Out of the Shelter

by David Lodge

  – Not to me, he doesn’t. Listen, I think Don is a thoroughly nice guy. He’s just not my type, that’s all. For one thing, I can’t stand a man that uses a purse.

  – I think he was a bit disappointed about next weekend.

  – Disappointed! I thought he was pretty fresh, myself. I don’t go away for weekends with every Tom, Dick and Harry, you know.

  – Well, I was supposed to go with you.

  – As chaperone, huh? She put her hands on her broad hips and grinned at him. You think you could defend my virtue if it came to the pinch?

  – I thought you wanted to lose it, he said cheekily. He ducked as she slapped at him, almost too hard to be playful.

  – Watch it, young brother! And remember, if you ever repeat a word of what I told you last night, I’ll wring your neck.

  – Kate, couldn’t Don come with us to Garmisch?

  She looked taken aback.

  – Why should he?

  – Well, I think he was banking on seeing us this weekend – my last weekend. I’ll ask him, if you like. I think he’d jump at it.

  – I’m sure he would. But I’m not sure what Vince and Greg would think . . .

  – Well, ask them.

  She pondered.

  – I’ll see, Timothy. Now don’t forget the Mercers, tomorrow.

  The Mercers lived in one of the big apartment blocks the Americans had built for their personnel in South Heidelberg – America Town, as Kate’s friends called it, with a slight sneer of condescension in their voices. Certainly there was nothing to remind one of Germany in the neat, rectilinear streets and the featureless, repetitive buildings. The pavements were curiously deserted, though there were plenty of cars on the broad, smooth roads – huge Fords and Pontiacs and Chryslers, that cruised past with whispering tyres. After alighting from his yellow bus, Timothy had some difficulty locating the right block, but at last he found it. Some American children lounging at the foot of the stairs fell silent and stared at him as he approached.

  – Is this Lincoln Block? he asked.

  – Yep, said one. Another extruded a large bubble of gum from his mouth and made it pop. As they made no move to let him pass, he stepped over them and proceeded up the stairs.

  Mrs. Mercer looked blankly at him when she opened the door. She was a thin, tired-looking woman in a flowered housecoat, with her hair in plaits. A little girl about three years old, sucking her thumb and clasping a filthy ragged blanket, clung to her mother’s skirts.

  – Timothy who? Oh, yeah, Kate’s brother, come on in, said Mrs. Mercer. Lulu, don’t get in the way, now. This is Timothy, he’s from England.

  – Hallo, said Timothy. Lulu went on sucking.

  – She’s a little slow, speechwise, Mrs. Mercer explained. But the paediatrician says to talk to her all the time. No baby-talk, though.

  – Well, I don’t know any baby-talk.

  Mrs. Mercer laughed.

  – You have a wonderful accent, anyway.

  – My sister doesn’t think so.

  – Ah, now, your sister’s in a class of her own. That’s what I call a beautiful English accent.

  She led him into what seemed to be the living-room. He was uncertain because the furniture was strewn with large quantities of washing, some clean and some dirty. He followed her about the apartment as she searched for her sons, and every room displayed the same confusion of function. There were dirty plates in the bedrooms, toys and sports equipment in the kitchen, and a wireless playing in the empty bathroom.

  – The boys must have gone out, said Mrs. Mercer. She went to the front door and shouted down the stairwell: Larry! Con!

  In due course, the boy who had answered his enquiry at the foot of the stairs, and the one with the bubble gum, slouched into the apartment. Though they were both younger than himself, Larry was a head higher and Con almost as tall.

  – Larry, Con, this is Timothy, said their mother.

  – We already met, said Larry.

  – I’m awful hungry, Mom, said Con. He blew another bubble.

  – O.K., I’ll fix you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Would you like a sandwich, Timothy?

  He declined politely, thinking that it was too near lunchtime. After a confused exchange of remarks, he realized that the sandwich was lunch, and changed his mind. They ate in the kitchen, sitting on high stools before a high narrow table like the counter of a snack bar. Conversation was slow.

  – Whaddya doin’ in Heidelberg? Larry asked him, his mouth full of peanut butter sandwich.

  – I’m on vacation, he said. The word holiday already sounded quaint to his ears.

  – Crappy place to come for a vacation, Con remarked.

  – Con! I’ve told you before not to use that word, said his mother.

  – Don’t you like it here? Timothy asked.

  – Nope. Nothin’ to do.

  – What are you boys going to do with Timothy this afternoon? said Mrs. Mercer.

  – There’s a new movie downtown, said Larry.

  – You went to the movies yesterday.

  – Well, there’s nothin’ else to do.

  – You could go to the pool. Have you been to the pool, Timothy?

  – Yes, he said.

  – He’s been to the pool, said Larry, spinning round on his stool and jumping down. Can I have some money for the movie?

  – I guess so, Mrs. Mercer sighed. She took some money from a purse and handed it to him.

  – Aw, come on, Mom, have a heart!

  – The movie is only fifty cents each.

  – Yeah, but there’s the popcorn, and I thought maybe he’d like a milkshake after. Larry indicated Timothy with a jerk of his head.

  – Oh, all right, here you are. And put a clean shirt on, both of you, before you go out.

  The two boys rooted through the laundry in the living-room till they found two clean tee-shirts. They seemed to have no personal property among the clothes, which Timothy found very strange. With the tee-shirts they wore jeans and grubby basketball boots, and before leaving the apartment they shrugged on light zipped windcheaters. Timothy felt rather overdressed beside them in his new jacket and trousers.

  – What shire d’you come from? Larry asked him, as they jolted back to the city centre in a yellow bus.

  – Shire? Timothy repeated blankly.

  – Yeah, doncha call ’em shires in England, like we have states? Yorkshire and Lancashire.

  – Oh! I come from London, that isn’t in a shire, really. Where do you come from in America?

  – Kentucky, most lately.

  – Where they have the Kentucky Derby?

  – Right! You heard of it? Larry seemed pleased, genuinely friendly for the first time.

  As they approached the cinema the numbers of American children and teenagers thickened on the pavement. They sauntered along with a characteristically lazy, looselimbed gait, bright shirts hanging outside their patched jeans, never singly, always in packs, their voices twanging unselfconsciously. They seemed not to feel the compulsion Timothy always felt to camouflage himself on the streets of Heidelberg, to conceal the fact that he belonged to the enemy, the occupiers. Rather, they behaved simply as if the Germans weren’t there, as if they had landed on the moon, bringing all the apparatus of their civilization with them. The first things that drew the eye in the shabby foyer of the requisitioned cinema were the shiny modern booths selling popcorn, hotdogs and soft drinks. Inside the auditorium a more mysterious modification aroused his curiosity: the arms had been removed from alternate seats in the back rows.

  – Love-seats, Larry explained impassively, his hand moving rhythmically from popcorn bag to mouth and back again.

  Love-seats! The idea, and its practical application all around him, distracted his attention from the cowboy film they had come to see. Love-seats: it brazenly acknowledged that people came to the cinema for that. You took your girl friend to the pictures and at the ticket booth you said, two love-seats, please, and nobody raised an
eyebrow, apparently. Fantastic.

  With half his mind he jeered at this institutionalized licence, while with the other half he coveted it. It was childish, yes, that was the word for it, for all of them, they were all childish – he felt himself to be immeasurably older than any of them, however tall they were. But it was a childhood he had never known, and he coveted it in spite of himself.

  So, although he felt half bored and ill-at-ease in their company, he hung on to Larry and Con as they came out of the cinema, blinking in the sunlight (a crime, his mother would have called it, to waste such a glorious afternoon at the pictures) and went with them to a milk-bar nearby. It was an American establishment that he hadn’t visited before, its customers mainly G.I.s and the teenagers who now crowded in noisily from the cinema. Behind the narrow, unobtrusive façade on Bergheimerstrasse a whole little America opened up, all pink neon and chromium plating. Tall, broad-shouldered soldiers sat at the counters sucking at straws, or stood leafing through the magazines and comic books displayed on a long rack by the door. A huge, monolithic jukebox, standing like an altar against the end wall, throbbed and boomed.

  – They make the best ice-cream sodas in town here, Larry said. Twelve flavours.

  – Howard Johnson does thirty-nine, said Con.

  – I sure wish they’d open a Howard Johnson in Heidelberg, Larry sighed. Well, let’s make a pool. I got one dollar fifty. He threw the scrip onto the table.

  – I only have a dime, said Con. Mom always gives you all the money. How much you got? he said, turning to Timothy.

  Timothy imprudently produced a five dollar bill.

  – Gee! exclaimed Con, with wide eyes, we can have three each.

  – Four, said Larry. Four, minimum.

  Timothy felt it would be impolite to question the fairness of this arrangement. They started with a round of chocolate, and went on to pineapple and then strawberry. The ice-cream sodas were indeed superb, but Timothy found it difficult to finish his strawberry one. When, however, Larry rose unsteadily to his feet to order a fourth round, Timothy felt it would be a confession of weakness to refuse.

  – What’ll it be this time? Larry demanded, leaning heavily on the back of his chair.

  Con leaned back at a dangerous angle to examine the printed menu posted on the wall.

  – How ’bout pistachio?

  Larry nodded his agreement, but appeared incapable of raising his chin from his chest.

  – Pistachio it is, he said in a slurred voice, and shuffled off to the counter with his head bowed.

  – What’s Con short for? Timothy enquired conversationally.

  Con looked abstracted, as if he hadn’t heard the question, or had forgotten the answer. Then he belched and a grin of relief spread across his round, freckled face.

  – Constantine, he said.

  – After the Roman Emperor?

  – You tryin’ to be smart? After my grandpa.

  Timothy changed the subject, enquiring about the purpose of the small metal boxes, fitted with buttons and knobs, that were fixed on the wall above each table.

  – For the jukebox, Con explained. Remote control. Saves you walkin’ over there.

  Just like the love-seats. Americans!

  Larry returned with the brilliantly green ice-cream sodas. Leaning forward on his elbows, sucking raptly, Larry became confiding, even maudlin, drooling on about soda-fountains at home, about hot-rod races and ball games and T.V. programmes.

  – You got T.V. in England?

  –Yes.

  – You’re lucky, there ain’t nothin’ here. How many channels?

  – Channels?

  – Yeah, like, how many different programmes can you get?

  – Oh, just the one. Just the B.B.C.

  – Just one? They both looked at him with pity and contempt.

  – You have adverts on your television, don’t you? said Timothy. We don’t in England.

  – Whaddya have between the programmes, then?

  – Nothing. Just interludes.

  – Interwhats?

  – Well, they just show a picture of a field, or a waterfall, or something. While you wait for the next programme.

  Larry looked suspicious.

  – You havin’ us on, or somethin’?

  – I used to like the commercials, said Con. Some of them were really neat.

  Timothy’s attention was caught by some young girls who got up from a table on the other side of the room. They lingered, shuffling their feet to the rhythm of the jukebox, bantering with some boys who remained seated at the table. They all wore tight blue jeans, cut off and frayed at mid-calf. Larry brought his head close to Timothy’s.

  – See the girl in the yellow sweater? he murmured, the sickly-sweet scent of pistachio heavy on his breath.

  – Yes, said Timothy, who had already picked her out.

  – Her name’s Gloria Rose. She shows her tits to guys for a dollar. In the garages back of Lincoln.

  Con sniggered, and thrust his hands down between his thighs.

  – Seems expensive, said Timothy. You can see quite a lot for nothing.

  It was an instinctive reflex, the kind of cool, patronizing comment he had used so often to deflect challenges to his sexual experience and curiosity. The trouble was, it tended to put a stop to further conversation. He waited hopefully, eyeing the jutting breasts of Gloria Rose from under lowered lids. A dollar to see them, pink and bare. And how much would she show for five dollars? Everything, surely. He took a deep, distracted draught of his ice-cream soda, and felt a wave of nausea rise from his stomach.

  – ’Scuse me, he said, getting up abruptly. He stumbled off towards what he hoped was the toilet. If by any chance it wasn’t the toilet, something terrible was going to happen.

  It was unfortunate that the boys had invited him and Kate to dinner that evening, in their luxurious apartment on the top floor of one of the massive old houses that brooded like castles over the Neckar on the north side. The boys cooked and served the meal themselves, with considerable style. The table was beautifully laid, with gleaming cutlery and glass, stiff white linen and flowers. Clusters of red candles splayed out from special holders at each end. The food itself was obviously delicious, but, still queasy from the ice-cream sodas, Timothy had no appetite for it. He explained that he wasn’t feeling well, and was allowed to leave the table before the meal was over. In the adjoining room was an amazing gramophone that changed records automatically, and the records themselves were of a long-playing type that he had never seen before. Greg had loaded the machine with a stack of records at the beginning of the evening, and Timothy was sufficiently entertained just watching the robot-like movement of the automatic changer.

  Kath came in with her coffee, flushed and replete, and sank into a deep sofa.

  – The boys wouldn’t let me help clear up, and I didn’t argue with them, she said. Listen, I had a word with them about Don, about Garmisch, and they weren’t too keen.

  – Oh.

  – You won’t mind if we don’t invite him along, will you?

  – No.

  – As Greg said, these trips are no fun if there’s one person who doesn’t fit in.

  – You think that’s the real reason?

  – What d’you mean?

  – You don’t think they’re a bit . . . jealous?

  Kate tittered.

  – Well, there may be something of that too. What are you doing tomorrow?

  – Going cycling with Rudolf, he said gloomily.

  – Oh, yes. Well, have fun.

  *

  The bikes Rudolf provided were heavy, clumsy machines, with no gears, broad, feminine saddles and soft, fat tyres made of a curious whitish rubber. Not the sort of thing a subscriber to Cycling would normally be seen dead on, though he saw the advantage of the thick tyres as they bumped over the cobbles and tramlines of Heidelberg. Rudolf managed surprisingly well with his one arm, except for a certain awkwardness when starting off. Their route took them away
from the mountains, into the flat, hazy plain that stretched towards the Rhine. Trams ran out into the country here – they looked comical running past fields full of cattle. The earth was baked and dry from the recent heatwave. Dust hung in the air, and exhaust fumes mingled with the smells of dung and hay. It was all very much more ordinary than the spectacular scenery of the Neckar valley. Just country.

  Rudolf was full of enthusiasm for the English countryside, especially Cornwall, where he had been interned as a prisoner-of-war. It seemed queer to Timothy to be discussing the finer points of the English landscape in this context. He had seen German prisoners of war, once, in the railway sidings at Blyfield. They stared from the windows: sallow, ill-shaven faces under peaked caps, dressed in drab dungarees. A few British soldiers with slung rifles walked up and down beside the train. He watched the prisoners from the safe vantage point of a footbridge, with a mixture of pity and hatred. The train was kept waiting for nearly the whole day, and after it had gone there was a bad smell from the sidings. The villagers were indignant, and somebody in a shop said they should have been made to clean it up, it was all they were fit for. And now, a few years later, he cycled beside someone who had been such a prisoner, exchanging pleasant remarks about the English hedgerows. It was a queer world.

  After a while, he summoned up the courage to ask Rudolf a question.

  – Did you try to escape?

  Rudolf laughed.

  – Certainly not! Are you kidding? Escape – that is very good. You have no idea how happy we were to be prisoners.

  – Happy?

  – Naturally! We were safe, well-fed, medicine if we needed. It was like a vacation. Let me tell you, they billeted us in, how do you call it, a vacation camp?

  – Holiday camp?

  – Ja, holiday camp. Little huts beside the sea. Clean blankets. Even table tennis. It was the best part of the war for me.

  A queer world.

  They stopped for a picnic lunch at a swimming place – not a proper pool, but a stretch of river that had been cordoned off and provided with tents for changing, and picnic tables. Timothy didn’t fancy the murky water and the squishy mud you would have to tread on before you got out of your depth. But he was glad of the opportunity to rest and cool off under the shade of some trees while Rudolf went for a dip.