England's Lane

by Joseph Connolly

  “Um … well there’s loads of them, aren’t there?”

  “Yes I know but who? What are they called?”

  “Well, er … let’s have a think, now. Not Shakespeare, no—William, he was. Charles Dickens, that’s no good … and then there’s … who’s that other one … what’s the name of that other author? Oh dear oh dear. My mind. No—gone. Complete blank. Gets worse and worse. But there’s bound to be lots of them, name like that. Fine name, Anthony is. Now you just read for ten minutes, all right? Ten minutes, and then you put the light out. All right? And turn off that terrible racket—don’t know how you can listen to it.”

  “Not terrible. Elvis the Pelvis. How long did I take? To get ready. Did you time me?”

  “I did. I most certainly did. Four minutes and thirty-two seconds.”

  “Really? Honestly?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “Really? Gosh. That’s quite fast, isn’t it?”

  “Lightning, I’d say. You’ll be the quickest famous author in the whole wide world. Nighty-night then, Anthony. Give us a kiss. There’s a good lad.”

  “Night, Daddy. Good night. I hope your, you know—talk goes all right, and everything.”

  Yes. Well so do I, I suppose. Dreading it, if I’m being frank with myself. Very tempted just to sit in the front room and knock back the Scotch until I’m just completely out of it. But no—I won’t duck it. I can’t. In fact, what I’m going to do is … I’m going straight in to talk to her now. Right this minute. I am. Just march in and have it out with her. No, hang on … what I’ll do is, what I’m going to do now is, I’ll have just the one more little nip, and then I’m going straight back up to see her. Talk to her. Got to be a man about it. Milly was right. And oh … just that one thought of Milly, now …! She probably hates me. Must do.

  Well … this is it. Just had a little listen outside of Anthony’s door: seems to be all quiet. Good little lad, isn’t he? Did just as he was told. And now I’m having a little listen outside of another door. So silent. Feel like a thief. Used to be my bedroom, once upon a time. Our bedroom, I should say. Funny to think it, now. That that’s where we both were, where we both of us slept of a night time, Janey and me. Husband and wife, both in the same bedroom, normal as you like. Not the same bed, mind—you don’t want to go overboard. But still, back in those days, we were always quite chummy. Funny to think it, now. Anyway … so … what do I do? What will I do next? Knock? No—silly to do that. Going in anyway, aren’t I? No point knocking. So I’ll just turn the handle, and see what I see. Yes well … I’ve done that: I’m in now—and I got quite a jolt. Bed’s empty. And no—she’s not over by the window, sitting in her chair. In the bathroom, then. Of all the times I could have chosen to come up and talk to her properly for the first time I can remember, and she has to go and pick that very blessed moment to go off to the bathroom. Oh well—she won’t be too long, I expect. Unless she’s got a dose of what she had last year around Christmas time. That was pretty bad, I can tell you. In Allchin’s with her prescriptions all the blooming time, I was—pills, some sort of pink stuff in a bottle. And she in and out of the bathroom—never seen her move so fast. Green, she was: looking ever so puny. You wonder really that she had it in her—what with her never eating, and all.

  I haven’t been in this room for a good long while now when Janey’s not been around. Even when I’m doing her sheets or giving the place a little bit of a dust, still she’s always here, always the silent witness. Like a crow in the corner. I’ll be chattering on about the weather—it’s cold, it’s not cold, keeping fair (crossed fingers), looks like a spot of rain—or maybe Anthony’s school report or else I’ve got to remember to get another tin of Pledge on Thursday from Stammer’s … and she just sitting there, lying there, eyeing me. It’s got her smell about it now, this room. Not unpleasant—I wouldn’t say it’s nasty. It’s all just somehow her—the sum of her bits: powder, smear of Vaseline, cold cream, touch of mouthwash you get off her winceyette nightie when you take it down to the laundrette. Airless, of course. Nothing I’d like better than to throw open that window there and give the whole place a right and proper airing—but Janey, she won’t hear of it. I say to her Listen to me, Janey—it’s only fresh air, isn’t it? Hey? It’s God’s clean air—not going to hurt you, is it? No harm in it, fresh air, is there? Hey? Hey? Yes well—might as well be talking to a cardboard box. Once I did. Once I heaved up the sash and just let the net curtains be blowing all over the place: oh dear oh Lord—you should’ve seen her face. Two minutes later I’m downstairs and I hear the window go back down again with such a hell of a thump—I tell you, I expected the glass to be broken when I ran back up there. The amazing thing—this is what always amazes me about Janey—when I went in to her room again, there she was just sitting up in her bed, quite the thing—the counterpane smooth, her arms out in front of her, just like a photograph of the way it was when I left her. And yet I know that as soon as I was out of the door, she’d got up, gone straight over to the window and hauled it back down. And it’s a heavy thing, I’m telling you: unwieldy it is, because one of the sashcords, it’s been broken for years. So what I’m getting at is that there’s a fair deal more brawn there than you’d think from just looking at her.

  Daresay she’ll be back any minute. Two cups of stone-cold tea on the bedside table there. That’s unlike me, that is. Normally, I always take away a cup before I dump another one down in its place. Yes—that’s the customary method, my little way of doing it. Always throw away one cupful of tea at a time: golden rule. And now there’s two. Well well. Dereliction of duty, as they say in the army: drunk in charge, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. And what’s this, now …? Not sure I’ve seen this before. Some sort of ledger, looks like. Bit like the one in the shop, where I jot down all the takings. Let’s just have a little look then, will we …? What have we got here …? Oh …! Oh, I see … this must be that thing that Milly was talking to me about—this, what did she say? Journal thing she said she was keeping. But hang on … there’s nothing here … it’s all more or less blank, far as I can see. Oh wait—what’s this say …? “Monday November 29th … Another Day.” “Tuesday November 30th … Another Day.” “Wednesday December 1st …” Blimey O’Reilly … I’m just flicking through the whole of it now … and that’s the only thing she’s ever written in it: Another Day. Well. I don’t know. I don’t know … I just don’t know what to make of that …

  “Ah! I see you’ve discovered my most intimate secrets …”

  Oh my God in heaven—I did jump, I can tell you! I was that startled, I dropped the bloody book thing on to the floor. It wasn’t the noise so much as the fact that she’s spoken to me at all.

  “Janey. Janey, love. Didn’t hear you come back in. Gave me a bit of a start, you did. Help you back into bed, will I? Or do you want to sit in your chair, maybe? Ah—you do. Right then, Janey—all right, settle yourself down, nice and comfy. Blanket? Would you like? For your knees? And how about a nice fresh cup of tea? Yes? Like that, would you?”

  I didn’t really think she was going to answer, or anything. And then she said:

  “Why is it, Stanley, that always you must prattle?”

  I blinked. I’m still doing it. I’m blinking away like the merry clappers. She’s asked me a question. She never asks me questions. She’s speaking to me. She is. I didn’t even have to try. What it is, is—we’re talking. I’m saying something, and she’s saying something back. Admittedly at this stage it’s still not very much, not what you might call a proper conversation—but early days, eh? Just got to ease into the thing.

  “Nice to see you up and about, Janey. Nice to see it.”

  “God’s sake, Stanley—I have been to the lavatory. It is hardly as if I am competing in the Olympics.”

  “No no. I’m just saying, that’s all. Um—would you like one of these maybe, Janey? Keep your strength up. I didn’t know which you’d prefer, so I brought you one of each, look. Both, if you like, of
course …”

  “What are those? What on earth are you offering me?”

  “Well … Fry’s Peppermint Cream, yes? And this is the Mackintosh’s Toffee Cup. What …? What is it …? I mean—good to see you laughing again, Janey, course it is. Can’t remember the last time. But what, er—what’s so funny? Did I get it wrong? Are these not the ones you like, then? Because I can easily pop down to the shop and fetch you something else. Picnic, maybe—nice and chewy. Or how about a good old Fruit & Nut?”

  “Oh Stanley. Oh Stanley. I can see that your woman has been a good and faithful messenger. Oh Stanley. Honestly …”

  “What? What do you mean? What ‘woman’? Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You really are quite perfectly hopeless. You do know that?”

  “Just don’t know what you mean, that’s all …”

  “Of course you do. You know exactly what I mean. That woman you sent here. Mary. She has dutifully reported to you our entire and very arid exchange, which I naturally sought to spice with a litany of fiction. Were you anxious about the diary, Stanley? Well as you can see, you really needn’t have been. Poor lamb—did you think it might be all chock-full of extraordinary revelation and insight into my broken and twisted mind? Lots of fruit, ripe for the plucking by a psychiatrist who doubtless would have been the next step in this really very tedious charade. No no—none of all that, I’m afraid. So sorry to disappoint. I simply record the advent and passing of each successive long and lonely day. And then I sleep. Fitfully. And in the morning I wordlessly repeat the process. As we do. All God’s creatures …”

  “But … Janey … it doesn’t have to be like that, does it? Lonely—you don’t have to be lonely. Do you? Hey? I’m here, aren’t I? And little Anthony. He’s your son, Janey—your little boy. Misses you. He does. He’d love it, to be able to talk to you again. And so would I. What happened, Janey? Can you tell me? Why aren’t we together as a family any more? Is it my fault? I expect it’s my fault, isn’t it? You can tell me if it is. I wouldn’t be surprised, or anything. Offended. Nothing like that. Is it because you had a proper education, Janey? Is that it? And I bore you? That you think I’m boring? Is that it? Or you don’t want to be seen with me? Well I could understand that. Course I could.”

  “You don’t want me, Stanley. Neither of you does. I am no good to you any longer. Especially now that you have Mary …”

  “It’s not Mary. It’s Milly. And I don’t. Have her. Don’t know what you mean. Of course I don’t. Have her. Christ Alive …”

  “Well no I do know that you don’t, actually. Have her. Only teasing. But you really would love it, wouldn’t you? If you had. Oh don’t worry—I don’t particularly mind, you know. I find it all rather amusing, in point of fact. That you could even cherish so impossible a fantasy.”

  “Don’t have any … what are you talking about? Don’t have any fantasies …! Listen, Janey … you’re my wife. Aren’t you? Hey? Better or worse—remember? And look—how come we’re talking now? All of a sudden. What’s going on? Hey? When you haven’t—you haven’t so much as opened your mouth to me for just … look: what can I do for you, Janey? Just tell me. Explain it to me, yes? And I’ll do it.”

  “Well for a start, dear husband, you can remove from my sight those perfectly revolting-looking bars of chocolate. I hate chocolate of any description, and particularly the cheaper varieties. I know I used not to, but now I do. And the reason, Stanley, you will not have observed the absence of hundreds of bars is of course because I have taken none. I detest it.”

  “Well … why did you go and …? I’m sorry, I’m afraid I just don’t understand you, Janey.”

  “No well. Maybe Mary will explain it all to you. She appears to be not unintelligent. Although of course I do know that she belongs to another.”

  “Yes well I know that too. I am very aware of that fact, actually Janey. And it’s Milly, her name. She’s called Milly. Milly Stammer—married to Jim, yes? The ironmonger.”

  “Married, conceivably. Though he, of course, is not the one to whom she belongs. Although I believe he remains in ignorance of this. It’s extraordinary how men do. Though quite for how much longer the dalliance of his wife will endure is very much moot, I should say.”

  “What are you … on about, Janey? My head, I tell you—it’s spinning …”

  “Yes well that would be the whisky, Stanley. I am surprised by your overindulgence only in that you haven’t taken to it sooner. If I am not sufficient to drive you in despair and desperation to the demon drink, then what on this earth would be, I ask you? No no—the relevant person is one Mr. Barton, of course. Jonathan Barton, family butcher. Yes? He and Mary are, shall we say … intimate. Did you really not know? I’m surprised. Even in you, this surprises me. Everyone else appears to be thoroughly aware. She sweetly imagines it is still her little secret, but I am afraid that in this and maybe much else, our Mary is deluded. What is wrong, Stanley …? You are very quiet. And your eyes are protruding rather horribly.”

  “You … you don’t know what you’re talking about! Who told you all that? How do you know that? That’s the biggest load of codswallop I have ever heard in all my life. And it’s Milly, God damn you—it’s not a difficult name to remember, is it? Milly?”

  “I daresay that each night you drift into dreamland with it touching your lips. Sweet. But alas, dear Stanley—she is not for you. But then we do have to remember … she is a woman, isn’t she? So of course not for you. And how did you ever imagine she might be …? Ah—silent once more. What could be wrong? I haven’t inadvertently touched upon a nerve, have I Stanley …?”

  “You said … you promised me, Janey. You swore to me at the time that all of that was over and done with. Said you’d never ever say it to me again. You swore you’d never go and rub …”

  “ … your nose in it again. Yes. I remember. An image which ever since I uttered it I have found to be lastingly distasteful. But it can hardly be brushed aside though, can it? Under the carpet. Or maybe you think it can? Well I do not. You were my husband—you cannot honestly expect to do things such as that and then just get away with it, can you? It is unnatural, Stanley. Not to say illegal. And thoroughly repellent to any right-thinking person. You were very lucky, you know, not to find yourself in prison. If it hadn’t been for Daddy’s money, charges would most certainly have been pressed. For that young man, he very clearly meant business. Would have created all sorts of trouble. Yes and if your wife hadn’t been volubly and, I now see, very stupidly so very supportive …”

  “Look. It wasn’t … much. Well it wasn’t! Not really! It was only the once, just that one time, you know that Janey. Don’t know what came over me. Still can’t understand it. Some sort of brainstorm, or something. And anyway—I don’t want to talk about it now. Why are you doing this to me, Janey? Hey? I mean—we haven’t talked … you’ve hardly spoken in years. And now you’re doing all of this …”

  “Does it seem cruel? I don’t particularly intend it to be—though nor do I mind if indeed you are suffering. The reason, I suppose, I have decided to speak is that after Mrs. Stammer and I had our ridiculous little chat, I saw then that all sorts of unsavory things would be bound to emerge. And they are, aren’t they? Emerging in rather a rush. My source for much of this, in case you were wondering, is someone who is probably unknown to you. Young Doreen …? Do you know …? No—well hardly surprising, really. She is the junior in Amy’s. You wouldn’t have encountered her. She comes across to see me every day. Oh—you are shocked. Good good. Oh yes—every single day. Dear dear—you don’t seem to think things through, do you Stanley? She does my hair. That’s how it started, anyway. Have you not noticed how it is always neat? My hair? Always clean?”

  “Your hair … no … I never really paid it any mind …”

  “No well. And not eating—why wasn’t I dead? You just don’t think, do you? Well I owe my continued existence, such as it is, to little Doreen, really. She soon started b
ringing me a selection of rather tasty delicacies from Bona. And it recently transpires that she is really a very fair little cook, for one so young. Oh yes—I do eat, Stanley. And rather well. I have to pay her, of course. Just as well I still have a little bit of Daddy’s money left, isn’t it really? It would be awful if I had to depend upon you. She spends it all on clothes, as youngsters will. Mrs. Stammer does this too, although she is no—what do they say?—spring chicken. And nor does she have the money to do it, but there is yet another tale of coming woe, patiently waiting in the wings. Just lately though, little Doreen has become a veritable mine of information. Mr. Barton I happen to know about because the silly little thing was foolish enough to have her head turned. Flattery, gifts and blandishments. A sophisticated gentleman, by all accounts—I really wouldn’t know—who takes his pleasures where he may. And one afternoon just weeks ago—who should she see with him, arm in arm …? Well—none other than your beloved Mrs. Stammer. Doreen was left in no doubt as to the depth of the relationship: it was, she said, all in the eyes. Well well. And rather acute for a virtual child, don’t you think? Anyway, the Lane is alive with it, apparently. The real joke—and I do confess to finding this rather intensely amusing—is that she, Mrs. Stammer, while remaining clueless about the transparency of her actual infidelity, remains under the wildly idiotic impression that Mrs. Goodrich is spreading her usual malicious rumors about herself and another. You, actually, Stanley. Does that, I wonder, make you feel most terribly manly? Does it, Stanley? Is that what you are, then? Terribly, terribly manly? And all this nonsense has stemmed from the fact that you were so very gauche and foolhardy as to kiss her, I gather. Our heroine, Mrs. Stammer. Downstairs. In the shop. But of course no one in their right mind could possibly believe that a woman such as that, whom even I can perceive as to be not wholly without certain qualities—certainly she would appear to be capable—that she might entertain even the remotest interest in one such as yourself. Well obviously. Laughable, no? And this she would have in common, I imagine, with every other woman on God’s green earth. Because this is not an area, is it Stanley, in which you particularly excel …? So there, I am rather afraid, we have it. Mrs. Stammer might even as we speak be contemplating abandoning Mr. Stammer in order to pursue the course of true love. Oh bless. How terribly torrid. Though she really needn’t bother, you know—because gentlemen who rove, such as Mr. Barton … they will always return to the nest. For Mrs. Barton, I am told, is quite the cultured beauty. And wise. Oh yes—very evidently wise. So how will the carnival end, I wonder …? Where shall we all find ourselves, once the carousel has ceased its turning …? Well let’s see … if Mrs. Stammer does indeed continue on her horribly misguided and really very wanton course, well then it clearly seems as if poor Mr. Stammer might be finding himself at something of a loose end. Doesn’t it, really? Though he is, I hear, not over-discerning … so I’m just really wondering aloud, I suppose, but possibly there might be, shall we say, some sort of opening for you there, Stanley …? Maybe the two of you—who knows?—could find yourselves very happy together …? Ah! Ah! Finally, you contemptible donkey—finally you rise to it! At last you are up on your feet. Any other man would have struck me long ago. That’s right—come at me—that’s right. Look at your eyes—there’s hatred in your eyes now, Stanley, and that’s how it should be. Can’t you see it? And your hands—they’re flexing, aren’t they? Bunching up into fists. Are you intending to do me harm? I so much yearn for it. Do you boil with rage, with murderous desire? I see that you do. Well what are you waiting for …? Show some gumption! Do it! Do it! Kill me, Stanley …! Why don’t you? Why are you waiting? Why don’t you just kill me now …? Do it! Do it! No—don’t go …! Don’t you dare go and leave me like this, Stanley …! Come back! Come back right this minute, you miserable imitation of a man, you! Come back! Come back now, you damn bloody bastard, and kill me …! Please … oh please. Just come back now … and kill me. Please … oh please … Do this for me, Stanley … Please. Oh please … I am begging you for help … can you not see it? Please just do this one last thing for me … That’s it—that’s right. Come back. That’s it—and now a little bit closer, Stanley, so that you can just reach down and finish me. That’s it, that’s it—good, Stanley: good. Ah … you have come back to me. Thank you, Stanley. Now and at last, you can truly be a man. A real man, Stanley—don’t you long for it as much as I do? And now … and now … just this one last thing that together we both can achieve. Do it! Do it! Do it, Stanley—if not out of hatred, then as a pure and final act of devotion. Come on, Stanley. Be … gigantic …! Kill me. Kill me. God’s sake kill me now …!”