England's Lane

by Joseph Connolly

  I must defer my decision. Clearly, I am far too tender—I am in no sort of proper condition to go hurtling into the casting of so irrevocable a die, whose outcome would effectively paralyze my entire state of being. And why is it, I wonder …? Why is it that unions, liaisons, dalliances, relationships and marriages … why must each of them be tinged with an always secret kind of dull and muted agony? I mean—just look at Stan … as now, and eventually, I rather fear I must. Whatever now can Stan be thinking? And at the very moment when he did that to me—when, so utterly out of the blue, that kiss, it fell upon me … what great tangle can have been alive in his mind? Or alternatively, was it maybe just wiped clean? I actually do think that that is quite entirely possible, you know—because recalling now the wide-eyed blankness of his expression, he could so very easily have been quite as astonished as I was. Nevertheless, though—it has got to be said that here was no fleeting and neighborly gesture of affection, no simple peck of amicable gratitude. There was both spirit and intention behind it—that much, I think, was rather horribly and immediately clear to the two of us. Well to me it was, anyway. But then … oh, poor Stan: just look at all he has to cope with. Bad enough, you would think, having a boy so sorely afflicted—but a wife like that who treats him in such a way … yes, and over how many years …? Poor Stan. Poor Stan. But Jane, though—can one utterly blame her? Is she any more a responsible person? Well I think it would truly take a professional to tell you for sure—but one thing I will say with conviction: whatever she is, it is not insane. Troubled, clearly—and with highly disturbed, not to say highly disturbing, outlooks and attitudes toward … well, her very own son, to begin with. How could she possibly have said such awful things? And to a perfect stranger. Is she even aware that Anthony is so very friendly with my Paul? I don’t really see how she can be. And that diary—that curious journal she said she was writing. What can be in it? Didn’t she tell me she attends to it daily? And she never leaving the house. Eating only all those chocolate bars purloined from her husband who is visibly at the end of his wits in his consistent and perfectly tragic determination to persuade her to swallow just anything at all. Well. Poor Stan. Well. Maybe we must all of us snatch at even the most slender possibility of comfort when and where we come to sense its tentative touch, no matter how unlikely or unpromising the source.

  And then … there is Mrs. Goodrich. Always there seems to be Mrs. Goodrich. Oh … it was already so thoroughly confusing a moment. The noise—oh yes of course, I remember now: all those terrible noises that Sally was making from behind the window screen. Then, yes, there was the kiss itself … and following that, something, something else, now what could it have been …? There was I am sure this further distraction of some sort—something rolling about on the floor, could that have been it? Well whatever it was, immediately after, and so very suddenly, there she was: looming. But at what precise point in all of this had she actually entered, Mrs. Goodrich? What exactly had she seen? Yes well, there is the question—but whatever she had witnessed, it would most certainly be more than enough for her to have gleefully fabricated the most fantastic tale, and one that even now and with each successive retelling would be gathering close to it, like a clutch of gripping burrs, such increasingly gaudy decoration and lurid embellishment. And just imagine her joyous amazement were she ever to come into possession of the one and true big story: an intensely sexual relationship between the happily married and gallantly handsome butcher of England’s Lane, and the low and salacious wife of the grubby little ironmonger.

  So I continued to sit in the shop. After a very tedious while, I extremely half-heartedly began to jot down on a scrap of paper some names and skeletal ideas for the dread Christmas party. To be held the Sunday before the actual day, that’s what we’ve all agreed upon. Possibly in our little local library, just around the corner in Antrim Grove. It used to be the custom to just have it in one of our front rooms or shops, but there really isn’t enough space, you know. It can become really quite boisterous, once the children start playing with balloons and the men get a drink inside of them—Jim especially. And this year there will also be the two negroes to contend with, of course—and nobody is at all sure how they will behave, quite what they might get up to: different customs, you see—not even convinced that they know what Christmas is. And by no means everyone was in favor of their being included, wholly predictably, but I’m pleased to say they were after quite a lot of argument firmly voted down by the more level-headed and equable among us: no color bar in England’s Lane, I very much hope. Mr. Lawrence in particular, I remember—he was most vehemently against them, and Jim would have been too, if ever he could stir himself and actually turn up to one of our meetings. Last year we had the party at Mr. Lawrence’s, actually in his newsagent’s shop—he had very kindly pushed back the counters for us and so on—though he made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t intending to do that again. I don’t at all mind because the whole thing, it didn’t really strike me as being over-merry: the lighting was so terribly gloomy, and somebody quite early on knocked over the tree. It was only artificial and ridiculously small: more akin to a lavatory brush than any sort of a Norwegian pine, to my eyes. So this year the library has been mooted—I forget who came up with the idea, but it’s really not a bad one. The ceiling, though, is so terribly lofty—I simply can’t imagine how we’d get the paper chains up there. And another thing—so very little money has been raised: I’ve just been rattling our box here on the counter: sounded like no more than a couple of pennies. Awful, really. Can’t think how I’ll manage. It’ll be like the rationing during the war: how to make do with very little indeed. And there’s no question at all of my being able to supplement whatever we eventually do manage to gather—this ever-increasing debt of mine to that blasted tallyman, whom I rather wish now I had never set eyes upon, is, I admit, becoming something of a worry. And I shan’t for a very long while be able to buy any more little fripperies in John Barnes or Selfridge’s, that’s for certain. Oh dear—I so don’t want to be part of any of all of this, you know. Christmas—it’s the very last thing on my mind. I wish I could just escape to some warm and magical island. Yes well—precious little chance of that happening: you can Milly, I think, safely put all thoughts of that sort quite out of your mind. Yes but how at this party, please will someone tell me, am I expected to conduct myself? And how will Jonathan be behaving? Oh … wonderfully well, I suppose: chinking glasses with his wife. Oh … it’s really all just too too awful even to contemplate. Yes and right at that miserable moment in my very downcast ruminations, there came a sudden interruption—I had such a shock I just can’t tell you, when that cracked little bell above the door was emitting its discordant clanking, and here now was someone coming in to the shop. Quite hauled me back down to earth, I can tell you that. And who should it be but Edie from the Dairies: she was so very surprised to see me there, that was more than clear. Because I never am, you see: I never am.

  “Oh hello Edie—how nice to see you. Jim, my husband, Mr. Stammer, he’s gone to the dentist.”

  “Oh I see. Yes well that would explain it, then. Well I can’t stop even for a second Mrs. Stammer because I’ve left the shop, see? Put a notice up in the door. Head Office, though—they really don’t like you to do that. Come down hard. I’ve had a letter from them before about it. So could I just have a window wedge please Mrs. Stammer, and then I’ll nip off back. I’m sorry if I’m seeming rude …”

  “No no, Edie—quite understand, of course I do. Now then … window wedge. Window wedge. Yes. I do know what you mean. What they are. We’ve got one in the kitchen. They’re made of sort of rubber, aren’t they?”

  “Green, yes.”

  “Green, are they? Ours is brown, fairly sure …”

  “The last one I had was green. But yes they do come in brown as well. Think I’ve had a brown one in the past. I don’t really mind what color it is though, Mrs. Stammer. It’s just for the back door, you see. For when we get all the mi
lk delivered.”

  “Right. I see. So it’s a door wedge you’re really wanting then, is it Edie? Not a window wedge.”

  “Are they different then? I’d no idea. I just always call them window wedges, that’s all.”

  “Yes. Well I’ve no idea either, to be perfectly frank. And I have to admit to you, Edie, I’m not at all sure where they’re actually, um … kept. I mean—we will have them, obviously. Just a question of where …”

  “I think the last time Mr. Stammer got it out of a drawer.”

  “Yes, that seems reasonable. Rather a lot of drawers though, aren’t there? That’s the trouble. Well let’s just try a few, shall we …?”

  “I’ll maybe come back later, will I? I’m just worried about the shop. Oh look—you’ve dropped your piece of paper, Mrs. Stammer. Here you are.”

  “Oh thank you, Edie. Nothing important. Just my little jottings—preparatory list for the Christmas party. Very early days, of course. I was just wondering if the library ceiling isn’t rather too high to be able to get the paper chains up. Maybe we don’t need them, paper chains. Well they’re not in here, window wedges … this is just bath plugs and some sort of springs for something or other …”

  “Got to have paper chains …”

  “Really? You think they’re essential, do you? Not in this one either … fuse wire. This could take rather a while, you know …”

  “I’d have thought so, yes. Quite essential, paper chains. Got to have paper chains up, I’d say. Not really proper and Christmassy, is it? If you don’t have any paper chains up. Look—I really think I’d better get back, you know. It’s not that urgent, or anything. Been using an old phone book for ages—daresay it’ll be all right for a little bit longer. I’ll call again when … you know, when um …”

  “Well if you’re really sure, I do think that might be best. I really am so awfully sorry, Edie. I just can’t think where to look. Could be anywhere.”

  “No no. Well bye, then. Not to worry.”

  “Bye, Edie. And I will bear in mind what you said.”

  “What? What do you mean, Mrs. Stammer? What did I say?”

  “You know. About the paper chains.”

  “Oh that. Yes. Yes, I do think we’ve got to have those. Like I say, wouldn’t be Christmas, really—not without paper chains. Well see you again soon, I expect.”

  “Oh yes. I was meaning to pop in later on today, actually. I need some more Corn Flakes. Paul, he’s just wolfing them down. It’s the submarines, you know.”

  “I know. They’re selling ever so well. Haven’t sold so many packets of Corn Flakes since they had blow darts in. Well bye then. Mrs. Stammer.”

  “Bye, Edie. Goodbye. And sorry again about the window wedge.”

  “Door wedge, yes. No trouble, Mrs. Stammer. Bye bye for now.”

  “All right then, Edie. Bye. Goodbye.”

  Yes well I just knew it would be like that, didn’t I? Feel such a fool. Why doesn’t he, Jim … I don’t know … label all the drawers, or something? Well because he knows where everything is, obviously Milly: no need to, is there? Oh well. It would certainly appear though that Edie for now still is unsullied by any frothing and embittered effusion from the mouth of Mrs. Goodrich—otherwise I’m sure I would have known it. And while this is quite surprising in itself, her state of happy innocence can not, of course, be expected to endure for very much longer: maybe, when later I go in to buy my Corn Flakes, her expression will be telling indeed. And I’d had no further time at all to gather my remaining thoughts when that blessed little bell was clanking away again and I was closing my eyes and thinking oh no, here we go—what’s it going to be this time? Someone wanting a cement mixer, maybe, and here am I not knowing what drawer it’s in.

  But it was Jonathan.

  Both his step and his eyes were frozen as he momentarily beheld me. I gasped out my delight—though had I not immediately crossed the floor and taken him very firmly by the arm, he would, I am convinced, have turned at once on his heel, and fled.

  “Jonathan! Oh Jonathan—I am so pleased to see you!”

  “Milly, my dear. Well this is quite a surprise, I must say. Never before have I seen you in surroundings less becoming. So a considerable surprise, as I say. Though naturally a thoroughly pleasant one nonetheless.”

  Mm, yes—well not too very pleasant, if I am compelled to be honest. Damn me for coming in here—I very nearly walked on by, and so now wish that I had done so. The thing I am needing, it could so easily have waited until tomorrow. And now I have confrontation, and I am wholly unprepared. Well—no escape this time. I rather do seem to be caught. So let us just calmly observe then, shall we? Gauge both her attitude and her persona. Possibly my instinct is errant. Maybe all is well. Maybe the enactment of one of these grindingly dull and awful female scenes is not after all an inevitability. For I do remain perfectly contented to continue to sail on an untroubled sea, well of course I do. But if there are to be signs of turbulence, any hint of choppiness, then I think it might be time for the captain to raise anchor and abandon this harbor—cast off, as I do, into yet uncharted waters.

  “What are you, um—doing exactly, Milly? Scribbling away there …”

  “Won’t take a second. I’m just quickly writing a notice. Back in half an hour. I’ll put it in the door. I really do have to talk to you, Jonathan.”

  “Fearful rush, you know …”

  “Won’t keep you. We can go in the back.”

  “Oh I hardly think that that is … the fumes in here, you know. Unsavory, very. Don’t you find? I should have thought that a lady of your very evident refinement …”

  “It’s better in the back. In the back it’s fine. Not nearly so bad. I’ve put the notice up now, so you’ve got to. Oh come on, Jonathan—don’t be frightened. I shan’t bite you. Promise.”

  “Gratified to hear it, my dear. But honestly, you know—truly not at all a good moment. The boy in the shop, I don’t like to leave him for any length of time.”

  “Oh nonsense, Jonathan—Billy’s perfectly all right in there and you know it. Just come in to the back, won’t you? Come on. People can see through the window.”

  “I doubt they can see much. The window has the air of having been constructed not out of glass but of galvanized iron.”

  “I know. It’s terribly dirty and vile in here. So come into the back, yes?”

  Jonathan sighed, and not untheatrically. He had his gold cigarette case in his hand, and he slid from it now a Black Russian. This he lit slowly.

  “Very well, dear lady. Lead on, Macduff. But soon, I fear, I must be away.”

  I really do not care for this: I do not like its odor. Both literally and figuratively. For it is I who decides when and where we meet. This is always the way with my ladies. And so I am not ready for this—I am disadvantaged. And nor do I at all care to be hustled into the doubtless no less noxious rear to this perfectly rank and disgusting sty.

  In the cluttered and dark back room, Milly was eagerly bustling, and really quite energetically—hurling just anywhere rags, papers and unidentifiable pieces of metal and chunks of wood from the one good chair.

  “Sorry. Bit of a mess. Never mind. Can I, um—get you anything, Jonathan? Something? Only I don’t actually think there is anything here to, um … Haven’t got any—you know—Benedictine, or anything. Cigarette smells nice …”

  “Fear not—I am replete, my dear. Would you care to smoke? No? Very well. So what, um …?”

  And Milly was struck by the unspoken question, simply lingering. For yes—what, um—was it that she wanted to say to him, actually? What, now that it had come to it, could she possibly ask? How could she lend structure to no more than a feeling of profound unsettlement at the memory of the sight of just this man in a room with his wife? It seemed, rather suddenly, quite totally absurd. And then she looked up at him, at his magnificent face. His eyes, so intent—the fine mustache above a perfect mouth … and those blue curls of smoke seeping through his
lips, and mingling with the air. And before she had been wholly aware of the strength of the impulse to do so, she was holding him so terribly tightly. Her arms were thrown about him, and she strained to hug him hard: her eyes were shut as she concentrated devotedly upon the beating of his heart. She whimpered and resisted wildly and then hopelessly when he straight away stepped backward—detached her arms from him with silent determination and held them firmly to her sides.