Because I been thinking about all of that, ain’t I? Well course I have—got to. On account of next year, don’t know when, well … my Mill, she going to … well—she going to be having a baby, ain’t she? Ay? No getting round it. I mean—pleased for her, course. Why not? You just want to look at her: never seed her so good. And she all dead cheery, and that. So yeh … pleased for her, like I says … but it kill me, really. Inside, like. Not on account of what she done. Nah. I reckon she were owed. I don’t care now—what she done. You married to a geezer like me, well … that what all of them smooth bastards is for then, I suppose. Nah—what kill me is … well … I wish it was me. That’s all. What was—you know: bloke what give it her. Like what a husband ought. Still. Reckon I’ll get over it. Get over most things, don’t you? Give it a bit of time. Even Cyril. I’ll get over it. One day. And little Willy—he help me no end, he will. Yeh—reckon I call him Little Willy: like that. And I got my Mill to thank for him. Like I got a lot to thank her for. She been good to me, that gel. And I loves her. Always done that. Always loved her. Yeh and I always will do, I knows that for sure. And the kid. Try my best, I will—try to love the new little kid more than ever I done with Pauly. Maybe it’ll be a little sister for him, this one, ay? Mill, she go for that, she would. Make her all little dresses and knickknacks and that. Yeh—she be happy with it. And here’s a turn-up: she kiss me, the other day. Done it again this morning. Touch my hair, like. What I still got left of it. Yeh. Were nice. Got me wondering if … if me and Mill … you know … ever like could sort of get together again, and that. Of a night time, sort of style. Early days, course … And yeh I know she been with another bloke—yeh I do know that—but … I don’t know … sometimes, I think of it, and it a bit get me going, you know? Can’t hardly understand it. Like … last time I were down with my Daisy—when she were seeing to me, like, and singing in my lughole and all … I were thinking about Mill, and how she been and done it. Got me going a bit, you know …? And Daisy, she go—blimey Jim! You getting younger every day, you! Yeh. Well. That’s that. Ain’t it, really? Most times, you can’t hardly know what all are going on.
“Jim …? How long exactly are you expecting me to continue standing here like a lemon? Are you going to pull this cracker with me, or are you not …?”
“I am, Mill—yeh, course. Sorry, love. Miles away, weren’t I …”
Yes, Jim—I can well believe it. I’ve noticed it in you, lately: very much more reflective, you appear to be. Well … I suppose that rather suddenly, you do have quite a fair deal to think about.
“Well pull the bleeding thing then, if you’re going to …!”
“I am—I am pulling. I don’t want to get too close because of the bang. Paul—here, Paul: come and help me pull this cracker … Oh …! Oh …! There it is! These crackers, honestly—they’re the loudest I’ve ever heard. Here, Jim—put your hat on. We’ve all got hats on except for you. Look—it’s a blue one. It’ll go perfectly with your very smart blazer. There. You look very handsome, Jim. Quite the matinee idol.”
“Yeh yeh. Now listen—listen all of yous: I’m going to read out the joke. Ready? Here, Pauly—little magnifying glass we got in it, look. Want it? Here you are, then. Good lad. You can be like Sherlock wossname now, can’t you? Ay? Now then: here we go: ‘The tallest structure in the world is the Empire State Building in New York City in the United States of America …’ Yeh? So what? That it …? Can’t be. That it …? Blimey. Well what’s so funny about that, then …?”
“It’s not a joke, Jim. They aren’t, all of them. Some of them are. The others are just, I don’t know … facts …”
“Nothing bleeding funny about that, is there …? Ay? Empire bleeding State …? It don’t make me laugh. Make you laugh, do it? Anyone laughing in here? Don’t think so. Bleeding swizz, that is …”
“No, Jim—I’ve just explained …”
Oh dear. Some things, they don’t ever change, do they? He’s not a stupid man, Jim—oh no, far from it—though so very often he can appear to be distinctly obtuse. Though I’m hardly complaining. Am I? Honestly, he really has behaved rather impossibly well over the whole of the affair. Because of course there are many husbands who … well: if they knew their wives to be in my … shall we say, condition …? Well then they would … beat her black and blue for starters, I can quite imagine. And then just throw her out. Many men, you know, that’s exactly what they’d do. But from Jim I have had not so much as a word of recrimination. Not one single word. It’s hard, of course, to quite know what he might be feeling. And I do care. I never used to—mind about what he was feeling … but I do, now.
We’re having such a lovely day. Everything so far has gone quite swimmingly, I must say. Paul and Anthony have been up and about since dawn—I mean it! Quite literally since dawn!—banging about and yelping like puppies. It’s nice for Paul, to have a friend to play with. Already, though, he is so missing Amanda—and she hasn’t even gone anywhere yet. He wanted to ask her over later in the afternoon, and it did so hurt me to say no. But in the rather extraordinary circumstances, what else could I do …? Anthony, though—little mite—he was just so thrilled with his stocking: said he’d never before received such a thing, except for those mesh ones that Mars do, apparently. And Paul—you should have seen his eyes when he tore the paper from that tank of his …! They’ve both been playing with it constantly—apart from just before lunch when they did break off briefly to watch Mr. Pastry on the television. I told them to go easy on it for the sake of the battery—and also because when it’s trundling about and spitting our sparks, it does make a very beastly noise: but of course they’ve ignored me completely. Little souls. They’ve done the edges of the Victory jigsaw, and then I suppose it became rather more difficult, so that’s been abandoned on the floor: I daresay they’ll go back to it later. The drum of Minibrix I’m saving till after tea, or else the floor will be just covered with simply everything. That Matchbox car, though—that excited no interest whatever: I rather think they might have gone the way of the free gift inside the cereal packet, you know. It just must be faced: my little boy, he is beginning to grow up … which one day I suppose might please me.
And Jim—he does look so very different in that blazer, you know. Such a transformation—you’d hardly recognize him. I’ll tell him to take it off in a minute, though—I can see that he’s simply sweltering, poor man. But at the end of the Queen’s broadcast, when he stood up to salute, he did look quite the English gentleman, I must say. And oh … he does so love that canary! I could see that immediately. I did rather wonder whether it was the right thing to do—but goodness, I simply couldn’t bear the look of such deep sorrow that he carried in his eyes …! He adored that little bird: Cyril, I honestly do believe that he was central to the man’s existence. Well so I just had to do something, didn’t I? I couldn’t abide it—Jim, being heartbroken: no, not now. So yesterday—and I was up to my eyes—I took the 31 bus down to Camden Town where I had remembered there was a pet shop. Do you know—they had completely sold out of budgies, but they did have this beautiful bright-yellow canary. So I bought him—I just had enough left over from the necklace money. And I had to avoid the puppies and kittens—all so soulful and pleading—or else I just know I should have bought all of those as well. Jim—he keeps going over to the cage. Talking to him. He hasn’t got a name yet. I’ll leave it to Jim. Although I do hope he doesn’t go ahead and call the little thing Yeller, as he threatened to do earlier—I don’t know … it just seems so terribly dismissive, somehow.
And the lunch—that really did go awfully well. The boys being up so early was actually something of a blessing because there’s always just so much to see to on Christmas morning. I’ve never wholly understood why cooking a turkey should always be so very much more of a business than any other sort of a meal—but there: incontestably it is. And the bird, it only just fitted into the oven—not an inch to spare. I always do worry about the breast—one so much doesn’t want it to be
dry—but it did turn out quite perfectly, even though I do say so myself. The stuffing too—not too much onion, and everybody seemed to enjoy it: Paul asked for seconds, dear heart. The roast potatoes, yes—they might have been just a weensy bit crispier, but no one seemed to mind. I’ve kept the wishbone … but do you know … it’s just so perfectly silly, but I’m not sure I’ll ever dare to pull it: a spell might be broken, along with the bone. And I had a small glass of sherry with my meal, which I suppose was quite nice if you like that sort of thing—though I don’t, particularly. I did catch myself thinking in passing that some Chianti might be rather nice. Jim had beer, and the boys had Tizer. Anthony—he’s well used to Tizer, of course, because of Stan. Stan, yes … Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear: poor, poor Stan.
I barely believed it when he walked through the door of the library. I had at the time actually been marveling at a rather tiddly Sally—she was tottering atop her very silly shoes, and the smudge of far too heavy mascara had bestowed upon her the appearance of a rather gaudy giant panda: she was devouring with considerable intensity an unceasing quantity of her own jam tarts: she appeared to favor the yellow ones over the red. It had been no more than solely the shift in atmosphere that alerted me to something sudden and untoward within the room. Because right up until that moment—oh honestly, the party had truly been the very most jolly and merriest thing imaginable, and I was so very terribly pleased and relieved—because you never do know, do you really? I mean—you plan an event, you try to think of everything and to please people, but until they all actually arrive and the whole thing begins to get under way, well—you can never quite know just how it will be.
All I can say is that straightaway everyone started to properly get into the Christmas party spirit: surely there was festivity in the air. Doreen—at first she seemed to be quite content to play a few records, but even I was forced to concede that really her little Dansette was straining terribly within the yawn and vacuum of so very large a room. But when the emaciated Derek and the other one started up with their guitar and drums as Doreen began to trill away in time to it—well! The noise …! I simply can’t tell you. Mrs. Goodrich happened to be standing quite near to me at the time, and oh heavens—it was so pure a joy to be able to witness her practically leap into the air as if she had been bitten! “Oh my good Lord …!” she was wailing at me (and she did seem appalled, I am very pleased to say): “What is that utterly dreadful din, Mrs. Stammer …?!” “Well, Mrs. Goodrich,” I then delighted in telling her, “since you come to ask me, I do believe it is a song entitled ‘What Do You Want?’ Which as we speak is currently residing at the number one spot on the Top Ten hit parade. By a gentleman called Mr. Adam Faith.” “Indeed!” she declaimed—rather taken aback, I hope, and having to raise her voice quite considerably. “Well, Mrs. Stammer—it most certainly is not what I want, I can very much assure you of that …!” And then she huffed away, ostentatiously clamping her palms to her ears—and doubtless very eager to harass or patronize some other hapless soul. I was childishly pleased with my rejoinder, though: it just so happened that I had heard the record (and very dreadful it is, let us please be quite clear about that) just this very morning on Housewives’ Choice on the wireless, otherwise of course I should never have known. And after they had mangled that number, beanpole Derek with the other one and Doreen fell into a rather too highly pitched version of “Living Doll”—which everybody knows, of course, because it’s Cliff Richard, isn’t it? And The Shadows. Paul is humming it constantly.
And that’s when everyone started to dance—even Jim was horsing around with the odious Charlie, but here was merely the outlet for the earlier stages of inebriation—I knew that, of course, but still I was pleased to see it. And Kelso …! Oh my word! He ought to be on Sunday Night At The London Palladium, that one, he really ought—quite the professional. It’s in his bones, of course—it’s in the blood: from all the war dances or something, I suppose. Or is that Red Indians …? Oh honestly—I just don’t know what I’m talking about, do I? The other one though, Obi his name is, he wasn’t there—didn’t come, I can’t imagine why. Maybe just as well though, because most people seem to be quite terrified of him—and I do have to admit, his general demeanor is more than somewhat menacing. Mr. Lawrence—I heard him earlier declaiming that more or less their very existence was a downright disgrace, let alone the presence of the two of them in England’s Lane: “If we have a color bar in this country,” he was saying really quite loudly, “then will someone please explain to me why is it not applied …?” Edie was sitting with Mrs. Dent, which was kind of her, and they both seemed to be enjoying the Libby’s tinned peaches with Carnation—but then, who wouldn’t? And Paul now—he’d set down his dish of fruit cocktail (always he insists upon leaving all the little half cherries till last, dearest soul) and now he was starting to dance with Amanda …! My heart did swell, I confess it. I think they were attempting the jive sort of thing, I do believe it’s called, that Elvis Presley has popularized in America: they did look perfectly sweet, the two of them. Poor little Anthony, though … just looking on at them both, and with a fairly set expression, little fellow. Then I caught sight of Gwendoline chatting away to Miss and Mrs. Jenkins in the furthest corner, and the shaft of milky light through the window, you know—it had caught her just so … and her hair, it was the loveliest and most delicate shade of auburn, quite like I used to wear mine. I determined on the spot to ask her to recreate it, and make my perm rather shorter and looser while she was about it. It was time, I felt, to display the truth that now I am changed: I only wished I had thought of it before the party, so that I could be flaunting my brand-new look to anyone who cared to glance in my direction. Anyway—I have had it done now, and I couldn’t be more delighted with the result. I do think it makes me appear rather younger—but then, with all the energy at my disposal these days I honestly feel like a five-year-old anyway … though I suppose as my condition becomes gradually rather more apparent, I shall be recalling this time with both a languid nostalgia, and longing envy. Jim—he wasn’t in the slightest bit put out when I told him quite plainly that I should simply expire from boredom if he gave so much as one more Yardley bath cube, and that instead I should like him to pay for a new coiffure.
The next thing that happened is that Mr. Levy’s dog, well—thoroughly inexplicably, he just went quite mad, so far as I could see. Everyone was laughing, of course, as he was careering around and yelping—though I did spot the face of one of the old lady librarians rather cloud at the point when the jug of orange juice was spilled all over the parquet flooring. And then Mr. Bona appeared with the most extraordinary-looking camera with a great big silver sort of bowl on the top of it, and everyone was shrieking and wincing as suddenly the flash bulbs were immediately dazzling them. I simply can’t wait to see all the photographs—and he was so awfully good, Mr. Bona: he made quite sure that everyone was included in at least one of the photos; I shall look awful, of course—I seldom take a good picture: always look an absolute fright. He must have used two whole rolls of film, I should think—and I well remember from the last time we took the Brownie to Bournemouth how horribly expensive they are. I saw him again just yesterday, Mr. Bona, but he said that Boots had told him that they wouldn’t have developed the pictures for at least another three-and-a-half weeks, because this and the summer are their busiest times. Bit of a disappointment—but quite something else to look forward to.
You could tell when the drink was beginning to have its effect on most of the men—raised and slurring voices, all the usual sort of thing—and I couldn’t swear to it, but I rather fancy that some of the boys from the council schools might also have been tippling things that really they oughtn’t. Yes and then suddenly these very rowdy boys, they were bursting balloons with cigarette ends. I know—cigarettes! And some of them can’t have been much older than fourteen or so, I shouldn’t have said. Well it’s the parents, isn’t it really? Serves them right. If you skimp on a child’s educati
on, that’s the sort of thing you’re going to have to expect. And here, I think, was the juncture when I came to sense the murmuring of a change of direction … the discordant arrest of the music, this quickly supplanted by the muttering masses. I turned with reluctance from the perfectly fascinating spectacle of the gorging Sally … and there I saw him: Stan—looking perfectly and tragically absurd in just a striped pajama jacket and clearly somebody else’s trousers. He looked about him briefly, and then was walking toward me with purpose, his eyes so very dark and zealous. Many now were glancing over to poor little Anthony, and I saw him quickly turn away.
“Hello, Milly. I’m sorry if I’m late …”
“Stan …! Stan—what are you …? Here, Stan—let’s just go and sit in the corner, shall we? Just over there. Nice and comfy. Now can I get you something …? Something to eat? A drink, maybe? Do they, um—know you’ve come? How did you get here, Stan …?”
“Well yes, Milly—fair point, very fair point. Devil of a journey, you want the truth of the matter. Bus only got me so far. Then I had to walk. Why I’m rather late, you see. I do hope I haven’t held you up though, or anything, Milly. I didn’t want you to be holding anything up on account of me. Though of course I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds …”
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