Polly Put the Kettle On

by Hilary Bailey

  ‘So that’s him’, said Clancy.

  ‘And what about the move to legalize marijuana and some of the hallucinogenic drugs—I gather you’re deeply opposed to that?’

  ‘Absolutely. If the law alters in the slightest on that I think we should bitterly regret the effect on this country. I think these days drugs are evil, and I know that the majority of sensible people in this country agree with me.’

  ‘There are reports that now the vast proportion of young people in this country have some experience of drugs.’

  ‘More’s the pity. But there’s a great difference between a few youngsters taking risks, as young people are inclined to whether it’s wise or not, and having the country flooded with these substances, which would be available to all, and might even find their way into the hands of young children, with heaven knows what consequences’, said Lord Bec.

  Toddy was quietly booing to himself.

  Clancy switched the channel over to where the Marines were shelling the village and said, ‘That’s better. He’s lovely, isn’t he?’

  Polly answered the phone. ‘What? What? We’ve just been watching you on TV. No—no, I can’t come. I’m busy and what’s more—’ Clancy was at her side hissing, ‘Say yes. Yes.’

  ‘All right’, Polly said calmly.

  ‘Get him here’, Clancy was mouthing.

  ‘Well, why don’t you come here for tea? No, nobody. Right then, goodbye—Jo.’

  She put the phone down, and said dully, ‘He wanted to know if anyone would be in. How would I know?’

  ‘Great one for a free fuck, isn’t he?’ Clancy said. ‘That’s all right, I’ll be in.’

  ‘No, Clancy,’ said Tracy, ‘don’t get us into any more trouble. With Alexander up for libel and dope-smuggling, we don’t need you busted too. What sort of a chance would you stand if you beat up the Home Secretary?’

  ‘Turn the fire up,’ said Polly, ‘I’m cold.’

  ‘What about the old badger game?’ Tracy suggested. ‘Clancy bursts in with a camera and blackmails him to drop the case against Alexander?’

  ‘It’s not funny to me’, said Polly. ‘I’m hoping it will be in the morning. So I’m going to bed now.’

  ‘Night, night, Polly’, said Toddy. ‘Put the kettle on before you go, will you?’

  ‘I’ll do it’, said Clancy. ‘I’ll bring you up a nice hot cuppa, Poll.’ Polly went to bed.

  She streamed her arm through the water, grasped the hand-rail, coughing and spluttering, pushed her foot against the tiles of the wall, kicked herself away, swam through the green chemical-smelling water, through the shouts and splashes, arrived effortfully at the rail at the shallow end.

  ‘Phew. Only six lengths’, she said, heaving herself up in her green bikini. Beside her Ulla Helander, like Aphrodite coming out of the waves, was doing ring o’ roses with Pamela and Sue. On the diving board, on the sides, hairy-chested men in training stood hoping something would fall off.

  Polly staggered, and Ulla jiggled, back to the changing-rooms.

  Remembering the cool water Polly said, ‘I feel better’, but eating crisps and drinking Coke in the café the dusty feeling, the stale taste in her mouth returned. Lord Bec in his light-weight well-cut trousers, neat shirt and green sweater was standing beside her again, like a pillar.

  ‘I don’t know why I feel like this’, she said to Ulla.

  ‘Well, it’s not nice’, Ulla said soothingly, but Polly knew Ulla was confused by her strong reaction to an event which she herself would have accepted as one of the less pleasant parts of the human condition, like debt collectors, rain or an attack of flu.

  In a dream Polly had planted carrots and lettuces, answered letters and phone calls about the campaign, slept, read articles for Gorilla, planned the rally at St Pancras Town Hall. The passage on the rug with Lord Bec, although now a local joke (‘See him in the House of Commons making laws to put down crime, while the girl as he has ruined, lost her honest name again’) had left her weak and grey, as if in some Dracula-like way Bec had drunk her blood, had sucked her brains out through her ear with a straw.

  Clancy in the meanwhile was in the recording studio night and day, coming home only to fall into bed groaning that he would never have time to put the recordings he had made in Africa into shape.

  Spring was forcing on. The trees in the big communal gardens were in full bud. The grass shot up. At night she thought she could hear an owl hooting in the tree outside the window. Strange, grey dreams assailed her. Once she woke, imagining the large, round head of Lord Bec was on the empty pillow beside her.

  On Wednesday she awoke, realizing that Alexander was being tried in Salisbury on Friday.

  ‘I must go and see Maurice’, she told Clancy suddenly while they and the children were all eating their breakfast. ‘And while I’m there I’ll go to the House of Commons to see Gascoyne and make sure he knows what he’s saying at the rally. And see if the other speakers are organized—and collect that article on local government from that guy in Soho. I might as well make a round trip.’

  Clancy, haggard now after thirteen hours of recording, said, ‘I’m going up to get some sleep now.’

  Thus it was that while Polly was tapping on the window of the cab on her way from Bloomsbury to the House of Commons, making sure the driver first stopped at the enquiry agent’s offices, and Pam and Sue were on the swings in Hyde Park, and Max and Toddy were enjoying a late lunch at Fred’s Fish Bar, Portobello Road, and no one was in at all but Mrs Traill at the top of the house sitting in her chair watching the road outside, and Clancy was fast asleep in bed, and as a bright sun was shining over the dirty streets of North Kensington, that a taxi stopped in tree-lined Elgin Crescent and a smartly dressed gentleman got out.

  A flowering cherry stood at the front door beside the path leading to the steps. To Lord Bec opening the gate, it might have been the first blossomed tree he had seen since his childhood, so pink, so clearly-defined were the blooms, so rotund, so rosy and green the top of the tree. He breathed deeply as he trod the cracked and muddy path, walked up the crumbling steps between the cracked porticoes, and rang the bell. As he waited he trembled slightly. He might have been surprised to see Clancy standing in the doorway in a dingy striped kaftan, looking like a dirty-postcard seller, but he did not show it, nor his nervousness.

  He said, ‘I came to see Mrs Kops. You must be her brother.’

  ‘Cousin’, said Clancy. ‘Come in. She won’t be long.’

  For Lord Bec the magic continued. He and Clancy drank some whisky in Tracy’s room, where the coloured blinds cut out the sun, the odour of joss sticks lingered, the cushions on the floor were thick and soft. Lord Bec’s tastes were louche. He liked the room. He liked Clancy. He was at ease here.

  ‘Drumming must be tiring work’, he suggested.

  ‘It is mate, it is’, said Clancy, eyeing him. ‘It said in the paper you started with nothing. That right?’

  ‘Just my serviceman’s gratuity’, said Lord Bec.

  ‘You must have a lot of self-discipline’, Clancy said. He scratched himself on the upper arm, revealing his tattoo.

  ‘What’s that—a tattoo?’ Lord Bec asked, taking him by the arm.

  ‘Had it done in Tangier. Like it?’ Clancy said. Really it had been done in The Cut, Waterloo, when he was fourteen. It had been a heart with an arrow through it and underneath, the word MUM. His mother had screamed and pressed a pale hand to her heart when she saw it. At sixteen Clancy had had it transformed into a belly dancer which wriggled when he flexed his arm. This he did now.

  ‘Very attractive’, Lord Bec said.

  Gently Clancy brought the arm forward and put it on Lord Bec’s neck.

  ‘You’re ever so handsome’, he said, putting a little pressure on his neck so that his head tilted forward and they were eyeball to eyeball.

  ‘You’re not so bad yourself’, said the peer.

  Clancy kissed him warmly on the mouth, squeezing his neck slightly at the
same time. Lord Bec put his hand up the kaftan and felt Clancy’s cock. Clancy took the hand by the wrist, raised it, increased the pressure on Lord Bec’s neck and sent him sprawling on his stomach.

  ‘Ah’, groaned Lord Bec. Clancy had his pants and trousers round his ankles in a flash. Equally speedily he was into Lord Bec and hard at work.

  The peer moaned, groaned, called to him to stop and, when he did so, to go on again.

  When it was over he rolled over to look at Clancy, who stood up with a smile.

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘was really fantastic. It’s a long time since I had a bloke. I’d forgotten what it was like. May I call you Jo?’

  Lord Bec zipped his fly, looked at his watch and said, ‘The pleasure was all mine, my dear. But I think I’d better run along before Polly comes home. What a family you are. It’s hard to believe. You won’t tell her, I’m sure?’

  ‘Oh, I will, though, I will’, Clancy said.

  Lord Bec smiled his political smile and said, ‘It’s up to you, of course.’

  ‘I’ve had a camera here, of course’, Clancy said suddenly.

  There was a pause. ‘That’s not true, naturally’, Lord Bec said. His eyes flicked hard about the room.

  ‘How do you know?’ said Clancy.

  ‘I do know how to deal with people who try to hurt me’, said Lord Bec in a neutral tone.

  ‘That’s all right by me’, said Clancy. ‘Be seeing you—Jo.’

  He walked out of the room and bumped into Mrs Traill. He gasped, then said, ‘Good afternoon Mrs Traill. Business doing well?’

  ‘What business?’ Mrs Traill asked suspiciously.

  ‘Oh—you know what business’, Clancy said, and went downstairs. As he drank his tea he heard the door close behind Lord Bec, and minutes later, behind Mrs Traill.

  He’s cool, he thought of Lord Bec. But he’d been scared just the same, about the camera and that. Pity he’d enjoyed it so much, though. Still, he’d feel a bit of a sod later: or would he? Anyway, he’d shaken him. The Turnbulls’ revenge.

  He went to sleep in his chair, like an animal.

  Polly came back an hour later. They made love before the children came home from the park.

  ‘I remembered in the cab home’, Polly said. ‘Lord Bec was due this afternoon. Did he come?’

  ‘I heard the doorbell ring but I was asleep, so I didn’t answer’, Clancy said. ‘Oh, I love you, Polly.’

  ‘I love you, Clancy’, said Polly. ‘I’ve had to borrow some money from a money-lender in Westbourne Grove. Do you think it’s all right? It’s a hundred pounds.’

  ‘Had to get it from somewhere’, Clancy said.

  ‘I’ve got to give him a hundred and thirty-five back in a month’s time.’

  ‘Should be OK.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘I love you’, he said.

  ‘I love you’, she said. ‘I’m relieved Lord Bec went away.’

  ‘He’s a monster’, said Clancy.

  ‘Mm’, she said nuzzling him.

  ‘Mm, I love you.’

  As they dozed happily, a raven called, there was thunder on the right. In the hall the fur rose on the cat’s back, it hissed and spat for nothing. A magpie perched on the tree outside the window, a crack appeared in the hall mirror, the pages on the calendar in the kitchen ruffled.

  The court, a modern room, panelled in golden wood, had not started, but already the scene was gay, gaudy and tawdry. All the Blockade—Slasher, Frederick, Toddy, Long Tall Timmy and Gray, sat in the front row in their patched jeans and boots. There were reporters, thirty-four year old Fred Dinner, the whizzkid of publishing, Lord and Lady Kops, Ulla Helander, Hi Stevens, Martin Sutcliffe, some groupies, some fans, some students, some radicals, Seymour King, Blockade’s manager, Alexander’s agent, the man from the recording company—these were some of the people who had come to see Alexander tried.

  ‘I suppose he can write songs in prison’, the recording company man said to Polly, who was sitting between Lord and Lady Kops.

  ‘I suppose he’ll be allowed to write in prison’, said Alexander’s agent.

  ‘Can I come round and use his typewriter?’ said Lester Dent.

  ‘Does this mean the end of the campaign?’ asked the man from The Times.

  Martin Sutcliffe had a groupie pinned in a corner. He was pretending to be connected with the record industry. Frederick, Blockade’s singer, was telling the man from the recording company he needed money for his alimony payments. Ulla Helander sobbed. Lady Clarissa and Dyl wandered the aisles in their patchwork skirts and kerchiefs. Bernie the pusher gave something to a teenage girl. Alexander’s drop-out cousin greeted his aunt and uncle.

  ‘See you outside the court’, an Evening Standard cameraman said, looking at Polly’s legs.

  ‘Not if I see you first’, she said. Lady Kops gave her a look.

  ‘Corinna’s dance was lovely’, she told the errant nephew.

  ‘Super’, said the spaced-out lad, fit only for shipping out to the colonies.

  The hubbub died, the jury came in, the judge came in. He did not like the audience, he did not like the Blockade staring at him with their arms crossed from the front row, he did not like Maurice Burns. He tolerated the customs officials, did not like the police, felt tepid about the prosecuting counsel, disliked the barrister representing Alexander.

  Alexander, pale and beaky, came in, his long blond hair dark and greasy. He smiled at his mother. How noble, how pale, how lean he was, thought Polly. You had to hand it to the moody hero, with his long golden hair hanging down his back. What style. What guts.

  He had pleaded guilty. He leaned on the witness box saying, ‘I believe all human beings have the right to smoke, eat or drink what they like, whether it is strychnine, cigars or sweets.’ He sat down and was made to stand again.

  The prosecuting counsel made him say that all the hashish was not for his own use, that he intended to sell some.

  To Polly the orderly comings and goings, the witnesses, the evidence, the prosecution, defence, began to seem like a television play in black and white. She expected at any moment Inspector Barlow, Dixon of Dock Green, Margaret Lockwood, Maigret. Her eyes closed, opened, closed. The audience’s spirits lowered at the spectacle of Alexander, elevated in the witness box, being minced by the slow and inexorable court proceedings. It was depressing them, violating their sense of the lawlessness of life. They looked hopelessly at the jury, pudden-faced and earnest, taking their duties seriously. They, who had left work for their secretaries to get on with, a job list at the wood yard, a casserole in the oven on a low flame, felt that an event was taking place. The others, like Polly, dreaming, did not. Long Tall Timmy sneezed. Clancy, sitting beside the band, fidgeted. Lady Kops blew her nose. The barristers asked questions. Alexander Kops got six months in prison and was led away.

  Beside Polly, Lord Kops sighed and Lady Kops sat like a rock.

  ‘I’m sorry’, Polly told her.

  ‘It was much less than I expected’, said Lady Kops. ‘Come on Benjamin. I suppose you have some means of getting back to London, Polly?’

  ‘Why don’t you come with us?’ Lord Kops suggested.

  ‘Don’t you want to see if you can go to see Alexander?’ Polly asked him.

  He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think that would be wise.’

  Sad, thought Polly, to bring up your only son to follow you into the family business, grinding the faces of the poor, and then have this happen.

  She turned to Lady Kops, with a sudden flash of her mother-in-law’s visit to the flat at Euston. She had dragged herself from work one day, already very heavy with the twins, carrying her shopping-basket, to find Lady Kops, well-dressed, wearing tiny diamond earrings which glinted through her blue rinse, sitting erect at the battered kitchen table by the encrusted gas stove. In front of her was a blue mug full of tea prepared for her by Alexander, who had plainly done a bunk. Alone with her in the flat, Polly felt terror. The stare Lady Kops gave her was eno
ugh to paralyse a rabbit or blight the coming child.

  ‘I hear that you and Alexander are married’, she said, looking at Polly’s stomach. ‘I came to bring you this.’

  She opened her handbag and put a cheque on the table.

  ‘Thank you’, said Polly, feeling sick as usual, conscious that Lady Kops’s feet were nearly in the overflowing carrier bag of rubbish on the floor. ‘I hope—’ it seemed pointless to apologize for having married Alexander, although an apology was plainly called for—‘I hope you’ll come and see the baby’, she said. (Polly was not to know until the sister said, ‘Look out, there’s another one coming’, the magnitude of her problems.)

  ‘I shall indeed’, Lady Kops said, with the air of one looking forward to a promising visit to the crib of an armless, legless imbecile, near-human blob, our bullets could not stop it, Doctor. ‘I must go now, I’m expecting some people for dinner.’

  ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘Goodbye’, said her mother-in-law.

  She gave Polly the evil eye again, smiled her witch’s curse, and left.

  The door shut, the feet descended the rickety stairs. Polly sat on, feeling dazed at the miasma of hatred in the little room, just as if Lady Kops had turned the gas on before parting. She opened the window, leaned on the sill, staring out at the trains, then picked up the cheque and looked at it. It was for three thousand pounds. She hid it from Alexander, who had renounced wealth, particularly that emanating from his family, and, next day bought the last few years of the lease of the house in Elgin Crescent.

  ‘Well,’ she said, getting up from the hard court bench, ‘I think I’ll go and see if they’ll let me see Alexander. Or would you rather go first?’

  ‘I think we’ll go home straight away’, Lady Kops said as if they were all leaving a party together. ‘There’s no point in prolonging the agony, is there?’

  ‘No, I suppose not’, Polly said.

  But they would not let her see Alexander, who was being put into a van to London, where he would go to prison.

  She was photographed outside the court. As she got into Blockade’s van, showing her knickers, the Kops’s Rolls Royce eased past them. Lady Kops did not indicate that she had seen Polly at all.