England's Lane

by Joseph Connolly

  “No no—of course not, Stan. Well you’re just in time, I assure you. So … you’ve come on your own then, have you? There’s nobody with you? Well … does anyone know you’re here?”

  “No no. They said I mustn’t leave. Quite firm about it. But there’s all sorts of things, Milly, they say I mustn’t do. It’s less than friendly. I don’t even know why I’m there. Why am I there, Milly? Do you know? I don’t at all care for it. And the pills they make me take …! I’ve never been a one for pills, as well you know. Look at my Janey. Look what the pills did for my Janey. Killed her. Didn’t they?”

  “And so, what … you’ve just been walking then, Stan …? Dressed just like this? Oh but you must be absolutely freezing …! I’ll get you some tea, Stan.”

  “Is a bit parky out there, I’m not denying. Lovely here, though. Warm as toast. Milly—never mind about tea for a minute. Something I want to say to you, see? Why I came, really. Here … what’s everyone looking at …? Staring. Why’s everyone staring at us, Milly? Rude, I’d say …”

  “Yes—quite right, Stan. Doreen …! Doreen—can you hear me …? Yes …? Put on a record or something, will you? Nothing too jazzy. Thank you, Doreen. Come along, everybody …! Lots of food and drink left …! We’ll cut the cake in a minute, and then we can all sing carols, yes? Yes? All right, then. That’s fine. Now then, Stan … it’s just us again. All right? But do let me get you a cup of tea—and possibly a sandwich, yes? Would you like that? A sandwich?”

  “No appetite, if I’m honest with you Milly. But listen—first off, I’ve got to say I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry, Stan …? You’ve nothing to be sorry about …”

  “Oh yes I have. Because I haven’t brought you a Christmas present.”

  “Oh … Stan …!”

  “But I’m going to make up for it, you see, because I’m going to tell you where I keep the spare key to the shop, and then you can just go and help yourself to some of the special chocolates in the glass counter. Violet creams, maybe. Mint fondants, you might care for. The hazelnut whirls come highly recommended. Whole pound, if you like—I don’t care. I would have gone there first and fetched them for you—make them look all nice, you know? But I didn’t like to think I was holding up the party. It’s good of you to have waited for me. Where’s Anthony …? Is Anthony here …?”

  “He’s … yes—yes, he’s here somewhere, Stan. Can’t quite spot him at the moment, though. He’s maybe gone to spend a penny.”

  “Even that’s a bit of a to-do for him, poor little lad. He well is he, Milly …? Bearing up? Ever so good of you to, um—you know …”

  “He’s as good as gold, Stan. Really is. A pleasure to have around. And yes—he seems very, um … fit. Happy. Healthy. If you know what I mean … Um … Stan … don’t you think I ought to telephone the, er—place? I think I ought to let them know where you are, don’t you? They’re bound to be concerned. Then maybe they can send a … maybe there’s some way whereby you don’t have to go all the way back on your own, yes? And in the cold.”

  “In a minute, Milly. In a minute. Let me tell you what I have to, yes? Well first off—you remember that negligee, do you?”

  “The … the negligee … oh yes. John Barnes.”

  “That’s the man. Well when I said I’d bought it for my Janey … well I hadn’t. Not really. It was for you. Always meant to be for you, Milly. Never could forget how you looked in it, see?”

  “Yes … I do see, Stan. Well … that was extremely thoughtful of you. Very kind. Thank you.”

  “Yes. Except Aggie’s got it now. Sorry about that. Aggie—she’s a floozy in Adelaide Road. Very pleasant woman, as I recall. Not in your league, Milly. Goes without saying. You’re a lady. Proper lady. Different class. But Aggie—she’s a nice enough sort, I will say that for her. Lives with Daisy—your Jim’s little friend. Well I say little … truth is—she’s a big girl, Daisy. So anyway—she was ever so grateful for the negligee, Aggie was, but she didn’t want to marry me. Take Janey’s place. No she didn’t. Which is perfectly understandable. Well—you didn’t either, did you Milly? No blame in that. Perfectly understandable, course it is. Understand that of any woman. And the other thing I want you to know, Milly, is that I wouldn’t let my Janey write all those bad things about you.”

  “What …? You wouldn’t let … what bad things, Stan …?”

  “Oh—bad things. But I wouldn’t have it. Wouldn’t stand for it. Put my foot down. You would have been proud of me, Milly—I really was a man about it. Showed a bit of gumption. Well in her suicide note, you know …? She wanted to accuse you of things. Wanted to write all that she says you were up to with Mr. Barton, of all people—which of course I know was all lies, Milly. I do hope you understand that I know that. And then how you tried to take me away from her … and that was a lie too, more’s the pity. Then kind of saying that you’d driven her to it, sort of style …”

  “But Stan … I don’t understand. How on earth could you …?”

  “Well she read it out to me, you see. That evening—when I’d just got back from Aggie’s, in point of fact. I was quite tight, I don’t mind telling you. Went in to see her. All was quiet. Quiet as the grave it was, in there. Peaceful as you like. And then a light came on. Bit of a shock. She was sitting up in bed, you see. And the pills all around her. Already she’d swallowed quite a few, I’d say. And she was just putting the finishing touches, I suppose. To her note, you know. And it was lucky, wasn’t it really? That I happened to be there. Because when she read it out to me, I said: oh no, Janey—I’m not having that. You’ve got to rewrite it. I’m not having all that about Milly in there. So she did. Meek as a lamb, which was a fair surprise. She rewrote it. Stood over her while she did it. Like I say, I was quite a man about it. Fair deal of gumption, don’t you think?”

  “So Stan … you … knew …! You knew she was going to kill herself …!”

  “Did, yes. Well, to be fair—by the time I popped in to see her, she was well on the way, I’d say. I helped her along with the rest. Gave her little sips of water—because some of them, you know, they’re ever so large. Don’t know how these doctors are expecting you to cope. Held her hand. Seemed only polite. She was smiling at the end. Very serene, she seemed. Oh yes. She wasn’t saying anything. But I was well used to that, wasn’t I? Christ Alive—I should say so!”

  Well of course I was perfectly stupefied. I put into Stan’s hands a little bowl of gooseberry jelly—absurd I know, but it was the nearest thing to hand—made some sort of reassuring noises to the man, and then I quickly went over to Edie to ask her to sit with him while I went out to telephone the institution. I would simply say to them that Stan, as I trusted they were aware, had wandered, that he was safe, and could they please send an ambulance for him as quickly as possible. And I would upbraid them for their appalling carelessness in ever permitting such a thing, unwittingly or no: anything might have happened. And that is all I would say: that I had decided immediately. For whenever Stan would emerge from whatever it was into which he had so suddenly and very deeply receded … well then we simply couldn’t have, could we, his then being taken off somewhere else, and so very much worse? For the sake of Anthony, if for no other reason. That little boy’s future is so difficult and quite uncertain enough, I feel, without his father—already now with a history of mental illness—then being publicly branded as at the very least an accessory to a murder.

  So I did all that—and the relief in the voice of the ward orderly, or whomever I was addressing, was as palpable and heartfelt as it was thoroughly undeserved; a private ambulance, he assured me, would immediately be dispatched. I then went in search of Anthony, who I felt quite sure was deliberately hiding. I understood the poor little fellow’s embarrassment, of course I did—but this was his father, after all. And whatever may be set against Stan, no one could deny his strong and abiding love for the boy. And on my way across the room I threw a passing thank you to Doreen for having attended to all of the music si
de of things—for I did feel that undeniably it had added a very necessary dimension to the whole of the proceedings. She said she was enjoying herself, and so was everyone else … and Mrs. Stammer, that Mr. Miller over there—he all right, is he? Well no not really, Doreen: but he will be soon, I do feel sure of that. And then, well … she said something else … something that I am afraid has lingered within me. What she said was that she was pleased though that that Barton hadn’t stayed. And I queried that, genuinely surprised: Mr. Barton …? Why, Doreen? Why ever do you say that? Because he’s a right bastard like all men are, that’s why—just takes what he wants, and then he buggers off: but then you know that, don’t you? You know all about it, Mrs. Stammer.

  The ambulance did arrive quickly, and I helped Stan into the back of it: wrapped a large red blanket around his shoulders. He seemed to be stooped and rather thinner than he had been just a week ago—his eyes, ringed by shadows … inquiring, though still so very helplessly lost.

  “So, then … what about Anthony …? Did you find him, Milly?”

  “I … no, Stan. I’m afraid I didn’t. But you know what little boys are. Could be anywhere. Couldn’t he? He’ll be so terribly sorry that he missed you, though.”

  “Yes. Expect so. Oh well. There it is. Well tell him a Merry Christmas then, will you Milly? From me, sort of style.”

  “I will, Stan. Of course I will.”

  “And you, Milly. You as well. I wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  “Thank you, Stan. Thank you so much. You too. You too.”

  “And a Happy New Year …!”

  “Yes. Of course. Absolutely.”

  “Will it be one, do you think Milly …? Will it be one …?”

  “Oh I think so, Stan. I think so.”

  The party continued quite a good deal longer, but that, for me, was the end of it. Though I did cut the cake—and very good it was too: moist, crammed with fruit, and eaten enthusiastically (most especially by Sally, its creator). The carols were lovely, as always they are—all the old favorites. Mrs. Dent felt she could hardly do justice to the piano’s pedals, though Mrs. Bona happily stepped into the breach and proved to be more than up to the challenge. The men grew raucous during the Gloria choruses of “Ding Dong Merrily On High,” while all the children, bless them, were laughing their little heads off. Eventually—and at last worn out—I had concluded the day with a glass of Eno’s Fruit Salts: I think it could well have been the marzipan that did it.

  And now the future is looming. Well always it is, of course—though at Christmas time one seems to be most keenly aware of it: what with the contrast to the one preceding, if contrast ever there be. The reluctance to believe that twelve whole months can actually have passed. And always the awareness of a brand-new year—for the present just about content to be skulking in the shadows, though eagerly awaiting its grand and gaudy moment. 1960, then … when my life will be changed, and as never before. For I, Milly, am soon to be a mother: that little thing. Well of course I have been that, a mother, a mother to dear Eunice’s Paul, for quite a good long time: but now I really am actually to give birth. All that ever I desired. This morning, I fancy I felt a little kick; and I seem to be newly addicted to Tate & Lyle Golden Syrup, a thing to which before I was quite utterly indifferent—and also Craven “A”: though the thought now of accompanying a cigarette with a Trebor’s mint actively makes me queasy. And no, I cannot imagine quite how it will be … the birth, you know. Doctor McAuley, he gave me a pamphlet—a flimsy and ill-printed little thing, which has left me none the wiser. And during early February, I believe it is, I am booked in to see some sort of a woman in the Hampstead General who, according to Doctor McAuley, is going to tell me … well I don’t quite know what it is she is going to tell me. I daresay I shall pick it up. As women have been doing, though men will forget it, since ever time began. I do not know if it will hurt, the actual process … most mothers say yes, and I do rather hope that they are right: I just think that it ought to, somehow.

  Other mothers of the very young … I have heard them talk of their child as almost no more than sort of a tangible consolation for the unforeseen slaughter of physical passion, or else a vanishing of the erstwhile partner. Though this, it seems plain to me, is quite utterly wrong: the baby, most surely, is the thing. The baby itself is the ultimate reward. The baby is the reason—whereas its agency, once and in whichever way it has passed, is as nothing. For within this I am sure lies the grand design: men and women must perforce come together in order to generate impact—and if such may result in not just progeny but a vast and enduring love, well then Gloria in Excelsis. Though it seldom seems to be. Those who appear to have been the happiest—Mrs. Dent, say, or old Mr. Levy—always they are split in two, and left to bleed. Mr. and Mrs. Bona remain bonded by the loss of that which still resonates as being the sole and very point of them: their son. While Mrs. Goodrich runs her husband like a member of staff, brooking no distraction from any such uncertainties as children. As to myself and Jim … well, so very hard to say: certainly no longer cut and dried, as for so terribly long it has been. I have decided to clean the window of the shop: remove everything that has lurked there, stacked in filth since pre-biblical times, and then polish the glass so brilliantly well that for the first time in eons, you will actually be able to see through it: this is quite a large thing. And the other day I kissed him, and that very much surprised me: Jim too, I imagine. Quite wholly a spontaneous gesture on my part … and the kiss … it didn’t quite die upon my lips. This morning I did it again—but then I always do on Christmas Day: you have to, really. Though at present, obviously I cannot possibly think to more … and so do harbor a curious gratitude for the existence of this Daisy person, whoever she may be: big girl, according to Stan—not necessarily, these days, the most reliable of witnesses: but still. And as for Stan … and Jonathan … well: what is there left that I could possibly say? Then there are those who appear to be thoroughly content with a different sort of union, all of their own: Mrs. Jenkins … and Miss Jenkins, her core. And those again who continue to wait and see: Edie, Gwendoline … even Sally can be the conjuror of dreams, I suppose. Doreen, of course—who never seems to wait too very long. And yes … I have ceased to pretend to have been shocked or surprised by her passing revelation: all that time ago, when Jonathan had emerged from his yard—covered in blood, and he held me … even as his most beautiful voice was assuring me of the utter innocence of so fleeting a liaison with Doreen, I knew it to be a lie. The need for no pain, though, and the continuance of bliss—they both quite willingly collaborated to stifle at once even so much as the muffled squeal of simple possibility. I don’t care. About anything like that any more. Once, he was just so immense as to block out my light: now, he is barely visible to me. For I hold the prize. I have the very best of him. And I carry it within me.

  Then there is England’s Lane … this little island of ours: I used to think it would never change, and that nor should I. Why always in the past I have felt so very comfortable with the two us, really. But my present altered state has heightened my awareness of a gentle shifting all about me. Curios … that shop—and I have only very recently learned this—is soon to be made into a coffee bar. Well there: it had to come, as they say. And of late, Gwendoline has developed a dreadful sort of eczema, I suppose due to all the chemicals that daily she is forced to handle. Poor dear Gwendoline—sometimes she will hold her hands beneath the cold tap for up to twenty minutes on end, and still they emerge so very raw, so very terribly inflamed: she binds them at night in gauze, though still the itching, it makes her distracted and she sobs as she tears at her bandages; Doctor McAuley has told her that it is just one of those things. So, then … for how long can Amy’s continue, I wonder? Old Mr. Levy too—at the end of each and every year, he always says to me that he has had quite enough: that he has been working for the whole of his life, and that now it is time to call it a day, pack up shop, and go off to live with his one remaining sister in Broadsta
irs. And this year, you know, I do believe he means it: he looked that sad. Maybe he has been spurred by an offer for his premises that arrived, he told me, quite out of the blue—and according to Edie, Mr. Lawrence too is said to be considering an approach from the same mysteriously anonymous source, and that is rather something of a worry. Even more concerning is the fact that the two of them adjoin one another, you see, and this does rather strike me as ominous. And now of course there’s the future of Stan’s shop too to be considered. And another thing that Edie told me the day after the party is that dear old Champion the Wonder Horse is finally to be put out to grass: in the new year, the whole of the United Dairies is going over to electrified floats. And they’re intending to install on the pavement outside the shop a machine which in return for sixpence will dispense a carton of chocolate-flavored milk. I am not complacent: I cannot welcome any such things, for although they come dressed as progress, does there not also cling to each of them the whiff of erosion …?

  Well: I can do nothing about it. Can I? I shall, while rereading Sense and Sensibility for the squillionth time in my life, simply accept the winds of change—will them to amount to no more than a welcome summer breeze, and pray for no hurricane. I know that we shall be staying, whatever happens: myself, Jim, Paul … Anthony now, our little refugee, for whom grief, I fear, might patiently be waiting … and then ultimately … my baby. And I do see that it is not just England’s Lane that begins to stir—it is England’s every lane and borough. Newspapers and the wireless, they will insist upon exulting in the presumption that now we are standing poised at the dawn of a “new age” … rather as if there were something wrong with this one. But we’ve already had that, haven’t we? The new age. For our new age, it came with the end of war—and by God did we not grasp at it greedily, in exhaustion and quite tattered desperation? It is that very hard-won peace, the very heaven of unimagined contentment, that still we should be most ardently cherishing.