the corner of it. Her lined, unwashed face, surmounted by the turban covering her curlers, reminded him of the face that hovered anxiously over his bed in the nights of the Blitz, urging him to wake up and hurry along to the shelter.

  – I’m worried about Kath, Timothy.

  – Worried, what about?

  – I don’t think she can be happy. There’s something wrong with her life out there.

  – What makes you think that?

  – If she was happy, she’d want to come home occasionally, to show us. It’s only natural. If you’ve done well at school, come top or something, you like to come home and tell us, don’t you?

  – Well, yes, I s’pose so.

  – Well, then . . . She closed the door and came to sit on the end of his bed.

  – Timothy, I want you to try and find out what’s the matter with Kath. Why she never comes to see us.

  – You mean, ask her?

  – I don’t know. Perhaps. She probably wouldn’t tell you. Just keep your eyes open. You’re a clever boy. You don’t miss much.

  They heard his father come out of the next bedroom and go into the lavatory.

  – There’s your father. I’ll have to go and get his breakfast, I’m all behind. Why don’t you have yours in bed?

  – All right, thanks, Mum.

  – What would you like, bacon and tomatoes? I’ll do you a bit of fried bread to go with it, she said, getting up from the bed. I wonder what you’ll be eating this time tomorrow.

  As he ate his breakfast, Timothy mused on the conversation he had overheard on the beach at Worthing a year before. Without that, he wouldn’t have had a clue as to what his mother was driving at. But it was all too clear, now, why she had encouraged him to go to Heidelberg, and the realization made him uneasy. He had enough problems to face without having to spy on his sister, on whose companionship and protection he would be totally reliant in the next few weeks.

  He ate his breakfast slowly, putting off the moment when he would have to rise and prepare himself for his journey. The sun inched its way into the room, moving slowly across the threadbare carpet, fading the stain where he had spilled a bottle of ink two years ago, climbing the walls where he had hung the best of his paintings and sketches, together with a photograph of Charlton’s Cup-winning team of 1947, his First Holy Communion Certificate, and a diploma awarded by the Daily Express for his entry in a children’s painting competition. His eyes lingered on these and other fami
liar features of the room – the small table at which he did his homework, the drawing board and easel he had been given last Christmas, the crucifix on the wall, the balsawood model Spitfire on the chest of drawers, the bookcase mostly filled with books he had outgrown but was reluctant to throw away – Just William, Biggles, a complete set of The Boy’s Book of Soccer from 1946 to 1950, and comic annuals, Beano, Radio Fun and Champion. There were a few Penguins more recently acquired: Homer’s Odyssey, Herbert Read’s The Meaning of Art, Contemporary Verse, and Voltaire’s Candide (certain pages of which he had read several times).

  One advantage of his sister’s absence from home was that this room was permanently his, and the small, narrow one in which he had slept as a child was used as a box room. He liked his room, he had grown used to it; and although he added to its furnishings from time to time, he subtracted nothing. He liked the sense of continuity his possessions gave him, each object linking one year to the next in an unbroken succession, back to his earliest memories. Even One-Ear Rabbit peeped discreetly from the top of the wardrobe. His father was going to redecorate the room while he was away, but Timothy had stipulated that the same pale blue distemper was to be used on the walls, and that every picture should be returned to its original position. He knew how glad he would be to return to this familiar room. He looked forward to doing so already. He wanted nothing changed in his absence.

  When Timothy came downstairs his father had finished his breakfast and was rolling his first cigarette. It was a quarter to eight and soon he would be leaving for work. Timothy’s mother was to see him off from Victoria.

  – Well, son, all ready?

  – More or less, Dad.

  His father ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of the cigarette paper, twirled the little rubber and metal machine, and ejected a cigarette, still damp with spittle along the seam.