The Penguin Book of Modern British Short Stories

by Various

  They’d brought nothing else. No fruit, no meat, no vegetables, not even bread, certainly not a box of chocolates. They’d gone off to bed with alacrity, the night before, and the spare room rocked and heaved: well, who’d want to do washing-up when you could do that, but what about the children? Would they get confused? First Colin and Janet, now Colin and Katie?

  Martha murmured something of her thoughts to Martin, who looked quite shocked. ‘Colin’s my best friend. I don’t expect him to bring anything,’ and Martha felt mean. ‘And good heavens, you can’t protect the kids from sex for ever: don’t be so prudish,’ so that Martha felt stupid as well. Mean, complaining, and stupid.

  Janet had rung Martha during the week. The house had been sold over her head, and she and the children had been moved into a small flat. Katie was trying to persuade Colin to cut down on her allowance, Janet said.

  ‘It does one no good to be materialistic,’ Katie confided. ‘I have nothing. No home, no family, no ties, no possessions. Look at me! Only me and a suitcase of clothes.’ But Katie seemed highly satisfied with the me, and the clothes were stupendous. Katie drank a great deal and became funny. Everyone laughed, including Martha. Katie had been married twice. Martha marvelled at how someone could arrive in their mid-thirties with nothing at all to their name, neither husband, nor children, nor property and not mind.

  Mind you, Martha could see the power of such helplessness. If Colin was all Katie had in the world, how could Colin abandon her? And to what? Where would she go? How would she live? Oh, clever Katie.

  ‘My teacup’s dirty,’ said Katie, and Martha ran to clean it, apologizing, and Martin raised his eyebrows, at Martha, not Katie.

  ‘I wish you’d wear scent,’ said Martin to Martha, reproachfully. Katie wore lots. Martha never seemed to have time to put any on, though Martin bought her bottle after bottle. Martha leapt out of bed each morning to meet some emergency – miaowing cat, coughing child, faulty alarm clock, postman’s knock – when was Martha to put on scent? It annoyed Martin all the same. She ought to do more to charm him.

  Colin looked handsome and harrowed and younger than Martin, though they were much the same age. ‘Youth’s catching,’ said Martin in bed that night. ‘It’s since he found Katie.’ Found, like some treasure. Discovered; something exciting and wonderful, in the dreary world of established spouses.

  On Saturday morning Jasper trod on a piece of wood (‘Martha, why isn’t he wearing shoes? It’s too bad’: Martin) and Martha took him into the hospital to have a nasty splinter removed. She left the cottage at ten and arrived back at one, and they were still sitting in the sun, drinking, empty bottles glinting in the long grass. The grass hadn’t been cut. Don’t forget the bottles. Broken glass means more mornings at the hospital. Oh, don’t fuss. Enjoy yourself. Like other people. Try.

  But no potatoes peeled, no breakfast cleared, nothing. Cigarette ends still amongst old toast, bacon rind and marmalade. ‘You could have done the potatoes,’ Martha burst out. Oh, bad temper! Prime sin. They looked at her in amazement and dislike. Martin too.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Katie. ‘Are we doing the whole Sunday lunch bit on Saturday? Potatoes? Ages since I’ve eaten potatoes. Wonderful!’

  ‘The children expect it,’ said Martha.

  So they did. Saturday and Sunday lunch shone like reassuring beacons in their lives. Saturday lunch: family lunch: fish and chips. (‘So much better cooked at home than bought’: Martin) Sunday. Usually roast beef, potatoes, peas, apple pie. Oh, of course. Yorkshire pudding. Always a problem with oven temperatures. When the beef’s going slowly, the Yorkshire should be going fast. How to achieve that? Like big bosom and little hips.

  ‘Just relax,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll cook dinner, all in good time. Splinters always work their own way out: no need to have taken him to hospital. Let life drift over you, my love. Flow with the waves, that’s the way.’

  And Martin flashed Martha a distant, spiritual smile. His hand lay on Katie’s slim brown arm, with its many gold bands.

  ‘Anyway, you do too much for the children,’ said Martin. ‘It isn’t good for them. Have a drink.’

  So Martha perched uneasily on the step and had a glass of cider, and wondered how, if lunch was going to be late, she would get cleared up and the meat out of the marinade for the rather formal dinner that would be expected that evening. The marinaded lamb ought to cook for at least four hours in a low oven; and the cottage oven was very small, and you couldn’t use that and the grill at the same time and Martin liked his fish grilled, not fried. Less cholesterol.

  She didn’t say as much. Domestic details like this were very boring, and any mild complaint was registered by Martin as a scene. And to make a scene was so ungrateful.

  This was the life. Well, wasn’t it? Smart friends in large cars and country living and drinks before lunch and roses and bird song – ‘Don’t drink too much,’ said Martin, and told them about Martha’s suspended driving licence.

  The children were hungry so Martha opened them a can of beans and sausages and heated that up. (‘Martha, do they have to eat that crap? Can’t they wait?’: Martin)

  Katie was hungry: she said so, to keep the children in face. She was lovely with children – most children. She did not particularly like Colin and Janet’s children. She said so, and he accepted it. He only saw them once a month now, not once a week.

  ‘Let me make lunch,’ Katie said to Martha. ‘You do so much, poor thing!’

  And she pulled out of the fridge all the things Martha had put away for the next day’s picnic lunch party – Camembert cheese and salad and salami and made a wonderful tomato salad in two minutes and opened the white wine – ‘not very cold, darling. Shouldn’t it be chilling?’ – and had it all on the table in five amazing competent minutes. ‘That’s all we need, darling,’ said Martin. ‘You are funny with your fish-and-chip Saturdays! What could be nicer than this? Or simpler?’

  Nothing, except there was Sunday’s buffet lunch for nine gone, in place of Saturday’s fish for six, and would the fish stretch? No. Katie had had quite a lot to drink. She pecked Martha on the forehead. ‘Funny little Martha,’ she said. ‘She reminds me of Janet. I really do like Janet.’ Colin did not want to be reminded of Janet, and said so. ‘Darling, Janet’s a fact of life,’ said Katie. ‘If you’d only think about her more, you might manage to pay her less.’ And she yawned and stretched her lean, childless body and smiled at Colin with her inviting, naughty little girl eyes, and Martin watched her in admiration.

  Martha got up and left them and took a paint pot and put a coat of white gloss on the bathroom wall. The white surface pleased her. She was good at painting. She produced a smooth, even surface. Her legs throbbed. She feared she might be getting varicose veins.

  Outside in the garden the children played badminton. They were bad-tempered, but relieved to be able to look up and see their mother working, as usual: making their lives for ever better and nicer: organizing, planning, thinking ahead, side-stepping disaster, making preparations, like a mother hen, fussing and irritating: part of the natural boring scenery of the world.

  On Saturday night Katie went to bed early: she rose from her chair and stretched and yawned and poked her head into the kitchen where Martha was washing saucepans. Colin had cleared the table and Katie had folded the napkins into pretty creases, while Martin blew at the fire, to make it bright. ‘Good night,’ said Katie.

  Katie appeared three minutes later, reproachfully holding out her Yves St Laurent towel, sopping wet. ‘Oh dear,’ cried Martha. ‘Jenny must have washed her hair!’ And Martha was obliged to rout Jenny out of bed to rebuke her, publicly, if only to demonstrate that she knew what was right and proper. That meant Jenny would sulk all weekend, and that meant a treat or an outing mid-week, or else by the following week she’d be having an asthma attack. ‘You fuss the children too much,’ said Martin. ‘That’s why Jenny has asthma.’ Jenny was pleasant enough to look at, but not stunning. Perhaps she was a disappo
intment to her father? Martin would never say so, but Martha feared he thought so.

  An egg and an orange each child, each day. Then nothing too bad would go wrong. And it hadn’t. The asthma was very mild. A calm, tranquil environment, the doctor said. Ah, smile, Martha smile. Domestic happiness depends on you. 21 × 52 oranges a year. Each one to be purchased, carried, peeled and washed up after. And what about potatoes. 12 × 52 pounds a year? Martin liked his potatoes carefully peeled. He couldn’t bear to find little cores of black in the mouthful. (‘Well, it isn’t very nice, is it?’: Martin).

  Martha dreamt she was eating coal, by handfuls, and liking it.

  Saturday night. Martin made love to Martha three times. Three times? How virile he was, and clearly turned on by the sounds from the spare room. Martin said he loved her. Martin always did. He was a courteous lover; he knew the importance of foreplay. So did Martha. Three times.

  Ah, sleep. Jolyon had a nightmare. Jenny was woken by a moth. Martin slept through everything. Martha pottered about the house in the night. There was a moon. She sat at the window and stared out into the summer night for five minutes, and was at peace, and then went back to bed because she ought to be fresh for the morning.

  But she wasn’t. She slept late. The others went out for a walk. They’d left a note, a considerate note: ‘Didn’t wake you. You looked tired. Had a cold breakfast so as not to make too much mess. Leave everything ’til we get back.’ But it was ten o’clock, and guests were coming at noon, so she cleared away the bread, the butter, the crumbs, the smears, the jam, the spoons, the spilt sugar, the cereal, the milk (sour by now) and the dirty plates, and swept the floors, and tidied up quickly, and grabbed a cup of coffee, and prepared to make a rice and fish dish, and a chocolate mousse and sat down in the middle to eat a lot of bread and jam herself. Broad hips. She remembered the office work in her file and knew she wouldn’t be able to do it. Martin anyway thought it was ridiculous for her to bring work back at the weekends. ‘It’s your holiday,’ he’d say. ‘Why should they impose?’ Martha loved her work. She didn’t have to smile at it. She just did it.

  Katie came back upset and crying. She sat in the kitchen while Martha worked and drank glass after glass of gin and bitter lemon. Katie liked ice and lemon in gin. Martha paid for all the drink out of her wages. It was part of the deal between her and Martin – the contract by which she went out to work. All things to cheer the spirit, otherwise depressed by a working wife and mother, were to be paid for by Martha. Drink, holidays, petrol, outings, puddings, electricity, heating: it was quite a joke between them. It didn’t really make any difference: it was their joint money, after all. Amazing how Martha’s wages were creeping up, almost to the level of Martin’s. One day they would overtake. Then what?

  Work, honestly, was a piece of cake.

  Anyway, poor Katie was crying. Colin, she’d discovered, kept a photograph of Janet and the children in his wallet. ‘He’s not free of her. He pretends he is, but he isn’t. She has him by a stranglehold. It’s the kids. His bloody kids. Moaning Mary and that little creep Joanna. It’s all he thinks about. I’m nobody.’

  But Katie didn’t believe it. She knew she was somebody all right. Colin came in, in a fury. He took out the photograph and set fire to it, bitterly, with a match. Up in smoke they went. Mary and Joanna and Janet. The ashes fell on the floor. (Martha swept them up when Colin and Katie had gone. It hardly seemed polite to do so when they were still there.) ‘Go back to her,’ Katie said. ‘Go back to her. I don’t care. Honestly, I’d rather be on my own. You’re a nice old fashioned thing. Run along then. Do your thing, I’ll do mine. Who cares?’

  ‘Christ, Katie, the fuss! She only just happens to be in the photograph. She’s not there on purpose to annoy. And I do feel bad about her. She’s been having a hard time.’

  ‘And haven’t you, Colin? She twists a pretty knife, I can tell you. Don’t you have rights too? Not to mention me. Is a little loyalty too much to expect?’

  They were reconciled before lunch, up in the spare room. Harry and Beryl Elder arrived at twelve-thirty. Harry didn’t like to hurry on Sundays; Beryl was flustered with apologies for their lateness. They’d brought artichokes from their garden. ‘Wonderful,’ cried Martin. ‘Fruits of the earth? Let’s have a wonderful soup! Don’t fret, Martha. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Don’t fret.’ Martha clearly hadn’t been smiling enough. She was in danger, Martin implied, of ruining everyone’s weekend. There was an emergency in the garden very shortly – an elm tree which had probably got Dutch elm disease – and Martha finished the artichokes. The lid flew off the blender and there was artichoke purée everywhere. ‘Let’s have lunch outside,’ said Colin. ‘Less work for Martha.’

  Martin frowned at Martha: he thought the appearance of martyrdom in the face of guests to be an unforgivable offence.

  Everyone happily joined in taking the furniture out, but it was Martha’s experience that nobody ever helped to bring it in again.

  Jolyon was stung by a wasp. Jasper sneezed and sneezed from hay fever and couldn’t find the tissues and he wouldn’t use loo paper. (‘Surely you remembered the tissues, darling?’: Martin)

  Beryl Elder was nice. ‘Wonderful to eat out,’ she said, fetching the cream for her pudding, while Martha fished a fly from the liquefying Brie (‘You shouldn’t have bought it so ripe, Martha’: Martin) – ‘except it’s just some other woman has to do it. But at least it isn’t me.’ Beryl worked too, as a secretary, to send the boys to boarding school, where she’d rather they weren’t. But her husband was from a rather grand family, and she’d been only a typist when he married her, so her life was a mass of amends, one way or another. Harry had lately opted out of the stockbroking rat race and become an artist, choosing integrity rather than money, but that choice was his alone and couldn’t of course be inflicted on the boys.

  Katie found the fish and rice dish rather strange, toyed at it with her fork, and talked about Italian restaurants she knew. Martin lay back soaking in the sun: crying, ‘Oh, this is the life.’ He made coffee, nobly, and the lid flew off the grinder and there were coffee beans all over the kitchen especially in amongst the row of cookery books which Martin gave Martha Christmas by Christmas. At least they didn’t have to be brought back every weekend. (‘The burglars won’t have the sense to steal those’: Martin)

  Beryl fell asleep and Katie watched her, quizzically. Beryl’s mouth was open and she had a lot of fillings, and her ankles were thick and her waist was going, and she didn’t look after herself. ‘I love women,’ sighed Katie. ‘They look so wonderful asleep. I wish I could be an earth mother.’

  Beryl woke with a start and nagged her husband into going home, which he clearly didn’t want to do, so didn’t. Beryl thought she had to get back because his mother was coming round later. Nonsense! Then Beryl tried to stop Harry drinking more home-made wine and was laughed at by everyone. He was driving, Beryl couldn’t, and he did have a nasty scar on his temple from a previous road accident. Never mind.

  ‘She does come on strong, poor soul,’ laughed Katie when they’d finally gone. ‘I’m never going to get married,’ – and Colin looked at her yearningly because he wanted to marry her more than anything in the world, and Martha cleared the coffee cups.

  ‘Oh don’t do that,’ said Katie, ‘do just sit down, Martha, you make us all feel bad,’ and Martin glared at Martha who sat down and Jenny called out for her and Martha went upstairs and Jenny had started her first period and Martha cried and cried and knew she must stop because this must be a joyous occasion for Jenny or her whole future would be blighted, but for once, Martha couldn’t.

  Her daughter Jenny: wife, mother, friend.

  * * *

  DAVID LODGE

  * * *

  HOTEL DES BOOBS

  ‘Hotel des Pins!’ said Harry. ‘More like Hotel des Boobs.’

  ‘Come away from that window,’ said Brenda. ‘Stop behaving like a Peeping Tom.’

  ‘What d’you m
ean, a Peeping Tom?’ said Harry, continuing to squint down at the pool area through the slats of their bedroom shutters. ‘A Peeping Tom is someone who interferes with someone else’s privacy.’

  ‘This is a private hotel.’

  ‘Hotel des Tits. Hotel des Bristols. Hey, that’s not bad!’ He turned his head to flash a grin across the room. ‘Hotel Bristols, in the plural. Geddit?’

  If Brenda got it, she wasn’t impressed. Harry resumed his watch. ‘I’m not interfering with anyone’s privacy,’ he said. ‘If they don’t want people to look at their tits, why don’t they cover them up?’

  ‘Well go and look, then. Don’t peep. Go down to the pool and have a good look.’ Brenda dragged a comb angrily through her hair. ‘Hold an inspection.’

  ‘You’re going to have to go topless, you know, Brenda, before this holiday’s over.’

  Brenda snorted derisively.

  ‘Why not? You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’ He turned his head again to leer encouragingly at her. ‘You’ve still got a fine pair.’

  ‘Thanks very much, I’m sure,’ said Brenda. ‘But I intend to keep them covered as per usual.’

  ‘When in Rome,’ said Harry.

  ‘This isn’t Rome, it’s the Côte d’Azur.’

  ‘Côte des Tits,’ said Harry. ‘Côte des Knockers.’

  ‘If I’d known you were going to go on like this,’ said Brenda, ‘I’d never have come here.’

  For years Harry and Brenda had taken family holidays every summer in Guernsey, where Brenda’s parents lived. But now that the children were grown up enough to make their own arrangements, they had decided to have a change. Brenda had always wanted to see the South of France, and they felt they’d earned the right to treat themselves for once. They were quite comfortably off, now that Brenda, a recent graduate of the Open University, had a full-time job as a teacher. It had caused an agreeable stir in the managerial canteen at Barnard Castings when Harry dropped the name of their holiday destination in among the Benidorms and Palmas, the Costas of this and that, whose merits were being debated by his colleagues.