by Jack Higgins
I made it to the other side of the stairs where I could breathe clean air, and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. It occurred to me then that the evening was fast disintegrating, and that would never do. I glanced about me wildly and grabbed the nearest unattached female by the arm, a small, neat, redhead.
Perhaps I was too rough, or, what is even more probable, some hint of my previous partner still clung to me. The girl in question held me at arm’s length, her face averted, while we circled the floor three or four times. The moment the music came to an end, she left me to make my own way to the edge of the floor. It was enough. I went to the foyer, obtained a pass out and rushed coatless through the rain to the sanctuary of The Tall Man.
The bar, as was to be expected at that time on a Saturday night, was crowded. I finally managed to order a pint and retreated to a corner by the window, beside a group of six or seven young men of my own age, all wearing the blazer of the local rugby club.
One of them turned to stub out a cigarette and jogged my elbow. I recognized him at once as an old schoolfellow, if not friend. I remembered him as a boy of infinite vulgarity, a pest on the field and off, whose main delight had been a preoccupation with grabbing at one’s balls in the showers after a match. As I recalled, he had possessed only one talent, an ability to break wind at will, a rather infantile pastime, but a source of considerable pleasure to him, particularly when lady teachers were taking the form. He had been known quite simply as Dirty George. I could not even recall his surname.
From the way he acted it would have been reasonable to suppose that I was his oldest and dearest friend, encountered by chance at a distance of years, but I had never much cared for the rugby crowd. I declined his offer of a drink and got out of there as fast as I could.
Presumably my confidence must have been shaken for, as I recall, the next few hours were a complete disaster. When I returned to the Trocadero, I moved aimlessly through the crowd, apparently incapable of summoning up the courage to ask any girl to dance again.
Suddenly it was five past eleven and the place closed at eleven-thirty. I stood at the bottom of the stairs, down to my last two cigarettes, the evening in ruins, and became aware that Dirty George was standing beside me.
‘Hello, old man,’ he said. ‘Wondered where you’d got to. Having any luck?’ I shook my head glumly. He nodded sympathetically, his eyes wandering around the floor, and suddenly, an alert expression appeared on his face. He touched my arm. ‘Now there’s a dead cert if you like.’
He nodded towards the Blues’ bandstand and I saw a girl leaning against a pillar. She was perhaps eighteen and had very dark hair cut close to her head. The skirt of her blue dress was only knee-length and she wore platform shoes with ankle straps, the whole combining with a rather sullen orange mouth, to remind me excitingly of Ava.
‘Are you certain?’ I said.
‘You can’t go wrong, old man,’ he assured me solemnly.
I ploughed through the crowd at once and touched her elbow. ‘Care to dance?’
She examined me briefly then nodded. ‘If you like,’ she said casually.
I knew I was on to a good thing the moment I took hold of her. It was not just the bodily contact, although there was plenty of that, my knee moving between her thighs on each turn in the quickstep. The big thing was that she had a faint air of corruption about her. A suggestion of that fantasy figure that features in most men’s dreams at one time or another—the tart who will do anything she’s told to do.
Good old Dirty George. As the number came to an end I said brightly, ‘Who’s taking you home?’
Her brows lifted fractionally and there was a new look in her eyes. ‘You don’t waste any time, do you?’
‘Never could see the point,’ I told her and slipped a cigarette into the corner of my mouth, Bogart to the life. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Gloria,’ she said. ‘I’ll get my coat now and beat the rush. See you at the main door.’
She faded into the crowd and I moved towards the stairs, where Dirty George was standing with one of his green-blazered rugby pals. They were laughing hugely together at some private joke.
I slapped him on the back, full of goodwill. ‘Thanks. I’ll do the same for you sometime.’
The smile faded and he stared at me in astonishment. ‘You mean you got off with her?’
‘Just like you said,’ I told him. ‘A dead cert.’
He seemed bereft of speech for a moment and when he spoke, it was in a kind of hoarse whisper. ‘But I was only kidding, old man. Never clapped eyes on her in my life before.’
Which was really very funny and I patted him on the shoulder gently. ‘It only goes to prove, George,’ I said solemnly, ‘that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.’
I left him there, his mouth hanging open, and went upstairs to the cloakroom.
There had to be a snag, of course, and it was waiting for me in the foyer in the person of a tall, rather plain girl in a brown tweed coat and headscarf, whom Gloria introduced as her sister Pam. I didn’t mind if she walked home with us, did I? I managed a ready smile, but only just, and followed them outside.
The rain had developed into a hard, persistent downpour and looked as if it had settled in for the rest of the month. Gloria had an umbrella with her, which she and her sister shared, and I turned up the collar of my greatcoat, pulled my beret down over my eyes and trailed miserably in their wake.
We followed the main road for about a mile, the two girls discussing a film they’d seen together the previous night, making no attempt to include me in the conversation. On several occasions I was tempted simply to creep away, for I had the distinct impression that I would hardly be missed. The whole thing by then seemed a colossal waste of time. Finally, we turned off the main road into a corporation housing estate and moved into a cul-de-sac of semi-detached houses.
Gloria opened a gate and started along a narrow concrete path, her sister at her shoulder. I followed, for no good reason that I could see for she had still not spoken to me. At the rear of the house there was a small patch of lawn and a concrete porch with a light over it. There was also a light in the kitchen, although the curtains were drawn.
The girls paused in the porch. Gloria closed her umbrella, shaking it vigorously, and Pam turned to me. To my utter amazement, she smiled brightly. ‘Thanks for bringing me home,’ she said, opened the kitchen door and went inside, closing it again.
I turned to Gloria, my heart in my mouth, and reached out for her. She said calmly, ‘We’ll go in the greenhouse, if you like. It’s warm in there. My Dad leaves an oil heater on nights.’
In the same instant, the kitchen door was flung open and a wild-eyed youth with long, narrow sideboards punched me in the face.
I have never been much of a fighting man in spite of the Army’s attempts to teach me the rudiments of unarmed combat. Let’s say I was perfectly well aware of the theory of the thing. It was just that I baulked at putting it into practice.
In this case, I didn’t have much choice, if only for reasons of self-preservation. His fist grazed my cheek as he shouted incoherently, and I moved in close and tried to throw him over my hip in the approved manner. We went down together in an untidy heap, rolling about on the lawn in the rain, with him trying to punch my head in.
But help was on hand. There was Gloria’s umbrella, Pam’s handbag with which she flailed my assailant unmercifully about the head, and a small, bullet-headed man in shirt-sleeves who finally hauled him off me.
Gloria helped me to my feet while the other two sorted out Sideboards. ‘Stupid, jealous bastard!’ I heard Pam say, and then she and the gentleman in shirt-sleeves hustled him inside and closed the door.
I wiped mud from my face with my handkerchief. Gloria said calmly, ‘He’s a jealous devil is Ronnie. Can’t stand the idea of anyone seeing our Pam home. They had a row last Sunday so she wouldn’t go out with him tonight,’ she added by way of further explanation.
; ‘But I didn’t bring her home,’ I said in bewilderment. ‘Not the way you mean, anyway.’
‘But he thought you did,’ she said. ‘Gets in a blind rage when he’s in that mood. Only sees what he wants to see.’
By this time the whole business had taken on the aspect of some privileged nightmare, especially when she added, with a touch of impatience, ‘Come on, let’s go into the greenhouse if we’re going. I’m getting soaked.’
My cheek was beginning to hurt where he’d punched me, but it didn’t seem to matter in there, in the warm, paraffin-smelling darkness with the rain pattering against the glass roof.
She leaned back against the wooden door, strangely indifferent as I unbuttoned her coat, my heart thumping, and pulled her against me. When I kissed her, it was not that her mouth was unresponsive, it was simply neutral in a curious way, and yet she allowed me to caress her body at will. Finally, greatly daring, I slipped both hands beneath her skirt. I stayed there for a while holding her, my body trembling, perilously close to the point of explosion.
She said impatiently, ‘For God’s sake, don’t be all night about it.’
I peered at her in puzzlement, her face a dim shadow in the light of the small oil lamp. ‘What did you say?’
‘Are you going to have it or aren’t you?’ she demanded, then pushed me away quite violently and picked up her handbag and umbrella. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why I bother. You’re all the same. It’s all you ever want and it doesn’t mean a damn thing to me.’
She opened the door, pushed me outside, and I went meekly, utterly confused by this new vagary of female behaviour. When we reached the porch she said roughly, ‘We’ll say good night then,’ and disappeared inside.
So that was very much that. I went out through the gate, down the cul-de-sac towards the main road, and started the long walk home through the heavy rain.
The light was on in Jake’s room above the garage, in spite of the lateness of the hour, and I found him sitting by the fire reading a book. He made a fresh pot of tea and I dried myself by the hearth and recounted the evening’s events.
‘Poor Oliver,’ he said. ‘You’ve certainly had a night of it.’
‘But what was she playing at?’ I demanded.
‘God knows.’ He shrugged. ‘The female of the species comes in all shapes and sizes, old sport. Some of them just don’t take to the flesh at all.’
‘More likely she just didn’t take to me,’ I said morosely. ‘What did she expect, anyway?’
‘She probably thought you’d have it off in your trousers like a good boy and depart into the night, satisfied.’
‘The bitch!’ I said.
‘What you need, Oliver, is a good woman to take you in hand. Someone who’s been around long enough to know what it’s all about.’
‘And just where am I supposed to find someone like that?’
He smiled. Try the Trocadero next Tuesday or Wednesday. Nothing like as crowded as Saturdays. It’s cheaper, too.’
‘Why should I be any more successful then than I’ve been tonight?’ I asked him.
‘Oh, you get a different brand of customer during the week. Give it a try. You’ll see what I mean.’
I thought about what he had said as I walked home through the rain-soaked garden and later, sitting by the open window of my bedroom, smoking my last cigarette. I was tired, my face hurt, but I felt surprisingly cheerful. I’d had an adventure of sorts, which was something, and tomorrow, or to be more specific, next Tuesday, had a kind of infinite promise to it.
I went to bed, well content.
3
HELEN
Sooner or later what every young boy needs is a good woman to take him in hand.
ANON
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, THE whole world changed with the morning post. The first letter was important enough in its way, a cheque for one hundred and three pounds thirteen shillings from the Army, in settlement of all debts. But the second was the big surprise. A communication from the University of London to inform me of my success in the final examinations, which I had sat as an external student earlier in the year.
Without any false modesty, I can truly say that I had never expected to pass, for Sociology and Social Psychology had never particularly interested me. The only reason I had started the course in the first place was because the insurance firm I’d worked for before joining up had offered two afternoons off each week, on full pay, at the local college, and in those days I was willing to do anything to get out of the office. I’d only bothered to take my finals because the Army had offered what they termed compassionate leave to come home to sit the examinations, a chance not to be missed.
But now, for good or ill, I was a Bachelor of Science with Third Class Honours, thanks to failing a compulsory paper in Statistics which had reduced me a class. I gave Jake a ring at his office to impart the good news and arranged to have lunch with him. He only had an hour so we adjourned to a pub round the corner from his place and ordered beer and sandwiches.
He sat in a booth and toasted me solemnly. ‘To you, old sport. I think it’s bloody marvellous. The thing is, now you’ve got it, what are you going to do with it?’
‘God knows,’ I said. ‘I never expected to pass.’
‘They’ll probably offer you promotion if you go back to the old firm now,’ he said.
I shook my head firmly. ‘That’s out for a start. I’ll never work in an office again as long as I live. That’s a promise.’
‘How long have you been writing now?’
‘Since I was thirteen.’
‘And never sold a word.’
‘All right,’ I said with some feeling, for it was the one area in my life that was really of importance to me. ‘Don’t rub it in.’
‘I didn’t intend to. Simply wanted to make the point that you can’t expect to make a living in that quarter, or at least not for some time.’
I sat there rather glumly, thinking it over, and he went to get two more beers. When he returned, he was frowning thoughtfully. ‘What about teaching?’ he said as he sat down.
I stared at him blankly. ‘Teaching? But I haven’t got any training, you know that.’
‘You don’t need any,’ he said and swallowed some of his beer. ‘A client of ours was telling me there’s such a shortage of teachers these days, they’ll take anybody. As long as they’ve got a degree, that is.’
It didn’t seem very probable to me. I said, ‘Are you sure?’
He nodded. ‘Oh, yes, as long as you’ve got a degree they’ll take you without teacher training.’
‘Any degree?’
‘Apparently. You could do worse, you know. Nine to four, twelve weeks’ holiday a year. Leave you plenty of time to write.’ He finished the rest of the beer and stood up. ‘I’ll have to run. See you later. I’d give it some thought if I were you.’
Which I did, with the aid of another pint, finally phoning the local Education Offices from the call box in the corner of the bar. With a promptness that I should have recognized as suspicious in any branch of local government, I was invited for an interview at three o’clock that very afternoon.
The interview, if such it can be termed, was conducted by Messrs Crosby and Dawson, two of the most genial men I’ve ever met in my life. This fact alone should have given me pause for thought, considering that they were inspectors of education. The blunt truth was that I simply didn’t realize how thin on the ground teachers were at that time, particularly in the industrial North.
From their first firm handshake to their exclamations of ecstasy on examining the letter from London University confirming my new status, they were entirely on my side. In fact for most of the time they discussed me solemnly as if I was not there, extolling my scholarship and other virtues to a degree that would have proved embarrassing had it not been so ridiculously extravagant.
In the end, after much apparent perusal of various files, they announced that they would be happy to offer me a temporary appointment a
s an assistant master for a probationary period, at a salary of thirty-three pounds, ten shillings and twopence per calendar month. Which seemed reasonable enough.
I filled in the necessary form and signed it. Mr Crosby pulled it away from me with what I can only describe as indecent haste. His smile, as he cast his eye over it, seemed just a trifle more formal than before.
‘And when would my duties commence?’ I enquired.
‘Next Monday, I think.’ He took the card that Dawson passed him from a box file. ‘We have an excellent post for you here. Most suitable. Couldn’t be better. You are familiar with the Bagley area of the city?’
I was indeed. One of the roughest slums on the wrong side of the river. I nodded, my heart sinking a little, and he passed the card across. ‘The address is on there. Mr Carter’s the man to see. One of our most able headmasters. If you’ve time, I suggest you pop along and see him at close of school today.’
I examined the card slowly. ‘Khyber Street Secondary Modern School.’
He smiled blandly, ‘I’m sure you’ll have a great deal to offer to older boys, Mr Shaw, a man of your experience.’ The full horror of it didn’t hit me until I saw the school, although the district itself was bad enough, with its cobbled streets and wretched little back-to-back terraces, the lavatories grouped together in small yards halfway along every street, each one serving four houses.
The school was a grim, forbidding building in brick and stone, well-blackened by the years, and gave a rather curious impression of height, mainly, I think, because the best use had had to be made of a rather small site. It certainly towered above the roofs of the surrounding houses, and reminded me of some Dickensian workhouse more than anything else, which was hardly surprising. Originally it had been what was known in the trade as a board school, a product of that sudden late-Victorian interest in educating the workers.
