Colouring In

by Angela Huth

  Carlotta then ran into the kitchen. In the moment of re-union between the three of them I registered shock, perhaps bemusement, on Bert and Isabel’s faces. Bert also looked faintly annoyed. – Carlotta can never make a quiet entrance. She always stirs some kind of response: not to do so would be a failure in her eyes.

  I left them to it. Gave Carlotta a glass of champagne then, by way of help to Isabel, and to expunge guilt felt by my lack of domestic effort earlier in the evening, I put the plates of smoked salmon on the table. The problem of when to break my small piece of news I still hadn’t resolved. Before or after the crème brulée? With the cheese? Or should I wait till the coffee? By then we’d have had enough to drink to temper the news, which I don’t anticipate will cause much of a stir in any case: I will just feel a certain relief when I’ve broken it.

  I lit the four tall candles, Isabel’s favourite Prussian blue. I was still uncertain, still undecided. Nothing for it but to wait and see how the evening turned out.

  CARLOTTA

  I was late, of course. Naturally I’d no intention of being on time, no matter how much Isabel would disapprove. – She’s so old, in some ways. Pernickety about time. It would have been difficult to have been punctual even if I’d wanted to. A meeting at the office went on and on. I wasn’t in charge. It meant I could sit back and think. I won’t have to be at many more meetings like that, thank God. Not for a while, anyway. Then they’ll be in New York, and rather more crisply chaired..

  I dashed home, decided against a shower, saw my last night’s red dress flung over the chair. Rather than hang about making dreary decisions about what to wear, I put it on again. I don’t usually wear the same thing two nights running for fear of traces of one night spilling over into another. But I couldn’t be bothered to re-think. Dashed it on, found some matching lipstick and zoomed over to Is and Dan.

  Dan, as I hoped he would, opened the door to me. Why did I hope that? – Don’t know, really, except it would mean a few seconds to take in his attitude when no one else was there. We hugged for a moment and I thought, as I so often do, God I wish Dan was my husband. Though what with all the gallivanting last night with the agile Rory, and lack of sleep, and all the hurry -what I actually felt was a kind of innocent pleasure, and a warmth, that nefarious secrets endow. Not a trace of lust on my part. Though I could swear that Dan, for all his love of Is, was pretty unnerved just having me in his arms for two seconds in the hall.

  In the kitchen Is and Bert were sitting at that low table in the window looking faintly bored. Or cross, perhaps. Possibly Is was put out by my arriving forty five minutes after the appointed time. I apologised and she assured me she didn’t care a damn, there was nothing that would spoil. Then I sat down with her and Bert, who looked handsomely suntanned, and began asking automatic questions about his time in Norfolk. Isabel, it seemed, hadn’t had time -or bothered – to make much effort with her appearance. She was in her usual blue, no make-up. Have to admit she was looking rather beautiful. Made me feel rather over-aware of my thick mascara and scarlet lips.

  Dan was at the other end of the room putting out the first course. At one moment he caught my eye. I think the look said, if only. But perhaps I misinterpreted it.

  All the time I was wondering at what point I should deliver my bombshell. What kind of a sensation would it cause, I wondered? Would they all be horrified at my prospective absence, try to persuade me against it? Or would they all profess understanding, urge me to go for it? I just didn’t know. Having quickly finished my first glass of champagne, Bert sweetly realised I needed another and picked up the bottle. Faint sadness at never having managed to win him over. I would have liked life in his Chelsea house. As he smiled at me in a kindly way, filling the glass to the very brim, I thought, yes, odd, but I could have grown to love him.

  SYLVIE

  I finished my essay just before ten. I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard! I read it over several times and thought it was rather good. I might get an A–, or even an A. Then I thought, to celebrate, I’d go down to the kitchen and see if I could get a bit of the crème brulée. I knew Bert’d be pleased to see me. Carlotta probably wouldn’t even notice me.

  I went downstairs. There was a lot of noise coming from the kitchen. I peeped round the door. They were all laughing but I couldn’t make out what at. There were three or four empty wine bottles on the table and as far as I could see they were still eating their main course. – Actually, they weren’t all laughing. Mama looked forlorn (I love that word, forlorn). She didn’t seem to be enjoying it all as much as the others. They were all locked into an odd, far away grown up world that made no sense to me. I couldn’t help feeling that it wouldn’t be a good time to go in and anyway I suddenly didn’t want to. I didn’t want to have anything to do with any of them, though I didn’t know why. It was a left-out sort of feeling that I wouldn’t normally mind. But I suppose having finished my essay I wanted to tell them…Pity it wasn’t the right moment for my news. I went back up to my room and got in to bed. I thought I might cry, but actually I was too sleepy and I suppose I went to sleep right away, thinking of the morning. Bert and Carlotta would be gone and I could tell Mama and Papa how I’d approached the War of the Roses, and I know they’d be interested. They always like reading my essays. Not like poor Elli. She says neither of her parents have never, ever looked at a single one of her exercise books, and she’s given up asking if they’d like to because she knows they absolutely wouldn’t.

  GWEN

  I said to myself: if you don’t take the bull by the horns, Gwen Bishop, and go, there’s a good chance you’ll never do it.

  It was quarter past six. I’d just watched the news. There’d been some dreadful murder, an axe man had run amok in Suffolk. Quite a distance from Shepherd’s Bush, I thought. I’ll take the risk.

  So I turned off the telly, put my new coat on again. I took the brooch off the lapel. No point in provoking an attack from a jewellery snatcher. Then I left the flat, walked down the flight of stone steps, clatter clatter, ever so perky. Just as I reached the bottom, Edie Mills downstairs opened her front door to put out the milk bottles. She remarked she’d never seen me so smart, and how unlike me it was to go out of an evening. She managed to sound accusing, as if going out in a new coat was a sin, or an impertinence or some such. I said thank you for your interest, Mrs. Mills. We’ve always been frosty but I’ve better things to do than try to repair relations with a busybody like her.

  I headed for the Witch and Broomstick, knowing it to be the pub with the best reputation in the neighbourhood. The hooligans and druggies favoured the Bat and Ball further down the Goldhawk Road. I was there in five minutes, and hesitated only for a moment before pushing my way through the doors of the Lounge Bar.

  The Lord knows how many years I’ve not been into a public house, but it all came back to me: I used to go with Bill, sometimes, when we visited his mother in the north and we wanted to get out of her stifling little house of an evening. This was a posher place, of course. But the smell of smoke, the orange lighting, the brass mugs hanging in a row over the bar – yes, yes: I wasn’t unfamiliar with pubs.

  It was far from full, but then it was early yet. They seemed to be nice sort of people, those that were there, sitting in twos and threes at small round tables Nothing to alarm, but no other single people, either.

  I looked down at the carpet. It was a very patterned affair, the kind that makes your eyes dizzy, of deep gloomy colours. There was a big expanse – an ocean, it seemed – of this carpet to be crossed to get to the bar. I could hear my heart beating very hard, and for a moment I thought I’d turn and go. But I plucked up my courage, told myself not to be so silly. Who was going to take any notice of a middle-aged woman walking up to the bar?

  The answer was, no one. Not a head turned. I reached the bar unobserved and was greeted with a big grin by the man behind it polishing glasses. What was I after, he asked, with a twinkle?

  Well, there he caught me out.
In all the commotion of deciding to come at all, I hadn’t planned on what kind of drink I should order. Names flashed through my head. Bill used to buy me port and lemon without ever asking if I wanted it. I didn’t like that. Nor did I like beer or whisky. Then it came to me – gin and orange. And plenty of ice, I told the barman: I’ve a very light head. Haven’t we all, darling, he said, and asked for a huge sum of money, but I didn’t mind. Someone had turned on the juke box. An old Beatles number. It encouraged me, somehow. I remember dancing to that.

  I took the glass and made my way back over the dizzy carpet, this time with a small jump in my step. It was all I could do not to bounce a little in time to the music. But I walked smoothly, holding the expensive drink out in front of me as if, somehow, it would lead me to the right place. Which turned out to be a table in the corner. The leather seat was gashed. Filling stuff was coming out like entrails from a wound, I thought, full of fancy. But it was a good place because it was darker than some: I could sit watching and no one would see me.

  In the half hour that I took to get through half the gin and orange I entertained myself by having a good look round, guessing about the other drinkers. The place was beginning to fill up. I thought I should hurry along – though I was nervous that drinking too quickly the gin would go to my head. It felt like time to go home. So I decided to leave the rest. I’d enjoyed myself, I’d proved to myself that I could go out alone, but I’d had enough.

  I was about to get up when a bunch of five men all came through the door together. Noisy, laughing, nudging. They all made for the bar together, ordered tall glasses of beer. Then four of them went off into the far end of the room. The remaining one – a superior sort from his companions, I could see, strange how quickly you can make judgments in a pub – looked around and came towards me.

  What he had seen, I realised, was that there was a free table beside me, also very small. Probably designed, like mine, for the single person. He sat down, pushed the table away a little, loosened his tie. There was something about him. I took quite a gulp of my gin and turned just far enough to take in his face: and it clicked in my mind. It was the very same man who’d struck me in the line-up this afternoon. I could swear it was him, despite the spinning the gin was causing in my head. I could swear it was him because the goodness shone out of him, just as I had seen it then.

  He looked worn, tired, perhaps a touch sad. My heart went out to him, but that could have been on account of the gin. For by now it was making stars in my head and running like warm soup through my limbs. There was no hope, for a while, of getting up and leaving. I’d not have been able to walk to the door. I’d forgotten this was the nature of gin: no affect for half a glass, then it suddenly springs.

  But it also made me bold. More than anything in the world I wanted to converse with this good stranger beside me. My cheeks felt so hot I was sure they’d turned red, which he would see if I turned to him. – Which I did. Gave him the slightest, neighbourly nod. In return he smiled – well, not so much as a real smile, but his lips moved in a pleasing way. I picked up my glass again, finished the drink for courage. I was about to speak when he asked a question. Yes, he asked a question.

  Are you a regular here?

  Not very regular, no.

  He turned back to his drink and I couldn’t bear it. – I couldn’t bear it to end there, just as we had broken the ice. God give me courage. I prayed. And He did. Were you, I asked the man, by any chance taking part in an identity parade this afternoon? The words rolled like marbles in my mouth.

  The man looked at me with an interest that brought his whole face alive. I was indeed, he said. Seemed he was a mate of one of the police officers, and sometimes obliged when they were getting a parade together. Had I been one of the victims behind the one-way glass?

  I admitted I had, and that was how I recognised him. There’d been a mugging, I said, but I was over it now.

  You poor lady, he said, very gently. I’d like to buy you a drink. I’m Henry, by the way. He stood up, took my empty glass. What’ll it be?

  Mind whirling, I said another gin and orange would be very acceptable, and my name was Gwen.

  It’s hard for me now, sitting with a cup of tea in the kitchen at home after eleven at night, to remember exactly how we got going when he brought back the gin and orange. Everything was a little unclear in my head, but the thing that shone through, and still shines all through me now, is that Henry is one of the world’s gentlemen, a good man. He owns a small building firm – the men he came in with worked for him – a good bunch of lads, he said. They sometimes had a drink together, but usually they went off to play darts in the next room.

  Very slowly, cautiously, we offered up little bits of information about each other. I can’t remember in what order, but I learnt that Henry was a widower, had been for ten years, so we had that in common. He’d a married daughter in Canada, and a mongrel dog called Arthur who was a good companion. I guessed we were about the same age. He liked going to films, he said, especially James Bond, and he took his holidays every year in the Lake District, where he enjoyed the walking. For my part I told him a little about my job, and my children. We didn’t speak of the mugging, but discovered we lived only two streets apart.

  I eked out the drink he had brought me even more slowly than the first one, terrified of the effect it might have. But, strangely, my head began to clear. I heard myself speaking firmly and fast, his kind eyes upon me, friendly crinkles all round them. Almost two hours must have passed in what I felt was lively conversation. Unable to believe this was happening to me, I was: and how my heart was beating. Eventually I said I must be getting back if I was to get to work on time in the morning. He said he was up at five every morning, and what a pleasure it had been meeting such a brave lady.

  I pushed back the table and stood up, feeling fine. But the gin had tricked me. Although my head was clear, my legs were awash with the alcohol. I took a step, stumbled. At once Henry’s strong arm was under mine, and we both laughed. He came to the door with me – there I was, part of a couple in a public place, such a strange and wonderful feeling – and offered to walk me home. But I insisted I’d be all right on my own. The last thing I wanted was for him to think me forward. If you’re sure, he said. We shook hands, and he said let’s have another drink some time. How about Friday?

  How about Friday, Gwen Bishop? I asked myself as I walked home, swaying as if a wind was pushing me. I know he was watching me till I turned the corner, but I didn’t look back.

  Home – and I have to say I had a little trouble opening the front door – I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. Flushed. But eyes all a-sparkle, I’d say. Funny how such a simple thing, talking to a nice man, can do that to you. Once I’d got my cup of tea, I took paper and pencil and began to work out how many hours there were till Friday evening. Gwen Bishop, I said to myself, don’t get too excited. You’re a mature woman in a late decade of life, not a young girl. But who knows? Maybe this gentle Henry will become a friend.

  ISABEL

  I sat there watching the three of them. I had the strange feeling I was looking at a play, and yet I was also one of the actors. I was taking part, and yet I was at a distance. Every now and then, in a silent flash, I pictured the next morning up in my studio trying to finish rather a wild and I think rather extraordinary mask of purple ostrich feathers. I looked forward to that. – Apart from the food, I made little contribution, though I joined in the laughter. Bert was being very funny about his ‘affair’ with the old lady in Norfolk: self-depreciation is one of his many fortes, not least because he always knows exactly when to stop.

  Conversation turned – I don’t know why, or how – to whether parents should encourage children in their obsession with pop music. It was Carlotta who brought it up, which was strange considering she has no children and isn’t much interested in them. At some point she turned on me and said, with a sneer that was possibly meant to be funny, that she supposed I encouraged Sylvie to list
en to the Beatles, and old has-beens like Cole Porter and Ruth Etting. – Dan and Bert turned to look at me. I hesitated only for a moment. Then I admitted that’s exactly what I did, and Sylvie loved them.

  I can imagine, Carlotta said quietly.

  Well I’d never profess to be a middle-aged pop expert like you, I said, furious. As someone who doesn’t know the difference between Brahms and Mozart, I went on, I don’t think you‘ve any reason to be superior about your musical opinions -

  Dan interrupted by saying he was going to get the cheese. He got up noisily. I rose too, began to gather the pudding plates. Carlotta was scarlet in the face which matched her dress. I think she’d had a good deal to drink. I don’t know how she’d managed to ruffle me so, and I was annoyed by my response to her sniping. But also I didn’t care. There’s an old tie of deep affection between us, but also a top coat of irritation, some kind of indefinable competition. What was she trying to do? Score off me in front of Bert? Whatever her motive, she’d brilliantly succeeded in spoiling the evening for me. Stacking plates in the machine, my back to the table, I felt strangely tearful. Although Bert had reverted to more ease-making Norfolk stories, I sensed the tension in the room had risen to high tide, as if something was going to break or explode. I wished Carlotta would go away forever.

  DAN

  What on earth was Carlotta up to? She’d been rather sweet for a couple of hours, unusually quiet listening to Bert’s stories and laughing. Then suddenly she launched into all this stuff about children and pop music – not a subject of the remotest interest to her, I wouldn’t have thought – and took a lunge at Isabel. It wasn’t so much what she said, but the sneering way she said it. Her message, I suppose, was that she, Carlotta, was an ultra-contemporary woman in tune with whatever’s going on in ephemeral worlds, while Isabel’s bogged down in nostalgia for the past. I was furious.