England's Lane

by Joseph Connolly

  “Milly. Hallo. Good to see you. All right, are you …?”

  And Milly, despite just everything, she had to smile at the question, as well as the sight of him. He seemed to her at that moment to be the very embodiment of helplessness—eager yet defeated: his beaten face and questioning eyes vying for the upper hand in a hopeless, forgotten and eternal war: an abandoned Jap in the jungle, with everyone else gone home. And now he wants to know, Stan, whether or not I’m all right. Well—quite a question. Shall I tell him? Shall I say to him well actually no, Stan, since you come to ask me—I’m not. All right. Not at all all right: all right is very far from the way I am feeling. Of course he doesn’t really mind either way—but even supposing he did, where on earth to begin? Stan, all he wants to hear about is Jane, of course. Well naturally—Jane makes up his entire concern. While for my part … well—is there anyone I have not been thinking of, all the terrible way through a thoroughly sleepless night? Because everyone I come into contact with begins straight away to affect me. They seep in under the skin and quickly become a part of my center. I do not know why this should be so, but it is. I wish it were not, but it is. And then there are the abstractions to consider—the nebulous concepts. Such as marriage, to take just the most insistent of them. I was, as three o’clock this morning edged toward four, confronting quite squarely what it is all of it meant to mean. Is it, at base, merely a matter of convenience? Why do people do it? Pledge themselves to just this one person for the duration of their natural lives. Custom. For it is not natural. Can’t be. Not … how can I say …? Humanly natural. It is custom—society’s need for apparent conformity. The need for children as well, of course. In most cases. But all this nonsense you see at the pictures and read in these romances and so on about meeting Mr. Right … the love of your life. And it is nonsense, of course it is. Because by definition, the people you know are the people you have met. The others … you simply haven’t. And from that pool, this motley selection of drifting souls into whose shoulders you have glancingly collided, you plump for the least noxious; or, in my own particular case, you quite cavalierly discard every hope for the sort of future that any girl dreams of on perfectly literally the very first man who comes along. And if there truly is a Mr. Right, the colossal thing, your one great dazzling destiny, the key to all the love in your heart … well then he could easily be living in Borneo or somewhere, and you’d simply never know. And so to the realities of what now we are faced with: Jim and myself. Stan and Jane. Jonathan … and Fiona. Three very different situations, I think that’s totally plain, though ostensibly identical: married couples, each with an only child. All of us living in the same little street, England’s Lane, and all busy running our respective families and businesses. Though I think I am the only one of us who has insight into the lives of all the others, whether or not I want it. Jim and I … well we exist in a state of just about suspended toleration. He would be aware of all I do for him only were it ever to cease. He pays the bills. An arrangement, you see? I hold him in contempt, while he, I often imagine, believes me to be insane. Or at the very least irrational. But then of course I am but merely a woman, am I not? And so it is hardly to be wondered at.

  Clearly, I have needed more. And what thinking person wouldn’t? Which has led me to Jonathan. A man who should not really be here at all. He is not the butcher. Is he? He is an enigma—and yes I know that I find that, oh … infinitely more alluring than any plain and simple logicality. But however this gentleman came to be chopping meat, for whatever reason he finds himself here (and no I haven’t asked him, because whatever it was, I couldn’t bear the answer), he has seen fit to consort with me. Why, though? I never before questioned it, and now I can’t stop. For his wife, Fiona … is, I have grudgingly to admit, a fine-looking woman. Beautifully dressed. She speaks very nicely—although I know this only from having overheard her in various shops in the Lane from time to time: I have never addressed her. And it would seem that they still have union. They share a room. They share a joke. And they happily will share a glass of Benedictine. And so in Jonathan’s eyes … I am what, now? Merely a matter of convenience? Solely that? To an outsider, of course I can see that that is how it might appear. No—more than that: this would be the sole and quite patent conclusion. And I can smell and practically taste on my lips that outsider’s disdain. For me. Yet when I am with him, Jonathan, I know that it is so much more. I am not delusional. The outsiders, they do not know. The outsiders, they have not even the slightest idea. For they have never seen a couple alone. No one, ever, has seen a couple alone: your very presence annihilates the possibility. And with Jonathan, you see, I am the only one there. I am half of that couple. I know it to be real, and I feel it very deeply.

  And all these truths are hardly confined to just this little handful of marriages, you know. It seems … well it sometimes seems to me that every single one of them in the world is a separate kind of gated estate from which casual ramblers are strictly barred unless by prearranged invitation—though they may, over years, glimpse the occasional treetop or pasture through a chink in the towering wall, a gap in the thick and encircling hedges. For the facade is all: “Business As Usual” is what the hastily erected notices are reading, though behind the shattered shopfronts there is nothing remotely usual occurring: every sort of unconsidered drama is being played out in the presence of no audience whatsoever: a two-handed play of a thousand acts, existing solely to generate for its unwitting cast an unstoppable invasion of agonies and rapture, rapidly supplanted by the simmering stew of an ugly complacency—yearning then, and wistfulness, or else a darkly secret and utter disintegration. Unthinkable examples are frighteningly everywhere: this very morning on my way here to see about Stan, I went into Dent’s. Everyone says that you should never buy fish on a Monday, but Mrs. Dent had told me ages ago that she receives a special delivery each Sunday afternoon from Lowestoft because it’s the only day of the week the fisherman is not working and can make the journey to London. And it breaks her heart because for the whole of Monday his entire catch will be sitting there on ice in her window as passers-by do just that very thing and pointedly ignore it. Then just before she closes she tries to sell it off cheaply. By Tuesday she is thinking of it as catfood and she more or less gives it away—and that is when all the elderly women living alone will swoop upon it and have it for their tea. Since she told me, I make a point of going in early on a Monday morning—for I wouldn’t want her to think I was in any way exploiting her confidence, nor seeking to profit from her misfortune. This morning I bought from her three good-sized trout—glistening, eyes bright and smelling of the sea: I love that, and the coldness in there—so very clean and bracing. She has terrible problems with her feet, Mrs. Dent—bunions: and her shoes, she says, have to be specially made, this is what she was telling me, in some little cobbler near Chancery Lane. She said I wouldn’t believe the prices they charge. But her feet—and this is when she lowered her voice, even though it was just the two of us there—they got much worse, so very much worse, she said, after her husband died. They had no children because Mr. Dent, and I’ve known this of old, hadn’t been at all well since the day she’d met him—something to do with his lungs, and then, she said, it was other things too. And please don’t ask me why she chose to tell me all this—I never invite any such intimacies, nor particularly do I relish them—but it had been his pleasure to massage her feet every single evening, just after he had bathed and then anointed them with a peppermint balm. I miss that, she said—deftly wrapping up the trout in yesterday’s News of the World: yes I know it might be selfish of me, Mrs. Stammer, but of all the things Mr. Dent and I used to do together, it’s that I miss the most of all.

  And in Bona, there he was as usual—Mr. Bona we all call him—in his clean white coat and his hair of the very same shade. Looks more like an eminent surgeon than a seller of exotic specialties. I was buying a long blue packet of spaghetti. I like it so much—and he also has these tins of real Italian tom
atoes, actually from Italy, which, I have discovered, if you stir into them a quarter of Jonathan’s mince, makes for a very rich and highly satisfying sauce—a few flakes of Cheddar and a spot of pepper. I make it just for myself—Jim won’t touch it, and I don’t actually want him to. I said to Mr. Bona—and gosh, you know, I’ve wanted to so many times, but I’ve never found the moment—I said to him: it isn’t, is it? Bona? Your name? He smiled, quite fondly—he has a very kind face, quite pink and unlined, although I suppose he must be getting on now. No no, he said. Bona—it’s Latin (which I should have known, really). Good things, was the general idea. Well, I said to him—it makes you quite unique in the Lane, then: everyone else has their name above the door. And then he became quite reflective. When he bought the shop in 1943 … and I remember that, you know, I remember when he came here: it had been a laundry up till then. Anyway, he said, when he bought the shop, that had been precisely his intention: to paint their name on the fascia. He and his wife had fled from the Nazis—I had no idea, though I might I suppose have surmised it. Austrian, it turns out they are—from Vienna. I used to think Swiss—although either way you’d never take them to be Jewish: bright-blue eyes, really quite Aryan. My father by then had died, he said, and my mother was taking care of our son. They were to follow as soon as something had been established in England. But they never did. They were, he said, “caught up” in the Nazi advance, their whereabouts and fate not ever discovered. My name, Mrs. Stammer, is Schmidt. The solicitor who contracted the sale of this shop, he said to me: Mr. Schmidt—think of this as a piece of free and friendly advice. Put your name on the shop, and within hours your window will be smashed to smithereens. Since the Blitz, feelings are running very high. The distinction between Austrian and German will not be appreciated. Your business will be boycotted: worse, your very lives could be in danger. And anything you can do, Mr. Schmidt, Mrs. Schmidt, to moderate your accent would all be to the good. So sad, Mrs. Stammer: so sad. The breaking of glass, the destruction of legitimate trade, the need to conceal our origins, the threat to our continued existence … it is everything from which we had been so terribly desperate to escape. And our son, our dearest son, he never did. Mrs. Schmidt: she thinks of these things: sixteen years have passed, and every day I must comfort her.

  Yes. Well that was just this morning … so I’m still rather spinning. I am also quite suddenly rather fellingly tired, and my mind, well … it’s just too full. But now I must speak to Stan on the subject of his own very singular marriage. Just look at his face, though: he seems so very far beyond what I would say to be emotion, true feeling, that I could weep for him, I honestly could. I think by now he has shied away from sensation of any description. But the Jane I watched and listened to yesterday, the Jane who shocked me so very profoundly, this is evidently not the Jane he imagines he knows. It is difficult to say quite what she is doing, but whatever it is, she knows it: she knows it well. So what, I wonder, do I say to him …? And how much do I not …?

  “Yes I’m all right, Stan, thank you. Oh my goodness—what was that noise? There was a bang—is it upstairs, Stan? Should you go and look?”

  “Just behind the screen there, Milly. Window. Sally from Lindy’s. She’s doing my Christmas window. Christ Alive.”

  “Window? Really? Are you sure? Sounded like a bomb …”

  “Yes well she’s a little bit … here, Milly—never mind that. Come behind the counter, won’t you? Just let me shift this box out the road and I’ll lift the flap up, look. Have a little word in the stockroom, will we?”

  “But what if someone comes in, Stan? A customer.”

  “Daresay they’ll call out, or something. It’s a slack day. Think we’ll be fine.”

  “Oh my God, Stan …! Did you hear that? Sounded as if the whole wall was coming down …”

  “I know. I know. She gets there in the end. But it’s always a bit of a worry. Listen, Milly—come on through, won’t you? I’ll keep an eye out for anyone coming in.”

  “Well all right then, Stan. Don’t suppose we’ll get another opportunity, will we? Oh my word … look at this! A true Aladdin’s cave if ever there was! I’ve never been back here before. Has Paul ever come in here, Stan? He’d adore it. Absolute heaven for a child. All these boxes and jars …! Anthony—he must think he’s in dreamland. And you—do you feel like Santa Claus, Stan? Oh heavens … I do wish I hadn’t said that. It’s reminded me how terribly close we are. I don’t know where all the time goes. It’s muggins here who’s in charge of the party this year—did you know? Yes—my turn, worse luck. And I’m not sure I can face it. Stan … was that something breaking …? Glass? I’m sure I heard something breaking …”

  “Never mind all of that, Milly. You’ll get used to it. Just tell me. You came, then? You did come? See what I’m up against, don’t you? Doesn’t say a blessed word. Beyond help, far as I can see. Wits’ end …”

  “Well, Stan … she did talk, actually. Speak to me. She did.”

  “She did? She did? Janey? She spoke to you …? What did she say?”

  “Well, um … not, you know—much, or anything. She was in the front room at the time. Sitting at the table. Are you, er … quite all right, Stan …? You do look rather … do you want to sit down, or something?”

  “Eh? No … no … I’m all right, thanks for asking Milly. In the front room, you say …? Are you sure? Yes? So she, what … moved, then. Must have got up and moved. Christ Alive. I’ve never seen it. Not in years. What was it she was up to in there, then?”

  “Writing a diary, actually. Journal sort of a thing. She does it every day, apparently. It’s quite likely she’s in there right now, if you want to go and … no, maybe better not, actually Stan. Something you might possibly have to lead up to, I think. Stan—don’t you think you should maybe go and see to Sally, though …? These noises, they’re becoming really quite frightening. That last one—sounded like, I don’t know … a pearl necklace or something just exploding …”

  “That’ll be the aniseed balls. They’re a devil to round up, they are. Death trap, if you’re not ever so careful. But Milly, listen, just listen … I’ve got to be sure I’ve got this straight in my mind. A diary, you say …? Writing a diary? Well strike me down. But what did she say, though? What did she say to you?”

  “She said … well she said she eats chocolate. Is what she said. Stan … you don’t look at all well, you know …”

  “Chocolate …? What—you mean, chocolate as in …?”

  “Mm. She takes it from this very room, I gather. At night, largely. And she’s rather surprised you’ve never noticed. Fry’s Peppermint Cream, I recall, she said she was rather partial to.”

  “Fry’s Peppermint Cream …?”

  “Yes, Stan. And Toffee something, I think.”

  “Cup. That’d be the Mackintosh’s Toffee Cup. Nice line. Quite a good seller. But Milly—why hasn’t she … I mean, why did she never …?”

  “Yes well quite, Stan. But that’s rather for you to find out, isn’t it really? Don’t you think? You really are going to have to make her talk to you, you know. It’s the only way.”

  “Right. Right. Yes I suppose so. It’s a worry. It’s all a real worry. Because I’ve never noticed any of the Fry’s Peppermint Cream going missing. And yes but … what about that other thing, Milly? That we talked about. You know—seeing someone. Someone professional, sort of style …?”

  “Well yes, Stan … yes. I really do think that that is quite essential.”

  “Yes. Right. I see. But I don’t know what to … I mean, all this sort of thing, well … I wouldn’t know where to turn, Milly. Over my head.”

  “Well the first thing, Stan, is just to talk to her. Yes? You just have to talk to her. Try to get her to explain things to you. Got to be a man about it. Show some gumption.”

  “You’re right, Milly. You’re right. Well course you’re right—you’re right about everything, far as I can see. Explain things to me, yes—that’s what she’s got to
do. Like those Toffee Cups for starters—never noticed them going either.”

  “That’s not quite the point though, is it Stan …?”

  “No no—course not. I do know that, Milly. Just saying, that’s all …”

  “All right, Stan. Well look—I really do have to be off now. Million things, as per usual. Oh and Stan, I meant to say—thank you so very much for all your generosity yesterday. Really too much. Paul told me you wouldn’t take his money for the tickets and the ice creams and so on and that was really very naughty of you. Look—must go. Oh my golly, Stan … what was that now? Do you think she’s fallen over? Off the ladder, or something …?”

  “Quite likely. She’s done it before on more than one occasion. After she’s gone, I’ll get in there and tidy things up a bit. Sweep out the worst of it. Call an ambulance, if needs be. But really, Milly—I mean what I say. You’re a wonderful woman—no no, hear me out. I will be heard. Because I’m thankful. I really am. You’re a truly, very wonderful woman, Milly …”

  Milly had been knotting the scarf around her neck, tucking it into the collar of her coat, and now she glanced across to Stan and beamed to him a farewell. She did think afterward that she must actually have gasped, let out a sort of a gasp, just as she saw his head, his whole white face quite suddenly looming toward her: that gasp of quite total amazement must then have been smothered by the wet and fleshy softness of the kiss from a mouth that was shocking on her lips. She pulled away as if from the threat of an approaching blade and she was sure for an instant that the light of pure astonishment in both his wide and fearful eyes was briefly refracted in her own. She turned around without another word and was only very peripherally aware of the whining and leisurely spin of the circular lid from a large tin of Quality Street as it rolled its way elliptically from the window and wheeled across the floor of the shop, until it was clatteringly halted by just the outstretched toe of Mrs. Goodrich’s brogue. Milly was aware only then of the demonstrative raising of that woman’s left eyebrow as Milly heard herself calling out laughingly some or other platitudinous nonsense as she edged her way slowly, hurriedly, and then really quite rudely around the unmoving mass of the woman. Back out into the chill of the Lane, she would have paused for just a moment in order to collect herself, but felt then immediately that she had now to be away from there, and so she walked quite quickly the opposite way to the very place that she had been intending to go, because always she quite unfailingly completed her daily round of shopping in a strictly clockwise direction, and so in a state of agitation and some confusion she was startled to now be discerning quite some way ahead of her the unmistakable outline of Jonathan Barton, striding quite purposefully onward—and she called out to him on impulse, a thing she never would even have dreamed of doing in any sort of a normal circumstance—and maybe then she sensed or imagined a momentary check in his step before his pace appeared to quicken, and within a blink he was lost around a corner. Milly stopped abruptly, surprised to find herself just outside Levy’s the greengrocer’s—and there he was, old Mr. Levy, wearing as ever just his sleeveless and battered leather jerkin, and never mind the bitter coldness of the day. He gave out a bark of his harsh and phlegmy cough and then he said to her quite trillingly Well morning Milly, how are you today? Got some lovely Kent red apples, you’re interested at all. And Milly was smiling at him now, a good and familiar face, and he was not to know, was he, Mr. Levy, that when she would have completed her shopping expedition and approached him from quite the other direction, it was apples she had been intending to buy. And then she noticed that her shopping basket was not on the crook of her arm: she had left it on the floor of the stockroom in the sweetshop, and inside that basket was a long blue packet of spaghetti and a tin of real Italian tomatoes, actually from Italy, along with three good-sized trout wrapped up in yesterday’s News of the World … and she just didn’t know … what to do about that, now.