by David Nobbs
“Yes. I live at home. Bromley. It’s not too bad. Mummy and Daddy are very nice.”
“That’s nice.”
“What is?”
“Your mummy and daddy.”
“You don’t know them.”
“I expect it’s the snow.”
“You are funny.”
“Me?”
“There’s no-one else in the carriage.”
As if he was not aware of that!
“You expect what’s the snow?”
“All this waiting.”
“Of course it is, fool.”
At this moment the train took pity on Lewis and clanked into motion. His brain was working like an automaton below his confusion and he stared rigidly out of the window at nothing. Soon the outskirts of a city could be made out through the dark night, and he recorded the brightly-lit names of the factories out loud.
“Midland Accessory Company,” he murmured. She did not respond to that one, and they rode on in silence for a while.
“Leadbetter and Platt—the best in wicker baskets,” he said.
“What?”
“What? Oh, it’s just a factory.”
There was a pause.
“You’ve not got much small talk,” she said. “You must be thinking of something very important.”
“No, I…in a way.”
“I’d like to hear about it,” she said.
The train had stopped again and he wondered whether he should risk stepping out into the snow.
“You don’t mind my asking, do you?”
“No. No.” They were on the middle line of four, in so far as that was possible. If another train came…and then the train began to move again, with a tremendous jerk and a prolonged rattling and crashing that roared past the carriage in waves before being muffled in scarves of snow. To jump now would be fatal, and there was so much left for him to do. He could hardly duck out of his responsibilities now.
“We’re moving,” he said.
“I think perhaps I’ll get out at the next station and ring them up from there, and tell them I can’t get home tonight,” she said. “There must be a station with all these factories.”
“Twelve,” he said.
“Twelve what?”
“Miles an hour.”
“How do you know?”
“You work it out from the noise of the wheels and the telegraph poles and things.”
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“You are clever.”
“Swinnertons Surplus Boots.”
“Where are you getting out?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“You must know where you’re going.”
“I’m not going anywhere in particular. I’m just on the move.”
“You’re touring, in this weather?”
“No. I’ve stayed in one place and it didn’t work out and now I’m going somewhere else.”
“What do you do?”
“Oh, all sorts of things.”
“Don’t tell me then.”
“I used to be a seismographer’s assistant.”
“A what?”
“A deputy recorder of earthquakes.”
“Golly. Why did you give it up?”
“I was sacked.”
“I’m sorry. What will you do now?”
Why not tell her? Why not describe to her all about the purpose of existence?
“The Bronze Gong Company.”
“You’ll work there?”
“What? No, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“What’s your name?”
“Hewitt—the name for stomach pumps.”
“What?”
“We’ve just passed it.”
“I asked you what your name was.”
“Lewis.”
“And your first name?”
“I only have the one.”
“That’s stingy. Mine’s Daisy. Daisy Wilkinson. How do you do, Lewis.”
“How do you do, Daisy?” She shook his hand and smiled at him, but she did not take her hand away again and when he tried to withdraw his she clung to it and smiled again.
“Leicester Midland Number One Signal Box.”
“Leicester. Get out here with me.”
The train ran gently into the deserted station and stopped with a slight jerk.
“Come on, Lewis,” she said.
“I’m not getting out here.”
“We may as well. The train may get snowed up.”
“It’s stopped.”
“It may start again. Oh, come on, Lewis.” She stood up and began to gather together her belongings, such as they were. “There’s no point in being stuck all night in a train.”
“You go, then.”
“I’m frightened.”
“I’m not coming,” he said dumbly. He was in a muck sweat and he felt like an obstinate schoolboy. If he had been the next to speak he would have said: “So there,” but luckily he wasn’t.
Daisy clutched frantically at him, and her lips met what would have been his cheek, had it not by that time been the back of his neck.
“Come on,” she said. “Please. I’m all alone.”
“No.”
His darling Daisy was pulling him to his feet, and it was exciting to resist her playfully, to feel her little tendons straining away at him, knowing that it was all a game and soon she would have him out on the platform in the cold, all to herself, and later, in a sumptuous room, scented with delicious perfumes, the deep silence of the cold night disturbed only by the rhythmic clanking of the A.A. and R.A.C. signs outside their window, and later still, in their cottage, together, with the windows open and the scent of the honeysuckle, the hammering of woodpeckers in a distant grove, the…
“Oh, come on.”
Later.
He seemed to move and remain stationary at the same time. There were tears in her eyes, and her hands fell limp, and as he slid through them, back into his seat, striking his head upon the sharpest part of an ashtray, he realised that he had no idea yet whether or not he would leave the train with her. All he had to do was stand up, but he didn’t. Nothing had been decided.
There was still time. But the waves of indecision brought with them the nausea of terror, and then he knew that he would not leave the train. Not at Leicester, anyway. Some day, somewhere, he might leave the train, but not now. It was a great relief, and he knew that he had made the right decision. With his defects he could never protect her.
Lewis was in fact exaggerating these defects. There were respects, it is true, in which he plumbed new depths—conversation, armpits and muscles, for instance—but these were offset by those points in which he excelled—thickness of neck, size in shoes and teeth, etc.
“I must move on further,” he said.
“Why?”
“I told you. I’ve got to make a fresh start.”
“You can do that here.”
“It doesn’t feel far enough away.”
“You can move on tomorrow.”
“No. It’s no use putting things off.” His answers were by no means inspired, but at least his brain, impelled by the seriousness of the situation, was providing something instead of just folding up, as was so often the case when it was most needed.
She made no further comment, and he fixed his attention on a speck of dust on the floor. It moved barely perceptibly at the faint impact of their breath. There was no other air in the compartment.
“I’ll stay with you,” said Daisy, and at first the words were mere sounds. Then, when the train set off, they took on meaning. Lewis felt a touch of claustrophobia coming on. “I couldn’t get off all alone in a strange town at this time of night.”
“I don’t mind,” he said, his kindness overcoming his horror for a moment, and she smiled at him sweetly.
After they had travelled on in silence for a short while, Daisy said: “I work in an office”, as if to rebuke him for not asking her what she did.<
br />
“What do you do?”
“Oh, just forms.”
“Do you like it?”
“No.”
Lewis was sorry. Suddenly he wanted to talk to her about something interesting, to bring colour into her life. He’d heard lectures, read newspapers, listened to broadcasts, seen plays, attended symposia. He’d travelled, and he wanted to tell her of all the places that he’d seen—Solihull, Ventnor, everywhere. But no. His past seemed like an orgy of volubility now, however cramped it had felt at the time. Now, as she sat waiting for him to begin, he could think of nothing to say. What a mind they had fobbed him off with.
“I’ve some sandwiches,” he said at last. “Would you like one? They’re ham,” and she smiled at him, believing the battle to be half won.
“Yes, please.”
He stood up and took his suitcase from the rack. There, securely wrapped in his pyjamas, were the sandwiches. He took them out, repacked the pyjamas and put the suitcase back on the rack. Then with shaking fingers he removed the paper from the sandwiches and handed her one. They ate. It was as if they had made a tacit agreement not to mention the pyjamas.
After they had eaten, they journeyed on in a silence that was broken only occasionally by little flurries of conversation. These were mainly fatuous, and it was a great surprise to Lewis, who was too wrapped up in his own confusion to be aware what Daisy was feeling, when she suddenly began to cry.
“What’s wrong?” he said. No man could have said less.
“You don’t like me.”
“What?” He was appalled, and was torn between sympathy and horror at the necessity of doing something about it.
“There’s nothing wrong with me, is there?”
“Of course not.”
“I’m not particularly intelligent but I mean I’m not the dumb kind, am I? I’m not the sort of person to forget the horrors and inhumanities of war in the excitement and anguish of growing into a woman. I mean give me fun every time, but I’m not just a good time girl. What I mean is, I’m a member of the Young Conservatives but I don’t see why I should be T.T. or anything. And I like art, even if I don’t know much about it, and I can sew and mend socks and read shorthand. I’m quite useful really.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you. Now try and get some sleep.”
“What?”
“I’m tired.”
She began to cry again, and he took hold of her hand and patted it. That much was forced upon him by the exigencies of the situation. She came and sat beside him, and she said: “I’m being silly.”
“You’re tired. It’s very late.”
“Yes.” She stopped crying. The train had stopped again, and they found themselves looking out of the window at the deep banks of snow, their faces close together. “You’re shaking,” she said. Her hands were round his waist, feeling it gently, and her head was in his lap. It was very strange behaviour, he thought, on the part of such a young Conservative, and quite intolerable now that she had finished crying. “Are you cold?” she asked.
“No.”
“You’re rather bony, aren’t you?”
He began to giggle.
“You’re laughing,” she said in an injured tone.
“I’m not. I’m ticklish.” She stopped moving her hands, but continued to hold him tightly. He would burst. That was what he would do. That would put the cat among the pigeons. “You’ll have to let go,” he managed to say, and to his surprise she did so. “Get some sleep,” he said gently, and for a few minutes they travelled through the early night of life together, boy and girl, unable to sleep.
Girl, as so often, was the first to speak.
“A penny for them,” she said, with an attempt at cheerfulness.
“I was thinking,” said Lewis, shivering.
“What about?” asked Daisy.
“Life.”
“Oh.” There was a pause, and he shivered again. “It’s gone very cold,” she said, and she got up and began to fiddle with the heating handle. “We seem to have run out of heat. I don’t understand these things, do you?”
“No.”
For a minute or two they wrestled with the heater, and eventually they left it in the “off” position. Lewis felt that other couples would laugh gaily about not understanding the heating handle, and he wished that they could laugh gaily as well.
Soon steam began to rise from under the seats and the air became heavy with warmth. The lids of their eyes grew heavy, and it was not long before they were asleep.
“Nodding off, eh?” said Mrs Pollard, bursting in upon his past without knocking. “I’m not surprised, with such a fug in here. It’s not healthy, say what you will.”
Fletcher said what he would, which was, “No.”
“They never know how to look after themselves, authors.”
“I’m not an author,” said Fletcher, yawning.
“No. Well, you certainly don’t know how to look after yourself. I came to say that I’m for bed and are you wanting the bottle now? It’s on.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten to twelve.”
“Yes, thank you. I shan’t be long.”
Mrs Pollard fetched him his bottle, and placed it on the floor. He thanked her for it and she said good night and he said: “Good night. I’m sorry I’m so tired.”
“And why shouldn’t you be?” said Mrs Pollard in surprise.
“No, I, I thought for the moment that you were someone else.” Mrs Pollard stared at him. “I was elsewhere.”
“I’ll give you elsewhere.”
Left to himself, Fletcher grabbed hold of the sofa and wrenched it into a bed in a series of convulsive, screeching jerks. Then he cleaned his teeth, undressed, placed his clothes untidily over the back of the wooden chair, tightened the cord of his pyjamas, put the bottle into the bed, and crept in after it. Then he crept out of bed, switched off the fire, and crept back in again.
He lay there silently, staring miserably at the ceiling. Occasionally the sinuous body of his landlady flashed across his mind. Occasionally the train stopped at another station, and Daisy stirred. And then, sooner than he expected, the stations and Daisy and his landlady died away, and he began to grow smaller. Smaller and smaller he grew, until he could see himself, a tiny figure deep down at the back of his eyes. He was rushing towards himself, growing smaller and smaller all the time, and by the time he arrived at his vast great bed he was minute. Soon he would cross the borders of consciousness. He grew smaller and smaller and smaller, and in the end he disappeared.
Chapter 12
HE WAS SEATED IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR WHEN THE summons came. He had slept deeply, and was feeling very refreshed, as he sat in front of the mirror, realising his personality.
First there was the knock on the door. Two hortative raps.
“Come in,” he said.
Then the door opened and the person who had knocked began to appear. When assembled inside the room he was seen to be a tall, well-proportioned, clean-shaven young man, handsome in a rather masculine way, with a strong chin, frank blue eyes, fair wavy hair, firm well-modulated lips and a high, intelligent forehead. In short, a police constable.
“Good morning, Mr Simpson,” said the constable.
“I—er—good morning, officer. Please sit down if you can find…if only I’d known you were…I live alone and you know how things…won’t you take off your…but I suppose you aren’t allowed to on duty. Simpson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“SIMPSON?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see. Well, what can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to have to trouble you at a time like this, Mr Simpson, but I’m a search party.” He blushed. He was not long out of police school. He lived on one of the new estates with his mother, who looked after him well, washing his hairbrush each week so that he wouldn’t go bald before his time and making sure that he spread his socks with anti-fungoid powder each morning, so that his feet wouldn’t rot and
make him too short for the force. Everyone brushed their hair and washed their feet on the estate. They were nice people.
“Oh.”
“Yes, and I have a search warrant for your arrest.” He blushed furiously.
“I—search?”
“It’s just a formality, sir, before we arrest you.”
“I see. Well, we’ll have to do it in here, I’m afraid. Mrs Pollard, you see. I find her very reasonable.”
“But you don’t want to presume?”
“No. I think I’ll lock the door. Yes, the food is not at all bad, though I suppose digs are never quite the same thing, are they, officer?”
“I suppose not, sir.”
“I’ve spent all my life in digs.”
“Not married, sir?”
“No.” It was Simpson’s turn to blush now. “I did think of it once. It’s a long time ago now. Shall we start, and get it over?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll search your pockets first.”
“Right. Yes, it seemed a long time ago, even then.”
“I don’t see many girls, not in my life.”
“No. This arrest, officer. Do you know what it’s for?”
“Not until I read the charge out, sir, and I can’t do that until the search is complete.”
“I see.”
“You’re taking it very calmly, sir.”
“I don’t understand it yet.”
“I—I’m afraid I shall have to undress you now.” Once more the blushes ran down the constable’s face and under his tunic, where they couldn’t be seen. “I’m very sorry about this, sir.”
“So am I.” Simpson managed a faint smile. “You have your job to do.” There was a pause. “I’ll feel better when I know what I’ve done.”
“Won’t be long now, sir.”
“Ouch.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve forgotten to cut my nails.”
“Easily done, I should imagine, officer.”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Very easily.”
“Not bad weather, sir?”
“Not bad.”
“An awful lot of snow, though.”
“Yes.”
“Still, it’s always the same in these parts.”
“I’m a stranger here.”
“Are you, sir? So am I. We come from London.”
