by Henry Green
He imagined he could see her arms without her noticing, so he was more open with these. But he did not touch.
Her arms built great thighs on her in his mind’s eye, while she might be asking him, “About those needle valves in stainless …”, made her quite ordinary calves into slighter echoes of what he could not see between knee and hip, as she might be saying, “Now those break vacuum cocks …”, but which, so he thought, must be unimaginably full and slender, when she wanted to know where the “accessible traps” came from, white, soft, curving and rounded with the unutterable question, the promise, the flowering of four years imprisonment with four thousand twirps. And he would lift his great brown eyes, and say, “They come from Smiths,” while she wondered, “Are my stockings straight, I wonder?”
It made him ashamed the way he felt about her.
But this was the sole promise there was in being alive. Hopelessly turned over to himself, as well as conscientious to a degree, so careful in his work there were occasions she could have shrieked at the way he wrote, time and again, to the same firm holding them to the last promise they had made, so careful with his words, tactfully nagging, letter after letter, never leaving them alone, so Dot was the only carrot in front of his nose, because he found of an evening, when he got back, that he barely existed, lived in a daze now that Rose was over.
Sometimes he would dream of red-haired fat women. But they were not at all like Rose.
As for Miss Pitter, she sniffed when one of the girls back at the hostel asked how her new place was shaping. “I don’t know what they took me away from my old job for,” she said. “This is a Fred Karno war, if you ask me. And the man I work with is dippy.”
She never mentioned his great big eyes.
Nevertheless, she began to get involved with the card index system. The main thing was, she found it dead accurate. She had thought Charley so wandering, the first few days, that she at once did a check through with the order book. There was not an item wrong. Then, as fresh orders were issued each day through the drawing office and she had to enter up the particulars on the cards, together with the details of what had been delivered, which she took from the advice notes, she began to be more and more frightened she would make a slip. Without knowing, she was becoming enslaved by the system.
Until one afternoon it occurred.
He was on the telephone as usual. He was speaking to Braxtons. She turned the card up, on which she had marked the number of items already delivered.
“Is that your ref. BMO/112?” he asked. “Summers, here, of Meads. It’s in connection with our order number 1528/2/1781. We want those joint rings you promised this week. To go to Coventry.”
He waited. He laughed. “No, we shan’t send you there,” he said. He waited again. He closed his eyes. He always did this when hanging on for an answer.
“What?” he said. “We’ve had ’em?” He looked at her. She was surprised at herself. Her heart had given a great jolt. “Oh no,” she couldn’t help saying. “What date?” he asked into the receiver. “Well thanks, old man, I’ll give you a ring back.”
“September the 10th,” was Charley’s reproach to her.
She went out to search through the files. Of course she’d had a bit of a bust up with Muriel, the night before, at the hostel. But when she found an advice note from Braxtons for the joint rings in question, and saw that she had not initialled it, and, therefore, that she had never seen the thing, and consequently, that Mr Pike, the chief draughtsman, must have kept it back on purpose – when she came into his room again she leaned her head on that beastly green card cabinet, and cried.
This upset Charley, because he thought someone might be getting at him by tormenting her. Anyway he felt the whole thing was a shame. So he got to his feet right off and clumsily kissed one of her temples through a drift of yellow hair. But he did not put his hands up. She warmed a bit, blamed herself aloud for being silly, and said no more.
Yet he found that anything so simple as placing his head against a woman’s, was not so ordinary in practice. For he stood gawping there, like an Irish navvy. He had forgotten what it was like. The last time had been such a long while back.
He got much more that he had not remembered.
He was, for the moment, saved from greater torture by the telephone ringing once again. But when the office closed that night he thought he would walk home, rather than take a bus, so as to see girls, the day’s work done, as they made their way back through streets.
So it was that he found himself, by chance, within a few yards of the address Mr Grant had given.
The door was open.
He went in. He climbed stairs. He began to regret it.
Then he was outside an inner door, on which was written her name. Her name was there on a card.
He read her name, Miss Nancy Whitmore, in Gothic lettering as cut on tombstones. He noticed the brass knocker, a dolphin hanging by the tail. He ran his eye over this door which was painted pink. The wall paper he stared at round the door, was of wreathed roses on a white ground. He looked again. Someone had wiped the paint down so often, it was so clean that the top coat was wearing thin. In the moulding round the panels a yellow first coat grinned through at callers. And her card was held in place by two fresh bits of sticking plaster, pink.
With a melting of his spine, he felt she must be a tart.
The moment he realized this, his first idea was to go, to come back another day perhaps, but to get out of it for now.
Yet he knocked.
She opened, almost at once. He looked. He sagged. Then something went inside. It was as though the frightful starts his heart was giving had burst a vein. He pitched forward, in a dead faint, because there she stood alive, so close that he could touch, and breathing, the dead spit, the living image, herself, Rose in person.
When he came round, he was flat along the floor with his head rested on an object. Curled up above, on a chair, there was a tortoiseshell cat that watched him, through great yellow eyes with terrible black slits. He knew no cat. It meant nothing. He could not make out where he was until he tilted himself, to find Rose kneeling at his head, which was in her lap. Then he remembered.
“Darling you’ve dyed your hair,” he brought out, proud to be so quick, for the room was dark. Apart from this one detail he knew it was all right at last, was as it had been six years back.
“That’s better,” she said.
He rested. He lay on. He was content. He felt his blood flow all over the inside of him. There was just one point; her voice sounded rather changed.
Her moon cool hands were laid about his temples. The cat shut its eyes and dozed. And he shut his.
“Take it easy,” she said. Again the voice which had changed.
“Darling,” he murmured.
“That’s enough of that,” she said, but although she spoke sharp it barely came through to him, in his condition. Because this, he felt, as he now was, must be what he had been waiting for these years, the sad soldier back from the wars.
“Why?” he asked, absolutely trusting her, and still shuteyed, and in a humble voice.
“You’re telling me,” she said.
He began not to understand. He looked. He saw the cat was there no longer. A kettle was boiling. He tilted again. Her dear face did not even seem to belong, he thought. But he knew it must be all right.
“Here,” she said, reaching for a cushion. “Put this under you.”
He shut his eyes again. He sighed in deep content.
“Have a quick rest now, then get to hell out of here,” she said, rising to her feet.
He heard this right enough, but thought she was joking. When he shakily sat up to be fetched a kiss, he found she was gone, that she was next door in the kitchen.
He dragged himself off the floor, and sat on a chair because he did not feel so good. He was empty, and ill, and the room began going round once more, with the cat, which had come back. Still, he found he could focus after a few minutes. He
watched it settle down opposite, start to wipe the side of its mouth.
Then he watched the opening to the kitchen. He thought he was stronger, and he had so much to ask Rose he did not know where to begin.
She came back with two cups of tea. Except for the hair, which was black, she was now exactly like again.
“I was only making myself one when you came,” she said. He half rose, but his hands shook so badly she put his down on the table.
“Doesn’t seem possible,” he started. He stopped. There was something he could not fathom in her face, as she watched over the rim of her cup.
“What exactly is the matter with you?” she asked.
Then he knew what it was. She was an enemy. She couldn’t have heard about him. She thought he had given her up. Everything must come all right. But he dreaded it so, that he could not bring himself to speak.
“How you people manage to dress as you do,” she said, in a hard voice, at his city suit. He thought “Oh what have I done? She’s out of her mind.” His mouth went dry as he realized, next, that she was completely self-possessed. He reached for his cup. He did not know how he would be able to lift this. He tried to take heart because she had given him a saucer with it.
“That’s right. Drink that, then go,” she said.
“My God,” he said as he dropped it. He had been afraid he would. “Now look what you’ve done,” she said, and rushed out into the kitchen for a dish cloth. “Here,” she said, throwing this. He mopped at his trousers. “And what about my covers?” she asked. He stumbled to his feet, began dabbing at the chair.
“Rose,” he said low, his back still turned to her.
“What’s rose?” she asked frantic.
Then he had another thought. That she’d lost her memory, same as her mother. He knew he must take things slowly. He worked on the chair.
“Think it’s all right now. Terribly sorry,” he said.
“I don’t know what to make of you,” she complained, but in an easier voice. The suit had taken all he had spilt.
“Careless of me,” he said, with such a hang dog look she must have felt sorry. Perhaps it was to hide this up that she said, “I expect there’ll be a drop left in the pot.”
He sat on. When she came back with another cup, this time without a saucer, he said,
“I’ll get you a replacement.”
For a moment she did not understand this phrase, which came from the jargon of production engineers, but as soon as she realized he meant to buy her a cup and saucer in place of what he had just broken, she put her foot down hard.
“You won’t, thank you,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you in here a second time, thanks very much. Not to get to be a habit. I’d never have done this, only I happened to know Mr Middlewitch was in across the landing.”
“Middlewitch?” He spoke out in real horror.
“Now then,” she said, beginning to look frightened.
“Middlewitch?” he repeated, absolutely bewildered.
“Just because I give you the name of someone who lives in these digs, don’t you start wondering if you’ll strike lucky twice,” she said.
“Me strike lucky?” he mumbled.
“It’s rationed now, you know,” she insisted.
This was too much. He almost laughed he was so frantic.
“That’s rich,” he said.
“What’s rich?” she wanted to know. “And cups aren’t easy to come by these days, either,” she went on, “though I’m not accepting anything from strange men, you can be sure of that,” she said.
She sat there, looking. She was cold, cold with hostility.
“Middlewitch, who’s with the C.E.G.S.?” he asked, clutching at the straw, but suspicious.
“You drink yours up, then go.”
“Not before you tell me if it’s the same.”
There was a long pause while he watched her. He could tell nothing new from her face.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said at last, but so cautiously that he could tell it was the very same.
He put his cup down with care. His hands were much steadier. Middlewitch was something to hang on to.
“Don’t you know me at all?” he asked. Putting this question, however, was so dreadful that he again began to tremble all over.
“Now, don’t you start,” she said. She looked really frightened.
“Oh dear,” he said. There was another pause.
“D’you do this for a living, then?” she began, almost as though to give herself confidence by making awkward conversation. But he gave no answer.
“It’s getting cold,” she said of his tea, it must have been to hurry him up. “I’m telling you.”
“I’ve seen Ridley, Rose,” he said. He watched her as he spoke, as a dog sits up for a bone.
“There you go, more riddles. And who’s Ridley?”
He looked at her idiotically.
“Don’t stare at me,” she said, looking more frightened than ever. Then she gave way. She explained.
“It’s not the first time,” she said. “Why don’t you take things as they come, and get out of here?”
“Not the first time?” he echoed, gaining confidence.
“I’ve had people stop me in the streets. Who hasn’t anyway? I suppose I’ve a double somewhere in this town all right. Though why I’m telling you I can’t think.” She smoothed her skirts.
“My dear, you’ve lost your memory,” he said, trying to smile.
She shot out of her seat.
“Here,” she shouted, “d’you want me to call the police? I’ve had about enough of this. Who d’you take me for? Anyway, why aren’t you in the Army? I’m not your dear. Who d’you fancy I am?” She had gone over by the door, and was holding it open. “Or d’you want me to fetch Mr Middlewitch? He’ll soon make up his mind how to put you to rights.”
“Yes,” he replied, braving it out, the colour coming back to his face. “He knows me.”
She bit her thumb.
“He’s not in,” she said, suddenly like a small girl. “That was to get rid of you.”
Charley sat down, put his head in his hands, almost defeated now he had won his point.
“You haven’t been keeping watch here, by any chance?” she asked, as if she were shy. “Until you know who’s in and out? Oh, you’re a worry. Now will you go?”
He sat there hiding his face.
“Now what?” she said.
“You say you’ve been mistaken for someone?” he slowly asked.
“Well, who hasn’t?” she said, half on the landing.
“Lately?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “not for ages.”
He looked at her again. He became excited.
“That’s exactly it,” he said. “That’s what I’m after. So you haven’t been taken for her lately?” What he meant was, it must be all of five years since Rose was said to have died, in which time she could have been forgotten. It did not make sense, but he hung on to it.
“What’s that got to do with me? And who are you any way?” Yet she shut the door, possibly because he looked so queer, and came back in the flat. “It’s I should be making enquiries about you, I fancy,” she said in a strong voice. “Coming in here, fainting right in my arms. I shouldn’t wonder if I hadn’t strained my side when I tried to lift you.” She came right up to him. He could not bear her near, like this. He hid his face a second time.
“Oh Rose,” he mumbled, “how could you?”
“Here we go once more,” she said bright. “What did you say your name was?”
But he made no reply.
“I’ll have a real laugh with mum over this.”
“You won’t,” he said.
“That’s the limit,” she said, loud. “Look I’m fed up, thanks.” She moved away from him impatiently. “Will you stop telling me? Who d’you think you are to say how I’ll laugh with my own mother?”
“You could. I hadn’t thought.” What had come to him, was that th
is might only be too possible, mother and daughter both suffering, as they must be, from lost memories. In that case they might very well, the two of them, twist their guts inside out with laughing.
“Thanks a lot,” she said. “Now will you please get along. I don’t know where we’re coming to with the war effort, but I can’t find time to nurse strangers.”
He sat on, his head in his hands. He could not face it.
“All you want is a good feed,” she said. “You try the Army. A month or two in that, and you’ll be as right as rain.”
“I’m discharged. I lost my leg. I wrote you.”
She opened her mouth to reply, and by the look on her face he was going to catch it, when her eyes followed, down one of his legs, the creased cloth which lay as this never does over flesh and bone. It silenced Miss Whitmore.
“They repatriated me in June,” he mumbled.
It came over her that he was going to cry.
“You’ve been a prisoner, then?” she asked.
He did not answer. He was quite still.
“Well, I mean,” she said softer, “you’re back now, after all? Must be a change after what you’ve been in. Look,” she said quite soft, “there’s nothing terrible about this, is there? I mean there’s others have come up to me in the street, respectable people mind, and have fallen into the same error. And when I’ve put them right they’ve always gone off about their business. I mean, be reasonable,” she said. “I had to close the door just now so you couldn’t be seen in the state you’ve gotten into. Why don’t you just pull yourself together, and go?”
“Did they call you Rose?” he asked. She knew he was watching her again, desperately. And she could not look at him, or reply, because they had indeed. So she just stood there.
“It was your father sent me, Rose.”
Again she could not speak.
“Mr Grant, Rose,” he said.
She whirled herself round, turning her back on him, so he could not see her face. He took what he imagined to be his advantage.
“You wouldn’t deny him, Rose?” he softly asked.
