by David Lodge
‘Mark, Father?’ What malicious devil had turned the conversation in this direction?
‘Yes, young Underwood. He came to see me the other evening. I think he may have a vocation—that’s confidential, of course.’
‘Of course, Father.’
‘I thought I’d tell you, because you could probably help him. I know what an important part your family has played in his return to the Faith.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘He’s got some rather unorthodox ideas mind you, but that’s all to the good when you’re young. It’s his university education you know—it tells, it tells. Now I went into a seminary straight from school. I don’t regret it, of course—I might never have been a priest otherwise—but I often think that that’s why I just don’t seem able to come to grips with the modern world.’ He reached for a towel. ‘It was just at the end of the First World War when I went into the seminary. I came out seven years later, and the whole world had changed. I don’t think I ever caught up with it. Do you know,’ he said, with a rather pathetic, confiding tone, like a patient describing embarrassing symptoms to a doctor, ‘I sometimes think that either I’m mad, or everyone else is. I switch on the radio, open a newspaper or a magazine, glance at an advertisement—it all seems like madness to me. Madness. Now Father Dalby over at All Souls, Bayditch—he organizes dances with this—what d’you call it—Rock and Roll?—for the young people of his parish on Sunday evenings. He says attendance at evening service has doubled as a result. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. But he was a late vocation you see. He understands all these things. I can see Mark Underwood turning out like that. Remarkable young man you know. Remarkable.’
This was to be her special torture then: just when she had discovered what a selfish, callous, calculating person Mark was, everybody was going to try and sell him to her.
‘He told me some extraordinary facts. For instance, we were talking about the cinema, and he told me that the average Hollywood film reaches a larger public than the Holy Scriptures. Did you know that?’
‘I think I’ve heard Mark say it before, Father,’ she replied. Eleven times to be exact, she added savagely, under her breath.
‘His criticism of my sermon was that I had not gone far enough,’ continued Father Kipling. (Oh, Mark had cheek all right, criticizing the parish priest’s sermons to his face. Perhaps he would make a successful priest after all—he had the glibness, the assurance that this old man lacked—but not a holy priest.)
‘In his opinion …’
One by one the words and phrases with which Mark had bored her, were regurgitated by the credulous old priest … ‘exchange of values … living by proxy … the superlife … ultimately through television … substitute for living …’ She felt an irresistible urge to object, to protest.
‘I sometimes wonder whether Mark really knows as much about ordinary people as he likes to think. After all, there are lots of people for whom the cinema is just a place to go, to get away from the children for a few hours, to be together perhaps, for a courting couple. For an old-age pensioner, a warm place on a winter’s afternoon. They all know what real life is—only too well. They don’t confuse it with what they see on the screen. Take those two you just married, Father. It’s quite probable that they did most of their courting in the cinema. But they’re not turning their backs on life, are they?’
‘No, they’re not. Quite the contrary. They’re really brave I suppose. I wish I could help them somehow.’
His face twitched slightly with helpless regret.
‘Well, I must go now, Father,’ said Clare, suddenly anxious to get away.
‘Yes, you’ve been most kind. I hope I haven’t delayed you unduly.’
‘Oh no, Father, not at all.’
She was surprised to find the newly-weds still in the church forecourt, until she saw a photographer packing up his equipment. She visualized the photo in its cheap frame, enshrined on the mantelpiece, the pathetic couple smiling determinedly out into the dingy bed-sitter, where nappies steamed in front of the fire, and the smell of fried food lay heavy on the air.
They seemed anxious and hesitant about leaving, as if uncertain of which direction to take. Clare had a nose for worry and unhappiness, and she scented it now. But this sense was always leading her into trouble—why get involved again?
‘Can I help at all?’ she asked.
The girl smiled gratefully.
‘We were just wondering where’s a good place to eat round here.’
‘Well, there’s a Lyons not far from here.’
‘That’ll do,’ said her husband.
‘I’ll show you where it is,’ said Clare.
‘Won’t you come and have tea with us?’ said the girl.
Clare was about to decline, when she looked into the girl’s timid, pleading eyes, and realized with surprise that the invitation was genuine—that she was to represent, however inadequately, their ‘reception’.
‘Well, I would like a cup of tea. Are you sure you don’t want to be alone with your husband?’
‘No, you come along,’ said the man. He didn’t seem quite a man, standing stiff and awkward in his ill-fitting uniform. Neither did he seem quite a boy. He was obviously making a great effort to cope with a load of premature responsibility.
‘You see, I work in a cafeteria,’ confided the girl, as they moved off. ‘And I don’t really know any other places round here. Naturally I don’t want to go there.’ She clung to her husband’s arm, but seemed grateful for Clare’s company.
‘Of course not,’ Clare agreed.
It was almost certainly the first wedding breakfast that particular Lyons’ teashop had provided. Recollecting that she had no money with her, Clare asked only for a cup of tea; but Len made her and Bridget sit down while he queued, and returned with a loaded tray. They had beans and bacon on toast, sugar-coated buns, ice-cream and tea. Clare ate bravely, anxious not to disappoint them.
‘Bridget tells me you’ve just began your National Service, Len,’ said Clare.
‘Yes, worse luck.’
‘Are you far from London?’
‘Only about three hundred miles,’ he said wryly. ‘Catterick.’
‘It takes him about seven hours to get home,’ said Bridget.
‘That’s if Sergeant Towser lets us go in time to catch the 4.15 from Richmond. Then I can get the 4.47 from Darlington. Gets into King’s Cross at two minutes past eleven. If I miss that, it’s the 5 o’clock from Richmond, and the 6.30 from Darlington, which doesn’t get into London till twenty past twelve. You can get the 4.29 from Richmond to York, which is supposed to connect with the 4.47, but it’s always late …’
He discussed the railway time-table earnestly for some minutes. It obviously dominated his life at the moment. A slender column of arrival and departure times was the only link between him and Bridget, and he counted his happiness in hours.
They talked about Len’s life in the Army for a while. Bridget was indignant and rebellious.
‘It’s disgusting, the huts they have to live in. Windows missing and doors off the hinges. It doesn’t sound fit for Pigs.’
‘Fit for sheep though,’ said Len, laconically. ‘The hut we moved into last week, we had to sweep the sheep-dirt out first. They had been living in it for years. Condemned, the huts were, in 1941.’
‘And once he woke up in the early morning, and saw a rat in the middle of the floor, looking at him. Ugh!’ Bridget shuddered.
‘It’s not the conditions I mind so much though,’ said Len, ‘it’s the officers and N.C.Os. The way they treat you. Like bits of dirt. “Go here, go there, do this, do that. Double!” And their stupid wisecracks. “Did you shave this morning? Well put a blade in the razor next time.” Blimey, the times I’ve heard that! And you can’t do a thing. Not a thing.’
‘Oh, don’t let’s talk about it, Len,’ said Bridget miserably. ‘It just reminds me that you’re going back on Tuesday.’
A glum silence descended on them. A
limp, faded woman in a blue overall cleared away their dirty plates, and passed a damp rag over the table, which left small particles of food in its wake. Clare tried to start a new and more cheerful topic of conversation.
‘Where are you going to live?’ she said.
But she only seemed to uncover more and more misery and misfortune whichever way she turned. Gradually the appalling insecurity of their position was revealed to her, item by item: how Len had a widowed mother. How he had intended that they should live with her for a while, and how his mother had a grudge against Bridget, and the terrible row they had had the previous night, and how they didn’t know where they were going to live.
‘It was too late to postpone the wedding, I suppose?’ said Clare, thinking that in reason this was all they could have done.
‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Len emphatically. ‘I made up my mind that we were going to get married, and nothing was going to make me change my mind. I’m not sorry either.’
Bridget clasped his hand and smiled at him. ‘You see, we hadn’t intended to get married for a long time yet—there being so many drawbacks,’ she began.
‘I always meant that we should have a real start—a place of our own. And that Bridget shouldn’t have to go on working. But it didn’t work out that way. You see—I could never see Bridget home when we went out.’ He stopped, as though this explained everything.
‘He lives so far away you see,’ explained Bridget.
‘And one night she was attacked,’ said Len thickly.
‘How terrible!’ exclaimed Clare.
‘Oh, nothing happened to me. I got away. He was only a rotten little Teddy-boy.’
‘I’ll break his neck if ever I get hold of him,’ said Len, looking fiercely round the teashop. ‘Are you sure you’ve never seen him since, Bridget?’
‘I told you I haven’t. Don’t think about it, dear. It’s all over now. It can’t happen again, now we’re married. We’ve him to thank for being married I suppose.’
‘That’s why we got married see. As quick as we could. And that wasn’t quick enough for my liking.’
‘That was Father Kipling. He would insist that Len had Instructions. But he was very nice. He arranged for Len to have them at the camp.’
Clare admired their resolution, but could not understand the logic of their action. If Len was away in the Army for most of the time, Bridget would scarcely be any safer than before. But she kept her thoughts to herself.
‘I don’t seem to remember seeing you in church, Bridget,’ said Clare.
‘No, I never go now. But I was brought up in a Catholic Home you see. I was an orphan. Len wanted us to get married in a Registry Office, but somehow, I wouldn’t have felt properly married. You know.’
‘Yes,’ said Clare.
‘I got nothing against religion—any religion,’ said Len. ‘I just wanted us to be married as soon as possible. He was very long-winded, that padre.’
‘Why did you stop going to church, Bridget? If you don’t mind me asking.’
Bridget looked slightly embarrassed.
‘I don’t know really. We were never out of church at the Home. It was one long church. And Sunday’s such a short day—I’m always so worn out.’
‘You’ve got somewhere to go now I suppose?’
The couple looked glum. They hadn’t.
‘We’ll have to spend the night at our own places. Till we get something worked out,’ said Bridget.
‘But that’s awful. It’s bad enough not to have a honeymoon.’
‘Blast it, we’ll have a honeymoon,’ exclaimed Len.
‘You know we can’t afford it, Len.’
‘Will you let me lend you five pounds, Len, and take a couple of days at Southend, or somewhere?’ asked Clare. ‘I could give you more, but you might worry about paying me back.’
Len hesitated. Clare took out her cheque-book.
‘You can repay me at any time, of course.’
‘No, Len, we can’t take it.’
‘Honestly, it’s the best thing, Bridget,’ said Clare. ‘After all, you’re only married once. You must get away, even if it’s only for a couple of days. While you’re away, I’ll make some inquiries. I think I may be able to help you. You see, the parish owns some property which is rented very cheaply to deserving people. Old Miss Mahoney had a little house in Tanner Road, but she had to go into hospital last week, and if she ever comes out, she’ll have to go into a home for old people. So the house might become vacant. And Father Kipling mentioned that he’d like to help you. So I’ll hold him to his word.’
‘Would you really? Oh, that would be wonderful!’ exclaimed Bridget.
‘It’s nothing wonderful, I assure you. It’s old and dirty, and I think it’s due to be condemned in ten years’ time.’
‘That doesn’t matter—it would be somewhere to live, on our own.’
‘Well, I’m not promising anything. But I’ll do my best.’ She paused. ‘There’s one snag.’
‘What?’ said Bridget anxiously.
‘Well … you realize that it doesn’t matter to me whether you go to church or not. But it would probably matter to Father Kipling.’
‘Oh that’s all right,’ said Bridget with relief. ‘I don’t mind going to church again if it means we get a house. I’d quite like to go, really.’
Len hadn’t spoken for some time. Now he said:
‘Why are you doing all this?’
She shrugged and smiled.
‘There aren’t any reasons, Len. Here, take the cheque.’ She sensed that he didn’t know what to do with it, and didn’t want to admit his ignorance. She explained.
When they parted outside the Lyons, Bridget reached up and kissed Clare lightly on the cheek. It reminded her of Hilda, and she felt a wave of panic, but fought it down.
‘See you on Monday evening then,’ she said, smiling. ‘Have a lovely week-end.’
As she walked back towards the Presbytery to interview Father Kipling, she did not feel unhappy any more. She didn’t feel happy either. What was the name of her feeling she did not know, but she was prepared to go on.
She passed the cinema again. There were queues outside now—a young and noisy crowd. They were singing and clapping to the rhythm. She couldn’t remember seeing such a cheerful crowd queuing for the cinema, and she took pleasure in their high spirits; but she was glad that she hadn’t gone to the pictures.
* * *
It was the climax to a stupendous week.
‘Just like the old days, sir,’ said Bill, as he staggered out on to the pavement with the long-disused queue signs—so long, in fact, that he had had to alter the prices.
‘Yes, Bill,’ replied Mr Berkley, surveying the crowd benevolently. ‘Just like the old days.’
It wasn’t really like the old days, but he was too pleased to quibble. All the week the receipts had been unusually high, but this evening he expected to break all records. And in the summer too. This Rock and Roll film had been a brainwave. The audiences were noisy but not, so far, violent. They enjoyed themselves immensely. That was the most refreshing thing about it.
Bill unleashed from the two-and-nine queue a score of eager young people. Mr Berkley beamed on their youth and vitality, their preposterous clothes and hair-cuts, as they surged past him. The audiences were mainly young, but the older people seemed to find the high spirits around them infectious, for they were grinning and smiling, amused, but not contemptuous. Cinema-goers took their pleasure so glumly as a rule, it was good to see smiling, eager faces, to hear a continual murmur of excitement and enjoyment in the auditorium. Audience participation: that was the really interesting aspect of the thing. The way they clapped their hands to the music, sang the words, and applauded rapturously after each number. It seemed to create that relationship, that tension between the audience and the performers which you got in a theatre, in a music-hall, but not usually in a cinema. He heard a muffled cheer from the auditorium, and glanced at his watch.
‘You’d better tell them that the last showing has just started, Bill,’ said Mr Brickley. ‘I don’t think there’s much chance of any more getting in now. I’m going inside.’
‘Right-o, sir,’ replied Bill, giving his jaunty Ruritanian salute.
Mr Berkley’s good spirits almost made him forget the Doreen affair. But the face of the new usherette he had just engaged to replace her rapped his conscience like a dentist’s probe on a decayed tooth. He thought of her on the night train to Newcastle (where he knew of a kindly, broadminded landlady who would see her through her trouble), and shuddered sympathetically. She had been a little brick, Doreen. When she told him calmly about the baby, he had genuinely wished that his wife would divorce him. She wouldn’t, of course, but the realization that he really wished she would, made him feel a little less guilty. Not so guiltless, however, that he did not plunge into the warm, lively auditorium with a fervent desire to avoid introspection for a while.
He stood at the back of the packed auditorium. There were people standing all along the back, and down the sides. He watched with interest a young girl in front of him in tight trousers. Her buttocks were twitching rhythmically to the music. On each alternate beat a hollow appeared in her left flank.
The mystery remained. It was, judged by normal standards, a poor film of ‘B’ feature quality, cheaply produced, unimaginatively directed, in most cases poorly acted by musicians playing themselves, in black and white, on a square screen. The plot was minimal and artificial. What was left? The music. This was what the audience wanted. Ideally, a series of filmed band-numbers would have suited them best. The pseudo-dramatic build-up for the band was an irritating formality: each switch from the stage or dancehall to a love-scene was greeted with groans. And they resented the cliché of representing the success of the band by a series of brief musical sequences alternating with shots of trains, because their clapping accompaniment was interrupted as soon as it began. He remembered vividly one particularly interesting example from the previous evening: at one point in the film the love interest was sorted out in the control-room of a broadcasting studio. Through the glass came faintly the sound of Rock Around The Clock. At once the audience had taken up the song, and drowned the dialogue. Now they were at it again:
