by H. E. Bates
Then he was frightened. He’d got to kill it. He’d got to finish it. Then he thought of something. He could give it food and poison the food. He could give it bread and rat poison, with water.
He ran up the path. Then he thought he heard something. He stopped and listened. He could hear the noise of a car, braking on the gravel and stopping. He stood paralysed, for about a minute, listening. Then he heard the woman’s voice. He could not believe it. Then he heard it again. There was no mistaking it. She was laughing and he heard also, in a moment, the Captain’s voice in answer.
The Captain. He could not move. After what seemed a great time he heard a shout. It was for him. It was the Captain, bellowing his name.
‘Boy! Albert! Boy! Where the devil are you? Where are you? Boy?’
The voice moved him. He began to walk up the path, slowly, in terror, without intention. The dog, hearing the new voice, was making strange whimpering sounds in the coop behind. The boy half ran.
At the crest of the path he slowed down. He could hear footsteps. They were coming towards him. He raised his eyes, so that when the Captain came round the corner his eyes were fixed on him.
In the coop the dog was crying bitterly. And hearing it, the boy stood still.
Italian Haircut
I was in a great hurry. I went up the steps to the barber’s saloon two at a time. The stairs were iron-tipped and had blue lettered tin plates on every rise: haircutting, shaving, shampoo, saloon, haircutting, and so on, the letters chipped by countless shoe-toes.
‘A haircut,’ I said.
From the moment I got upstairs I didn’t like the place. The saloon was small, boxed-in, cheap. It smelt fiercely of old men and brilliantine. There were bottles all over its cupboards and shelves and wash-basins, pink, lavender, vitriol, green, jaundiced colours, all a little sinister. The whole place was dirty. I didn’t like the barber either. He was dirty. It was not his fault: he was sallow, greasy-haired, thick-lipped, a sort of dago.
‘You like it long?’ he said, ‘or short?’
‘Medium.’
‘Ver’ good.’
He was Italian. I didn’t like him at all. He didn’t seem to like me either. He wrapped the sheet round my neck like a shroud, ramming it into my collar, tight. We might have been enemies. We were alone in the place. And what with the stink of old men, and the dirt, and the odd-looking bottles, and his own surly down-look-eyes I didn’t like it at all. I wanted to get out.
‘Just as quick as you can,’ I said. ‘I’ve an appointment.’
He didn’t say anything. He began working the scissors, without hurrying. He pressed my head forward, suddenly, very hard: so that I was like a man with his head on an invisible chopping block. And with my head down I could see a razor on the rim of the wash-basin. It was open.
Then all at once he stopped clipping. I lifted my head, and we looked at each other in the glass. He was catching hold of my hair, running his fingers through it, making it stand up. He was a big man. He could have lifted me clean out of the chair. I have very light hair and when it stands up I look silly. With his derisive yellow fingers he made it stand straight up, like a comedian’s.
‘Look at your hair,’ he said.
‘What about it?’
‘My dear sir, only look at it. It’s going white. You’re losing it.’
‘It’s a little dry,’ I said. ‘Certainly.’
‘Dry? You use anythink on it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s coming out. You’re losing it. Look here, see.’ Almost tender now, his derisiveness gone, he wafted my hair about again. ‘’Fore long you be bald. How old are you? Thirty-three? Thirty-four?’
‘Thirty.’
‘Oh, dear! Oh, my God!’ He took his hand off my head and put it on his own. It was a good gesture, Italian, over-dramatic. ‘Thirty? Look at me. Look at my hair. Seexty-five. That’s what I am. Seexty-five. And as black as – but you can see it. You can see for yourself.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you, look at you. A young man. And such nice hair. Such lovely hair. Don’t you care about it?’
‘It’s worry,’ I said.
‘Worry? Who said so? It’s not worry. It’s nerves. Starvation. You live on your nerves and your hair comes out.’
‘I work hard,’ I said.
‘Work? What work? Pardon, but what work do you do?’
I told him. He changed at once.
‘Books? That so? Interesting. Books? My daughter write books.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes! She write books all her life. She write her first book when she was twelve. It was a beautiful book, a sensation. She got seventy-five pounds for it.’
‘Good.’
‘Everybody wanted her to write for them. Everybody. She was the craze. She wrote an essay for the gas company. A beautiful essay. The most beautiful essay a child ever wrote. For the gas company.’
‘Good.’
‘Success everywhere. She could of been famous. And you – what about you? You published anythink?’
‘Some books.’
‘Oh! Thass encouraging? Encourage you to go on? You make a name for yourself?’
‘I may do.’
‘You make a name for yourself,’ he said, ‘and then have hair like this? It’s awful shame. Dreadful. Now if you was interested – perhaps you don’ care, I don’ know – if you was interested I could make your hair look different before you left this shop.’
‘You could? How?’
‘Wid my treatment.’
I didn’t say anything. He clipped my hair a bit, ruffed it, pushed my head about, made a great show of indifference.
‘Maybe you ain’t interested?’
‘What sort of treatment is it?’
‘Special. A secret.’
He clipped.
‘Of course if you ain’t interested.’
‘Tell me what you do,’ I said.
‘Maybe you ain’t interested,’ he said. ‘I don’ know. It make no difference. I’m only here to oblige. I ain’t the boss. I don’t get nothing out of it. In the summer I work in Brighton. Twenty pound a week. I don’t get nothing out of the treatment. I ain’t the boss.’
He took up the razor.
‘Maybe you ain’t interested?’
‘I want to know what you’re going to do.’ Just then I wanted to know very much what he was going to do.
He flickered the razor. I didn’t like it at all.
‘It’s electric. Electric must pass through my body. And then I massage wid ointment. Wid special stuff.’
‘And how much?’
‘Maybe you ain’t interested. I don’ know. Five an’ six. You don’ want to be bald, do you?’
‘And how long does it take?’
All the time he was flashing the razor.
‘Five minute.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure. Five minute. A young man like you, going white. At thirty. You don’ want to be white, do you?’
‘I’ve got an appointment,’ I said.
‘It won’t take five minute. Sure. You won’t regret it. You don’ want to be bald, do you?’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll have it.’
‘Good. Thass fine.’ He went dashing round the screen, out of sight. I heard him tramping about. He came back with great alacrity, carrying a box. It had long lines of flex running out of it, and switches on it, like some antique wireless set. He plugged in. The box was black, a little sinister. I didn’t like it at all.
‘Jus’ take your feet off the iron,’ he said. I took my feet off the footrest. ‘Jus’ in case,’ he said. He had become extraordinarily cheerful. ‘You don’t want to be contacted? Just hold that.’ It was a kind of handle, of ebonite. I held it under the sheet, with the wires connected.
‘Does it hurt?’ I said.
‘Hurt? No. A little. Not much. A bit of tickling. Thass all.’
‘It’s safe, isn’t it?’
‘Oh! It�
��s O.K. If anybody’s going to be electrocuted it’s me. Oh! You won’t regret it. You don’t want to be bald, do you?’
He suddenly switched on and attacked me. His fingers danced on my head like springs. My scalp jumped with pins and needles. He attacked me until the sweat stood like grease on his face.
‘Yes, my daughter write books. Wonderful. After she write for the gas company she could do anything. It don’t hurt? You’re all right? You won’t regret it. And then I made her give it up. Altogether. She could of written for anybody. She write wonderful stuff. Stories, essays. Anything. She got genius.’
‘Why did you make her give it up?’
‘You know what they done? It don’t hurt? Them editors? You know what they done? What I find out?’
‘What?’
‘The lousy — they sent her scarves. Bits of ribbon. Anythink. Trinkets. I ain’t a fool. The child was sitting up all night – writing that beautiful stuff. And all they sent her was scarves. I would of been a fool, wouldn’ I, to of let her go on?’
He was still massaging, the electricity dancing on my head like springs.
‘You know I’m right, ain’t I? Ain’t that what they do? Send scarves. There ain’t no money in it. Kipling perhaps, people like that – it’s all right. But for people like you and my daughter it’s different. Thass right? You know it is, don’ you?’
‘My hands have gone dead,’ I told him.
‘Gone dead? You don’t feel well?’ He rushed to the switch and cut off.
‘It’s all right. How much longer?’
‘Five minute.’
He rushed about. My hair now stood up, as in a caricature of fear. I looked like a wild man. He came back with a hot towel, wrapped it round my head, and I sat like a potentate with white turban.
‘You feel all right? One day you’ll come back and thank me. You’ll have beautiful hair one day.’
‘Just after this?’
‘Oh! no, no, no. You gotta persevere. I make you up some ointment, and some spirit. My own recipe. You put that on.’
‘How much is that?’
‘Ointment. Thass five an’ six.’
He took off the towel. My head felt beautiful: fresh and yet on fire. He rushed away with the towel and came back with a bright blue bottle. He was shaking it.
‘How much longer?’ I said.
‘Five minute. I just put this on.’
The bottle had ‘chloroform’ on it. I didn’t like it at all. Suddenly he poured it on my head, and it was as though my hair had gone up in flame. The effect was terrific, a hot pain driving right down to the roots of my hair.
‘You take a bottle of this,’ he said. ‘And the ointment. And persevere.’
‘By God, how much is that?’ I said.
‘The spirit? Thass forty-two an’ six.’
‘I’ll take the ointment.’
‘You want both. I’ll charge you ten shilling for the spirit.’
‘No. I’ll leave it.’
He became suddenly very nice, beaming, the real Italian, his voice sweet.
‘Is it a question of cash?’
‘Oh! no.’
‘If it’s a question of cash, don’t let it worry you.’
‘No, I won’t take it.’
‘I tell you what. I won’t charge you for the ointment. You take the spirit and the ointment and you come in some other time.’
‘No.’
‘I tell you what. I won’t charge you for the spirit. Only the ointment. Because I’m interested in you. You can’t afford it, can you? I know. I don’t care. I know, because of my daughter. The lousy — sending her scarves! For that beautiful work. You needn’t wonder I wouldn’t let her go on? You see, I understand.’
‘No. How much does it come to?’
‘You mean? – you take the spirit?’
‘No.’
‘Take it if you like. I trust you. I ain’t the boss. I don’t care.’
‘Only the ointment.’
‘O.K. Thass twelve an’ eightpence. Wid the haircut.’
I gave him thirteen shillings. He brushed my coat. ‘One day you’ll come back and thank me. You will. I ain’t like one of them editors. Don’t give nothing in return. Your hair looks better already. Beautiful. It’ll be so thick and beautiful.’
‘What time is it?’ I said. ‘How long have you been?’
‘Five minutes.’
I rushed out.
It’s no use. Somehow my hair is as bad as ever.
The Palace
The Palace stood high up, a landmark in bleak yellow brick, overlooking the roof of London. In March long avenues of almond trees blossomed on the cinder terraces above the race-course. Fred Lemon and his wife lived on the very top of the place. They had three rooms from which the view would have been wonderful if there had been any windows. In reality there was no view, except of the sky, seen through a thick green sky-light as though from the bottom of an aquarium. Lemon was caretaker. The air in the rooms seemed in some way dead, to be made up of an unchangeable formula of burning gas and cabbage and the odour of pink disinfectant that Lemon sprinkled down on the stairs and after concerts and dances in the big amusement hall. From the Lemons’ rooms it was a hundred and fifty-three steps down to the ground floor, and another fifty-seven from the terraces down by the race-course to the gates and the tramstop outside, and somehow, for a year or two, Mrs. Lemon had got into the habit of not going out.
Mrs. Lemon was forty-eight. She was a thin, dark woman, with an unhappy yellow skin and straggly hair. From behind she looked attractive, still slim and quite a girl. She had lived up at the top of the Palace ever since Lemon had first had the job, for nearly thirty years. At first it had been very nice, exciting, more than wonderful. The Palace had just been rebuilt after a fire. Everything was very grand. The concert hall, with its vast gilt gas chandeliers and its gilt-breasted goddesses, would seat five thousand. Brass bands and military bands came to play at concerts. There was a feeling of prosperity and security, and to Mrs. Lemon of secrecy also, a feeling of being shut deliciously away. She was just eighteen then, and it was a thrilling privilege, living up there at the top of the grand building, all alone with Lemon, with her own plush green couch and her own aspidistra and her own pictures. What did it matter that there was no view? She felt she had other views, far grander and far lovelier than the famous view of London that people walked up to see from the main terrace. She felt that she cherished views down into the recesses of her own heart, where no one else could see, views into a future of infinite possible loveliness, where only she was going.
Fred Lemon was a man nearly ten years older than herself, a little man with rabbity hair rubbing off at the temples, and a way of sitting in his trousers as he walked. It was a good job: thirty shillings a week with free rooms and free gas and tips after the concerts and dances. She felt that it was very grand. They entertained a bit, had friends up, showed them over the Palace. Lemon would light the gases with a long taper as they went from room to room: dining-hall with accommodation for five hundred diners overlooking the race-course, to the main concert hall with the gilt-piped organ, and all the amusement galleries, and the long corridors with the penny-in-the-slots and the naughty peepholes. The main hall alone had – she had almost forgotten just the number – but anyway more than ten thousand panes of glass in its windows and glass roof. And every night, when Lemon did his last round, she went with him, and they would stand in the vast empty hall and look up and see the stars beyond the black roof of glass and stare at them in a fixed wonder that for her was sometimes ecstatic. At times she went back up the stairs alone while Lemon went round to the kitchens and got a bagful of fish and chips for supper, two bags if there were any guests. Then he would run up all the hundred and fifty-three steps with them, so that she should have them hot. Then she would make tea or cocoa, and they were quite happy. Lemon never reckoned to take anything strong, and she hadn’t started the whisky then.
It was only after the war t
hat she had started the whisky. The war changed everything: the Palace, Lemon, herself. Lemon was called up, the Palace was turned suddenly into an internment camp, and she lived alone in the three rooms that already badly needed painting and where the odours of gas and cabbage were already as stale and permanent as the aspidistra and the pictures. And for a time, cut off by the hundred and fifty-three steps, half-forgotten by the authorities, she read books and wrote letters to Lemon, looked into the future and hoped and waited.
At that time the Palace was very quiet. Sitting by herself, right at the top of the building, she could hear nothing: no brass bands, no rag-time, no rifles in the shooting galleries, nothing but the silence of three hundred enemy civilians imprisoned. She felt that it was alien, foreign to her. The same outside. When she slipped out to do her shopping the almond trees were there the same as ever, and the grand stands on the race-course, and the trams running by the park railings. But there was also a strange new feeling, a new element, the prisoners.
At first they were not allowed outside. She saw them only as she hurried along the terrace. They stood behind the big windows, and stared at her. They were mostly Germans, with a few Austrians. She always hurried past, looking straight ahead, seeing them only out of the corners of her eyes.
Then, in the summer, they were allowed outside. They began to dig up the race-course, each with his little plot, and the potatoes stretched in dark lines like spokes across the curving track. They were allowed to walk together. Restrictions relaxed a little. And released, they ceased to be silent. She heard them singing, in concert, in their own language, richly, the tenors breaking out with falsetto.
But what meant freedom for them meant a restriction for her. If she passed through the grounds and they too were in the grounds there might, the authorities thought, be contact. So she had to report her movements.
It was pure formality, nothing at all. At the main entrance there was an office, with a sliding frosted window, and whenever she went out she tapped on the window. It opened and a clerk’s head appeared and she said: ‘Mrs. Lemon. I am just going out.’ And when she returned: ‘Mrs. Lemon. I am back now.’
