The Penguin Book of Modern British Short Stories

by Various

  I can’t tell you how good it was to get your letter. It was under my door first thing this morning, when I arrived, just what I needed to hear. I’d been wondering all night, with the snowstorm going on outside my window, just how you felt, you and Laura Ann. I mean, it could have been something just casual. Like Blow Up or something – did you see that great film? What it meant to me was a breaking down of distances, a real getting close. How these artificial rôles, teacher and student, block out real relationships. I accept your invitation, who wouldn’t? I’ll be round tomorrow night (I have a paper tonight to finish for my graduate course; I wonder what grade I’ll get!). Certainly I’d like to meet Delise. She’s right, of course; photography is better than words, as involvement is better than analysis, life better than writing about life. And you’re right too, about grades being crap. In fact that whole academic factory atmosphere is crap too. Petty research by petty minds evading everything that’s real and alive. Well, you’re alive, and you’ve taught me something. Do you know what your letter made me do? Burn my grade sheets. I guess that’s the end of my contract, but who cares? What kind of life is that? I wanted to write songs anyway. Don’t take too much exercise before I come. Do you know what I’m doing? I sit at my desk, in a high-back swivel chair, looking out at the snow. I have an incredible, fresh sense of reality. It’s a really crisp, beautiful morning, and out through the window I can see people walking in all their peopleness, and the sun bringing out red glitter…

  ‘Hey, William, William,’ says Fardiman, marking, ‘what’s all that stuff you’re writing?’

  * * *

  FAY WELDON

  * * *

  WEEKEND

  By seven-thirty they were ready to go. Martha had everything packed into the car and the three children appropriately dressed and in the back seat, complete with educational games and wholewheat biscuits. When everything was ready in the car Martin would switch off the television, come downstairs, lock up the house, front and back, and take the wheel.

  Weekend! Only two hours’ drive down to the cottage on Friday evenings: three hours’ drive back on Sunday nights. The pleasures of greenery and guests in between. They reckoned themselves fortunate, how fortunate!

  On Fridays Martha would get home on the bus at six-twelve and prepare tea and sandwiches for the family: then she would strip four beds and put the sheets and quilt covers in the washing machine for Monday: take the country bedding from the airing basket, plus the books and the games, plus the weekend food – acquired at intervals throughout the week, to lessen the load – plus her own folder of work from the office, plus Martin’s drawing materials (she was a market researcher in an advertising agency, he a freelance designer) plus hairbrushes, jeans, spare T-shirts, Jolyon’s antibiotics (he suffered from sore throats), Jenny’s recorder, Jasper’s cassette player and so on – ah, the so on! – and would pack them all, skilfully and quickly, into the boot. Very little could be left in the cottage during the week. (‘An open invitation to burglars’: Martin) Then Martha would run round the house tidying and wiping, doing this and that, finding the cat at one neighbour’s and delivering it to another, while the others ate their tea; and would usually, proudly, have everything finished by the time they had eaten their fill. Martin would just catch the BBC 2 news, while Martha cleared away the tea table, and the children tossed up for the best positions in the car. ‘Martha,’ said Martin, tonight, ‘you ought to get Mrs Hodder to do more. She takes advantage of you.’

  Mrs Hodder came in twice a week to clean. She was over seventy. She charged two pounds an hour. Martha paid her out of her own wages: well, the running of the house was Martha’s concern. If Martha chose to go out to work – as was her perfect right, Martin allowed, even though it wasn’t the best thing for the children, but that must be Martha’s moral responsibility – Martha must surely pay her domestic stand-in. An evident truth, heard loud and clear and frequent in Martin’s mouth and Martha’s heart.

  ‘I expect you’re right,’ said Martha. She did not want to argue. Martin had had a long hard week, and now had to drive. Martha couldn’t. Martha’s licence had been suspended four months back for drunken driving. Everyone agreed that the suspension was unfair; Martha seldom drank to excess: she was for one thing usually too busy pouring drinks for other people or washing other people’s glasses to get much inside herself. But Martin had taken her out to dinner on her birthday, as was his custom, and exhaustion and excitement mixed had made her imprudent, and before she knew where she was, why there she was, in the dock, with a distorted lamp-post to pay for and a new bonnet for the car and six months’ suspension.

  So now Martin had to drive her car down to the cottage, and he was always tired on Fridays, and hot and sleepy on Sundays, and every rattle and clank and bump in the engine she felt to be somehow her fault.

  Martin had a little sports car for London and work: it could nip in and out of the traffic nicely: Martha’s was an old estate car, with room for the children, picnic baskets, bedding, food, games, plants, drink, portable television and all the things required by the middle classes for weekends in the country. It lumbered rather than zipped and made Martin angry. He seldom spoke a harsh word, but Martha, after the fashion of wives, could detect his mood from what he did not say rather than what he did, and from the tilt of his head, and the way his crinkly, merry eyes seemed crinklier and merrier still – and of course from the way he addressed Martha’s car.

  ‘Come along, you old banger you! Can’t you do better than that? You’re too old, that’s your trouble. Stop complaining. Always complaining, it’s only a hill. You’re too wide about the hips. You’ll never get through there.’

  Martha worried about her age, her tendency to complain, and the width of her hips. She took the remarks personally. Was she right to do so? The children noticed nothing: it was just funny lively laughing Daddy being witty about Mummy’s car. Mummy, done for drunken driving. Mummy, with the roots of melancholy somewhere deep beneath the bustling, busy, everyday self. Busy: ah so busy!

  Martin would only laugh if she said anything about the way he spoke to her car and warn her against paranoia. ‘Don’t get like your mother, darling.’ Martha’s mother had, towards the end, thought that people were plotting against her. Martha’s mother had led a secluded, suspicious life, and made Martha’s childhood a chilly and a lonely time. Life now, by comparison, was wonderful for Martha. People, children, houses, conversations, food, drink, theatres – even, now, a career. Martin standing between her and the hostility of the world – popular, easy, funny Martin, beckoning the rest of the world into earshot.

  Ah, she was grateful: little earnest Martha, with her shy ways and her penchant for passing boring exams – how her life had blossomed out! Three children too – Jasper, Jenny and Jolyon – all with Martin’s broad brow and open looks, and the confidence born of her love and care, and the work she had put into them since the dawning of their days.

  Martin drives. Martha, for once, drowses.

  The right food, the right words, the right play. Doctors for the tonsils: dentists for the molars. Confiscate guns: censor television: encourage creativity. Paints and paper to hand: books on the shelves: meetings with teachers. Music teachers. Dancing lessons. Parties. Friends to tea. School plays. Open days. Junior orchestra.

  Martha is jolted awake. Traffic lights. Martin doesn’t like Martha to sleep while he drives.

  Clothes. Oh, clothes! Can’t wear this: must wear that. Dress shops. Piles of clothes in corners: duly washed, but waiting to be ironed, waiting to be put away.

  Get the piles off the floor, into the laundry baskets. Martin doesn’t like a mess.

  Creativity arises out of order, not chaos. Five years off work while the children were small: back to work with seniority lost. What, did you think something was for nothing? If you have children, mother, that is your reward. It lies not in the world.

  Have you taken enough food? Always hard to judge.

  Food. Oh, food! Shop
in the lunch-hour. Lug it all home. Cook for the freezer on Wednesday evenings while Martin is at his car-maintenance evening class, and isn’t there to notice you being unrestful. Martin likes you to sit down in the evenings. Fruit, meat, vegetables, flour for home-made bread. Well, shop bread is full of pollutants. Frozen food, even your own, loses flavour. Martin often remarks on it. Condiments. Everyone loves mango chutney. But the expense!

  London Airport to the left. Look, look, children! Concorde? No, idiot, of course it isn’t Concorde.

  Ah, to be all things to all people: children, husband, employer, friends! It can be done: yes, it can: super woman.

  Drink. Home-made wine. Why not? Elderberries grown thick and rich in London: and at least you know what’s in it. Store it in high cupboards: lots of room: up and down the step-ladder. Careful! Don’t slip. Don’t break anything.

  No such thing as an accident. Accidents are Freudian slips: they are wilful, bad-tempered things.

  Martin can’t bear bad temper. Martin likes slim ladies. Diet. Martin rather likes his secretary. Diet. Martin admires slim legs and big bosoms. How to achieve them both? Impossible. But try, oh try, to be what you ought to be, not what you are. Inside and out.

  Martin brings back flowers and chocolates: whisks Martha off for holiday weekends. Wonderful! The best husband in the world: look into his crinkly, merry, gentle eyes; see it there. So the mouth slopes away into something of a pout. Never mind. Gaze into the eyes. Love. It must be love. You married him. You. Surely you deserve true love?

  Salisbury Plain. Stonehenge. Look, children, look! Mother, we’ve seen Stonehenge a hundred times. Go back to sleep.

  Cook! Ah cook. People love to come to Martin and Martha’s dinners. Work it out in your head in the lunch-hour. If you get in at six-twelve, you can seal the meat while you beat the egg white while you feed the cat while you lay the table while you string the beans while you set out the cheese, goat’s cheese, Martin loves goat’s cheese, Martha tries to like goat’s cheese – oh, bed, sleep, peace, quiet.

  Sex! Ah sex. Orgasm, please. Martin requires it. Well, so do you. And you don’t want his secretary providing a passion you neglected to develop. Do you? Quick, quick, the cosmic bond. Love. Married love.

  Secretary! Probably a vulgar suspicion: nothing more. Probably a fit of paranoics, à la mother, now dead and gone.

  At peace.

  RIP.

  Chilly, lonely mother, following her suspicions where they led.

  Nearly there, children. Nearly in paradise, nearly at the cottage. Have another biscuit.

  Real roses round the door.

  Roses. Prune, weed, spray, feed, pick. Avoid thorns. One of Martin’s few harsh words.

  ‘Martha, you can’t not want roses! What kind of person am I married to? An anti-rose personality?’

  Green grass. Oh, God, grass. Grass must be mown. Restful lawns, daisies bobbing, buttercups glowing. Roses and grass and books. Books.

  Please, Martin, do we have to have the two hundred books, mostly twenties’ first editions, bought at Christie’s book sale on one of your afternoons off? Books need dusting.

  Roars of laughter from Martin, Jasper, Jenny and Jolyon. Mummy says we shouldn’t have the books: books need dusting!

  Roses, green grass, books and peace.

  Martha woke up with a start when they got to the cottage, and gave a little shriek which made them all laugh. Mummy’s waking shriek, they called it.

  Then there was the car to unpack and the beds to make up, and the electricity to connect, and the supper to make, and the cobwebs to remove, while Martin made the fire. Then supper – pork chops in sweet and sour sauce (‘Pork is such a dull meat if you don’t cook it properly’: Martin), green salad from the garden, or such green salad as the rabbits had left (‘Martha, did you really net them properly? Be honest now!’: Martin) and sauté potatoes. Mash is so stodgy and ordinary, and instant mash unthinkable. The children studied the night sky with the aid of their star map. Wonderful, rewarding children!

  Then clear up the supper: set the dough to prove for the bread: Martin already in bed: exhausted by the drive and lighting the fire. (‘Martha, we really ought to get the logs stacked properly. Get the children to do it, will you?’: Martin) Sweep and tidy: get the TV aerial right. Turn up Jasper’s jeans where he has trodden the hem undone. (‘He can’t go around like that, Martha. Not even Jasper’: Martin)

  Midnight. Good night. Weekend guests arriving in the morning. Seven for lunch and dinner on Saturday. Seven for Sunday breakfast, nine for Sunday lunch. (‘Don’t fuss, darling. You always make such a fuss’: Martin) Oh, God, forgotten the garlic squeezer. That means ten minutes with the back of a spoon and salt. Well, who wants lumps of garlic? No one. Not Martin’s guests. Martin said so. Sleep.

  Colin and Katie. Colin is Martin’s oldest friend. Katie is his new young wife. Janet, Colin’s other, earlier wife, was Martha’s friend.

  Janet was rather like Martha, quieter and duller than her husband. A nag and a drag, Martin rather thought, and said, and of course she’d let herself go, everyone agreed. No one exactly excused Colin for walking out, but you could see the temptation.

  Katie versus Janet.

  Katie was languid, beautiful and elegant. She drawled when she spoke. Her hands were expressive: her feet were little and female. She had no children.

  Janet plodded round on very flat, rather large feet. There was something wrong with them. They turned out slightly when she walked. She had two children. She was, frankly, boring. But Martha liked her: when Janet came down to the cottage she would wash up. Not in the way that most guests washed up – washing dutifully and setting everything out on the draining board, but actually drying and putting away too. And Janet would wash the bath and get the children all sat down, with chairs for everyone, even the littlest, and keep them quiet and satisfied so the grown-ups – well, the men – could get on with their conversation and their jokes and their love of country weekends, while Janet stared into space, as if grateful for the rest, quite happy.

  Janet would garden, too. Weed the strawberries, while the men went for their walk; her great feet standing firm and square and sometimes crushing a plant or so, but never mind, oh never mind. Lovely Janet; who understood.

  Now Janet was gone and here was Katie.

  Katie talked with the men and went for walks with the men, and moved her ashtray rather impatiently when Martha tried to clear the drinks round it.

  Dishes were boring, Katie implied by her manner, and domesticity was boring, and anyone who bothered with that kind of thing was a fool. Like Martha. Ash should be allowed to stay where it was, even if it was in the butter, and conversations should never be interrupted.

  Knock, knock. Katie and Colin arrived at one-fifteen on Saturday morning, just after Martha had got to bed. ‘You don’t mind? It was the moonlight. We couldn’t resist it. You should have seen Stonehenge! We didn’t disturb you? Such early birds!’

  Martha rustled up a quick meal of omelettes. Saturday nights’ eggs. (‘Martha makes a lovely omelette’: Martin) (‘Honey, make one of your mushroom omelettes: cook the mushrooms separately, remember, with lemon. Otherwise the water from the mushrooms gets into the egg, and spoils everything.’) Sunday supper mushrooms. But ungracious to say anything.

  Martin had revived wonderfully at the sight of Colin and Katie. He brought out the whisky bottle. Glasses. Ice. Jug for water. Wait. Wash up another sinkful, when they’re finished. 2 a.m.

  ‘Don’t do it tonight, darling.’

  ‘It’ll only take a sec.’ Bright smile, not a hint of self-pity. Self-pity can spoil everyone’s weekend.

  Martha knows that if breakfast for seven is to be manageable the sink must be cleared of dishes. A tricky meal, breakfast. Especially if bacon, eggs, and tomatoes must all be cooked in separate pans. (‘Separate pans mean separate flavours!’: Martin)

  She is running around in her nightie. Now if that had been Katie – but there’s something so pr
actical about Martha. Reassuring, mind; but the skimpy nightie and the broad rump and the thirty-eight years are all rather embarrassing. Martha can see it in Colin and Katie’s eyes. Martin’s too. Martha wishes she did not see so much in other people’s eyes. Her mother did, too. Dear, dead mother. Did I misjudge you?

  This was the second weekend Katie had been down with Colin but without Janet. Colin was a photographer: Katie had been his accessorizer. First Colin and Janet: then Colin, Janet and Katie: now Colin and Katie!

  Katie weeded with rubber gloves on and pulled out pansies in mistake for weeds and laughed and laughed along with everyone when her mistake was pointed out to her, but the pansies died. Well, Colin had become with the years fairly rich and fairly famous, and what does a fairly rich and famous man want with a wife like Janet when Katie is at hand?

  On the first of the Colin/Janet/Katie weekends Katie had appeared out of the bathroom. ‘I say,’ said Katie, holding out a damp towel with evident distaste, ‘I can only find this. No hope of a dry one?’ And Martha had run to fetch a dry towel and amazingly found one, and handed it to Katie who flashed her a brilliant smile and said, ‘I can’t bear damp towels. Anything in the world but damp towels,’ as if speaking to a servant in a time of shortage of staff, and took all the water so there was none left for Martha to wash up.

  The trouble, of course, was drying anything at all in the cottage. There were no facilities for doing so, and Martin had a horror of clothes lines which might spoil the view. He toiled and moiled all week in the city simply to get a country view at the weekend. Ridiculous to spoil it by draping it with wet towels! But now Martha had bought more towels, so perhaps everyone could be satisfied. She would take nine damp towels back on Sunday evenings in a plastic bag and see to them in London.

  On this Saturday morning, straight after breakfast, Katie went out to the car – she and Colin had a new Lamborghini; hard to imagine Katie in anything duller – and came back waving a new Yves St Laurent towel. ‘See! I brought my own, darlings.’