Out of the Shelter

by David Lodge

  – Seriously?

  – Seriously. Of course, your being the favourite at home just added to it.

  – Was I the favourite?

  – Well, of course you were! And there was such a big age difference between us that I was sure they’d adopted me because they thought they couldn’t have any children of their own, and that you came along unexpectedly – which was true, actually.

  – Was it?

  – Oh yes. Mum was warned not to have any more children after me – it was a difficult birth, apparently. But when you came along it all went off all right, and she’s had a soft spot for you ever since.

  Kate took another cigarette from the pack and offered him one.

  – Oh, I keep forgetting.

  – I think I’ll try one, he said.

  – My, I’m really leading you astray, aren’t I. Have you ever smoked before?

  – Once or twice.

  Furtive drags on shared Woodbines in the bicycle sheds at school, little acrid shreds of tobacco left on the tongue. This was different. Cloudy cottonwool feeling in your mouth. He coughed.

  – I used to wonder why I was fat when none of the rest of you were. It all seemed to add up. Then one day I found out I really was Mum’s child. But it was a bit of a shock.

  – Why?

  – When I tried to join the W.A.A.F.s, I had to take my birth certificate along to the recruiting office. I’d never seen it before. Well, that proved it. But in the same envelope was Mum and Dad’s marriage certificate. And looking at the dates I realized I was born six months after they were married.

  She looked at him meaningfully.

  – So what? he said.

  – Oh, Timothy, I thought you knew a bit more about the facts of life than I did at your age! It means that I was conceived out of wedlock, as they say.

  – Good Lord, he said, blushing.

  – Makes you think, doesn’t it? As a matter of fact, the idea rather tickles me. Makes Mum and Dad seem more human. But I was very shocked at the time. I thought they were such hypocrites, on at me all the time about wearing lipstick and staying out too late. Of course that’s just why they were like that. It’s classic. What’s the matter with your cigarette?

  – It’s gone out.

  – Cigarettes don’t go out, she giggled, flicking her lighter for him. When you’ve finished it I must take you back. It’s getting late.

  But somehow she didn’t take him back to Dolores’ room, not for a long time. Too many barriers had gone down, too many doors had been opened, for them to stop easily. They slid together down an endless slope of disclosure. He could almost feel himself growing older as she talked, feeling his brain swelling under the pressure of so much new information – as he felt, when he stretched in his bed at night, those aches in his limbs his mother called growing pains. And when he did finally get to bed, although it was very late, and he was very tired, he couldn’t sleep for a long time, going over in his mind different parts of their conversation, hearing Kate’s voice saying:

  – I don’t know how I survived that year in Paris intact. I think I was so innocent that it took the men’s breath away. They just didn’t know how to seduce a girl who knew so little. I mean, I’d let a fellow take me out on the town, give me a meal, which was all black-market and cost the earth, and then take me to a night club, and then at the end of the evening, I’d shake hands. Shake hands! What they must have thought . . . Only one of them got really nasty about it. He called me up at the office once and called me a prick-teaser. I didn’t even know what he meant. I remember I asked him, Would you please repeat that? in my best secretarial manner, and he did too, in the Army signal code – you know, P for Papa, R for Roger, and I wrote it all down and stared at it and sort of guessed what it meant and slammed the phone down. I thought he was some kind of maniac. But I suppose he was right, really. Of course, I was still a good Catholic girl in those days. Just a cuddle in the back of a taxi was enough to send me rushing off to Confession. The idea of going to bed with a man never entered my head.

  – Then I fell in love. The real thing. Boom. His name was Adam. A Captain in the Army. I’d never met anyone like him in all my life. He wasn’t a bit brash, but gentle and sophisticated and courteous. He was older than most of the men I knew, and I thought the sun and moon shone out of his eyes. There was a vague understanding that we should get married one day, when the war was over, but I didn’t dare think about it – you lived from day to day then, because the fighting was still going on and you never knew what might happen. So when he told me one day that he was being transferred to the front line, and would I spend our last weekend together with him at a hotel near Paris, I said I would. I didn’t know what it entailed, exactly. I knew it meant that we were going to do it, whatever it was. But I didn’t care. I felt more like a bride than a mistress, anyway, all solemn and shy as the day approached. Then quite by chance his file came into our office, and I saw that he was married with a wife and four children back in the States. And he wasn’t even going to the front – he was posted to Brussels, which had been liberated weeks before.

  – I was bitter and resentful and full of self-pity for a long time, even after I was posted to Germany. What pulled me together was coming home, that first time after the war. I realized how dreary life was in England, and how lucky I was to be out of it. So I was a fat girl whom nobody wanted to marry – who cared? I could still have a good time, live in comfort, see the world. And what was so great about marriage anyway? I didn’t think Mum had had much of a life. And I’d seen enough broken marriages, infidelities, divorces and so on in the Army (being in the Chaplain’s Department, we saw a lot of that sort of thing). When I was posted to Heidelberg, I started a new life, made new friends, with people like Vince and Greg, Dot and Maria. I have a feeling that all of us, at some time in the past, were badly hurt. We never discuss the past, or our families, it’s just a feeling. But we have something in common. We want to forget, perhaps that’s it. We want to live in the present. We want fun and companionship without emotional involvement, without the risk of getting hurt again. And we do have a lot of fun, you’ve seen that. But it can’t go on for ever.

  – I decided about a year ago that I wouldn’t wait to be fired. I’m going to emigrate to the States, Timothy. I can go at any time. My papers are all filed, my sponsors laid on. I haven’t told anyone except Vince and Greg, and now you. The main thing that’s holding me back is that Mum and Dad won’t understand. They’ll think that I’m deserting them. I’m hoping that you’ll support me, Timothy, that you’ll be able to make them understand. I can’t stay here indefinitely, and I can’t go back to England. You see that, don’t you? I must go on, not back, and the States is the obvious place. Of course, I may hate it and want to come back, but I don’t think so. You don’t think I’m being selfish, do you? What could I expect if I went back to England? A shorthand-typist’s job at ten pounds a week, if I was lucky. It’s different for you, you’re clever, you’ll have all kinds of opportunities. Perhaps by the time you grow up, England will be a different place. But there’ll never be opportunities for me. Whereas in the States a good secretary can earn five thousand dollars a year. I’ll be able to fly back to see you all from time to time. Or you could fly out to America and see me, have another holiday like this one. That would be fun, wouldn’t it? You do see that it’s the only thing for me to do, don’t you Timothy? Don’t you?

  He added a little more shadow under the arches of the bridge, softened the effect with his eraser, blew the crumbs of rubber away, and held up the sketch pad. The drawing was finished. It was quite good. The statue on the bridge looked a bit odd, but he had never been much good at figures. Otherwise it was all right. Kate and her friends would be impressed. But it looked a bit dead, grey and lifeless, in pencil.

  He got out his little box of water-colours. Water. He scrambled down the bank to the river and filled his water container. It was a pleasing idea to paint the river with the river. He climbed back to
his original position and began carefully to tint the drawing, testing his colours on the back of the Worthing postcard, until his mother’s words were nearly obliterated.

  He glanced at his watch: time to go. He wanted to take a shower at Fichte Haus before Kate got back from work. Don was coming for them at seven. It was a full life he was leading. There were times when he thought it must be the fullest life in the history of boyhood.

  2

  DON HAD SUGGESTED taking Timothy and Kate to one of the old inns where the Heidelberg students congregated, and they had made a date for Monday after the weekend at Baden. But when Kate came in from work she said:

  – Would you mind very much going with Don on your own this evening? I feel absolutely done in after the weekend. And all that talking last night

  – It won’t be much fun without you, he said doubtfully.

  – And it won’t be much fun with me, I’ve got a splitting headache.

  – Have a shower – you’ll feel better.

  She grinned wearily at him.

  – You’ve become a Shower enthusiast already. What did you do with yourself today?

  Timothy showed her his drawing of the Old Bridge.

  – Why, that’s beautiful, Timothy! Can I add it to my collection?

  – I thought I’d send it to Mum and Dad. I’ll do you another one. Kate, Don is borrowing a car tonight, specially.

  – Is he? Who from?

  – Some friend in the Army. He’ll be disappointed if you don’t come.

  She considered, sighed.

  – Oh, all right.

  The car that Don had borrowed was a battered Volkswagen. It seemed cramped and noisy after the cars Timothy had been riding in lately. When the engine was going, conversation was hardly possible. Fortunately they didn’t have to drive very far. Don took them first to a floating restaurant, on a boat moored near the New Bridge. Timothy had often seen it, lit up at night, looking down from the terrace of the Molkenkur, and had asked Kate about it. Looks pretty, doesn’t it? she had said. But I’m told the food’s not terribly good. Germans go there mostly.

  – Well, doesn’t this look pretty, she said, as they drew up and Don hopped out of the car to open the door for her. All these lights and the water. I’ve always wanted to come here.

  Timothy hoped Don could not detect the note of insincerity in her voice, or the speculative sniff she gave as they seated themselves on the deck. There was a bit of a pong coming off the murky water. When Don quipped Fresh from the river! as he filled their water glasses, the joke was a little too close for comfort, and he noticed that Kate didn’t drink any of hers.

  Timothy didn’t enjoy the meal very much, partly because the food wasn’t particularly good, but more because he felt somehow responsible for the social success of the evening. Conversation was sticky at first. After they had tried one or two fruitless topics – gambling, in which Don wasn’t interested, and politics, in which Kate wasn’t – they got onto the pros and cons of life in Europe and America.

  –What about California, Don? said Kate. Did you say your family had moved there?

  – Yes, but I’ve never been. They seem to like it, especially the climate.

  – It sounds like the Mediterranean with all mod. cons., said Kate. If I ever emigrate to America, I think I’ll go to California.

  – Is that what you plan to do? said Don.

  – Oh, it’s just an idea, said Kate airily. You never know what the future holds.

  – What would your folks say?

  – What do yours say? she countered.

  –Touché, said Don. Shall we go and explore some of these inns?

  – I think one will be enough, if you don’t mind, Don. Timothy and I had a heavy weekend.

  – Sure.

  There was an embarrassing little wrangle over the bill. Kate wanted to pay for herself and Timothy, but Don had his way, counting out the notes and coins carefully from a leather purse.

  The Germans in the bar all looked up when they entered. There were some young women present, in blouses and skirts, but Kate stood out exotically in her cream-coloured linen suit and high-heeled shoes, like visiting royalty. The young waiter who found them a place at one of the long trestle tables dusted the bench down solicitously with his apron before she sat down.

  The bar comprised two rooms, one at a lower level than the other, both furnished with long bare wooden tables deeply scarred with initials and mottoes. The ceiling was dark with smoke and heavily beamed: the grimy walls were almost covered with posters, banners, and old-fashioned photographs of young men in strange clothes and funny hats. The drinkers sat on the benches with thick mugs of beer before them. Most wore open-necked shirts with rolled-up sleeves, and some wore grey leather shorts.

  – So this is a students’ beer-cellar, said Kate, peeling off her gloves and looking curiously around.

  – You mean you’ve never been to one before? said Don. After all your time in Heidelberg?

  – Well, a girl can’t very well come in here on her own, can she? And my friends don’t go much for this sort of thing.

  – Do you?

  – I don’t know, yet, she laughed. Give me a chance!

  After a while, the singing started. A man sitting at the head of one of the long tables rapped on it with his beer mug and intoned a phrase. The rest of the men at the table took up the song in resounding chorus, sitting up very straight and staring before them with stern concentration. When they finished the other people in the bar applauded, and went on with their conversation. The singers smiled modestly at each other and took deep draughts of beer. Then, after a few minutes, the leader rapped on the table again and started another song.

  – I guess it’s some kind of society, Don explained. They probably have a regular meeting here, and the people come along to hear them sing. Usually it’s more casual – everybody joins in.

  – It’s certainly not much like a knees-up at an English local, is it Timothy?

  – Knees-up? Don enquired, intrigued. But as she was starting to explain, the singers struck up again. When they had finished, Timothy asked Don what the song had been about.

  – It’s about the castles of the Rhine. Which reminds me, Kate, don’t you think Timothy should see the Rhine while he’s in Germany?

  – Well, yes, that would be nice, but the pretty part is a good way away.

  – I was wondering whether we might take a little trip, the three of us, next weekend. Take a cruise up the Rhine, and stay over some place. They have boats that leave from Mainz. It’s very scenic.

  – Oh, I know! But unfortunately, Don, we’ve got something planned already for next weekend. I’m taking him to Garmisch, with some friends, to the Rest Centre there. And I’m afraid that will be Timothy’s last weekend.

  – Oh, well, it was just a thought, said Don.

  – My last weekend, said Timothy, to fill the awkward silence that followed. I’d forgotten that.

  – Cheer up, said Kate. There’s plenty of time before you have to go home. Which reminds me, I fixed up some company for you tomorrow. Some boys of your own age for a change.

  – Who? he asked suspiciously.

  – Sons of a Captain I know, Ralph Mercer, he often comes into my office. He’s got a sweet wife out here with him, in married quarters, and three children. I mentioned you were visiting me, and Mrs. Mercer rang me at the office today and said why don’t you go over to their apartment tomorrow. You can have lunch with them, and her boys will take you somewhere in the afternoon.

  – Do I have to?

  – No of course you don’t have to, said Kate, and pinched her lips together in a way that reminded him of his mother when she was displeased.

  – Oh, all right, then, he said. How old are these kids, anyway?

  – Larry is fifteen, I think, and the other boy is a bit younger. I’m sure you’ll be glad when you go. You’ve had so much grown-up company lately, it will be a nice change.

  – How would you like to mee
t the kids in my class? Don asked him. Maybe you could give them a little talk about England.

  – Who, me?

  – Yes, why don’t you, Timothy, said Kate. I bet you’d do it jolly well.

  – Well, I’ll think about it, he said, secretly flattered.

  During the next song, Kate put her lips to his ear and whispered: All right if we go after this? He nodded his assent. The bench felt uncomfortably hard, and the ponderous foreign singing was beginning to get on his nerves. He thought that on the whole he preferred Kate’s way of spending an evening out. Nevertheless he defended Don’s entertainment loyally when they were alone together in the lift going up to Dolores’ room.

  – Had a lot of atmosphere, didn’t it, that beer-cellar? he ventured.

  – I’ll say! You could have cut it with a knife. And the smell of the river at dinner. Phew!

  – I didn’t notice, he lied. But did you enjoy the evening otherwise?

  – Well, it was a change. Got your key? Don’s a nice boy, but he’s not exactly a thousand laughs, is he?

  – Too serious, you mean?

  – He kind of sits back and lets things happen. If nothing happens, that’s fine by him. Now what I like about Vince and Greg is, they make things happen.

  – I’ve had some pretty interesting talks with Don, said Timothy, as they entered his room.

  – What about?

  – Oh . . . the war. The concentration camps.

  Kate threw up her hands.

  – Wonderful! There’s nothing I like more than a nice cosy chat about concentration camps.

  – Vince talks about Hitler all the time, Timothy pointed out.