He looked at his father and away again. Father seemed to have shrunk in the battered chair. Alan couldn’t be sure it wasn’t an act, those fluttering eyelids, the voice thick with self-pity.
‘She’s a wicked woman,’ pronounced Father. ‘Rotten through and through. Comes of bad stock. She only cares about money. She’d see me begging in the street and not lift her little finger.’
‘Shut up, Joe,’ he shouted. ‘It’s none of my business. She’s just gone for a walk and I don’t blame her. There’s precious little to keep her here.’ He went into the scullery to wash his hands and face.
‘She left you,’ Father said. ‘She left you with your auntie and went off to her father. What sort of a woman would do a thing like that?’
‘I’m not listening,’ he cried, rubbing the roller towel hard against his face. He was turning into stone inside.
‘She’s been carrying on with that Sydney for weeks. Meeting him at the station. I’ll turn her out … You see if I don’t.’ Father was sitting upright, warming his hands at the fire. Resolve was making him stronger. ‘See if I care … You can all go hang.’
‘You’re talking rubbish,’ said Alan. ‘You’ll bring on your indigestion.’
‘Indigestion?’ His father took the prescription out of his pocket and waved it in the air. ‘Indigestion? Do you know what these are for? Pills to keep me calm. I’m ill. I’m too agitated.’ He threw the paper on to the flames and watched it burn. ‘I’m damned if I’ll be calm,’ he said.
‘I won’t be late,’ said Alan.
He hovered in the doorway, waiting for the scrap of paper to disintegrate. He didn’t want to meet Janet any more but he couldn’t possibly stay in the house. If only they’d buy more chairs, he thought foolishly. Father bent forward as though to snatch the prescription from the fire. He stood up, butting his head against the mantelshelf. He groaned and buckled at the knees.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Alan, not moving.
‘I’m fine,’ Father moaned. ‘It does me the world of good, dashing me brains out once a week.’ He pushed past Alan and began to take the bread out of the bin on the draining board. He’d eaten a big meal before he went to the doctors, but he was still peckish. ‘Clear off,’ he said, waving the carving knife at Alan. He attacked the loaf of bread as if it was a side of beef, hacking a slice as thick as a book and showering crumbs upon the mat.
When Alan was on the path, Father darted after him and caught hold of his arm; he still held the knife. ‘I love her,’ he cried. ‘God help me, I love her.’
So that’s what it’s called, thought Alan, backing away and taking his bicycle from the fence. Father and Madge were very free with the word. He shivered with disgust. He knew his mother wasn’t meeting another man; she’d been cured of all that living with Father.
All the same he did go and meet Janet at the club. He played ping-pong and enjoyed himself. He put his name down for a visit to the theatre in Southport. He needn’t ask anyone any more; Mother had said he was adult. Janet would pay the cost of the ticket. He found it quite easy to forget what had happened earlier in the evening.
You could tell that Mother was disappointed by the appearance of the common room. She found it a little shabby – the worn armchairs pushed to the wall, the scraps of paper pinned to the notice board. She wouldn’t admit it but she thought it was a disgrace – the fees they paid, and there wasn’t even a carpet on the floor.
The boys were subdued in their best clothes; they stood self-consciously with their parents, nodding at each other, but not speaking. Some of the prefects, turned eighteen and more sophisticated, carried trays with glasses of sherry. The mothers and fathers helped themselves with effusive cries of delight – ’How kind’ … ‘My word, that’s nice.’ They stood half-turned to the oak-panelled doors, waiting for the headmaster to join them. A few of the masters, dressed in dusty gowns, were already seated at small tables. They made little corrections in the margins of exercise books.
‘It’s a big room,’ said Father, looking at the broad windowsills cluttered with books, and the paint peeling from the ceiling.
‘Big,’ agreed Mother, ‘but a shade scruffy for my taste.’ She would have had a field day with her paint brush. In her school on the continent there had been bowls of flowers and pictures of saints on the smooth immaculate walls.
There was a murmur of anticipation as the headmaster entered. He was tall and handsome with wavy hair and a firm chin. He paused to chat with parents near the door; he waved his hand to a group at the fire. Mother wore an arch, fixed smile. The headmaster crossed the room and hesitated under her stare. He said good evening and walked on. He didn’t remember her, but nobody would know. She gave a little gulp of pleasure and clutched Alan’s arm.
‘Which is his wife, dear?’
Alan writhed under the endearment. ‘Over there,’ he muttered. ‘In the green frock.’
‘What’s that?’ said Father. ‘What’s going on,’ and he and Mother looked in the direction of the headmaster’s wife, watching her intently as she moved between the cluster of parents, by the window.
The headmaster announced that he was delighted to see them all. It was to be very informal, no starchiness … He and the masters were here to give what help they could. As if to emphasise the point he stood in the centre of the room on a level with them, pivoting round and round so that he could look everyone in the eye, his gown trailing the floor. In these changing times, the old standards swept away by the war, a young man’s education was more important than ever. A good school should instil character as well as learning. The masters were here to discuss both aspects of their pupils’ progress. Informally, without reserve. Unfortunately there would have to be a certain amount of queuing at each table to see the boy’s individual masters … It couldn’t be avoided and he felt sure they were all used to queues by now. The parents laughed; he was very charming. No side to him at all. At nine o’clock there would be coffee and biscuits.
‘Come on,’ said Father. ‘Don’t hang about.’ And he rushed forward to the table nearest the fire.
‘That’s for the upper sixth,’ said Alan. ‘You want Mr Tomkins over there.’
Mother stood with a sherry glass in her hand, looking round hungrily. She wanted to be spoken to, to be acknowledged. She loosened the silver fox about her shoulders and caught back the veil of her hat; the sequins glittered like snowflakes in her hair.
‘Where do we go?’ she called in a shrill affected voice. ‘Do pause for little me.’
Alan waited by the door with several of his class mates. Like him, they were ashamed to be seen with their parents.
‘Look at Lacey’s dad,’ murmured someone. ‘He’s overdone the sherry.’ They were all relieved at the sight of Lacey senior standing unsteadily in front of the fire.
Now that it was actually happening, the occasion he had dreaded, Alan felt better. It was out of his hands. In an hour or two his parents would know the worst. On the journey home there would be recriminations. Further time would pass with Father standing on the porch looking out for Madge. The following day they would nag him cruelly, a little less the day after – in a week it would be back to normal. Normal for them. He stood in his new suit with the waistcoat to match, and eased his starched collar away from his neck. To survive he had learned not to show his feelings. When he’d been younger, he was always losing things – toys, articles of clothing. When he was shouted at he stood very still and kept his face blank. He never batted an eyelid. Confronted with such indifference, they left him alone. In the car it would be dark. He could shut his eyes and let them rant.
At coffee-and-biscuits time, Mother and Father were to be seen with his housemaster. They didn’t seem upset. Father was holding Mr Rufus by the arm and talking into his ear. After a moment Mr Rufus broke into a loud guffaw of laughter. Mother nodded at Alan, but absentmindedly – his might have been a face she’d glimpsed from a train; she was absorbed in conversation with the headmaster’s wife.
The four of them were bobbing about in the centre of the room, touching each other’s arm and smiling. The headmaster joined them – the group scattered out of deference, then reformed and closed ranks tighter than before. From his position at the door, Alan thought they resembled a troop of Morris dancers, with Mother as the maypole. Other parents, not in the golden circle, hovered enviously at their heels. Alan was astonished. Over the years his mother and father had attended the school irregularly. He was a scholarship boy. They didn’t come to Sports Days. He couldn’t think what they were doing to make themselves so popular.
‘Is that your mother?’ Lacey asked him. He pretended he hadn’t heard. The headmaster had taken Mother by the elbow; the silver fox trembled about her face. Shrill and clear like a trumpet call came his mother’s flamboyant laugh.
After some minutes, regretfully the headmaster moved on and gave his attention to the waiting parents. Exhausted, Mother flopped into a chair and fanned herself with her glove. She sat with her knees spread wide apart as if she was by the fire at home.
Father beckoned Alan, but he looked the other way. He went out of the door and stood in the deserted corridor. Father followed him and took his arm; they strolled slowly towards the science laboratory. ‘I don’t mind telling you,’ Father said, ‘we’re a little taken aback by what we’ve heard. Yes, indeed.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘You’ve been slacking,’ said Father. ‘That’s obvious. You’ll need extra tutoring in Latin. I’ll have a word with Mr Harrison.’
‘I’m off Latin,’ he said.
‘As Mother’s explained it, you don’t have much option. You need Latin for the law.’
They passed the door of the gymnasium, turned and retraced their steps. In the distance ragged, like music-played out of doors, came the strains of the school orchestra practising in the assembly hall.
Father stopped and listened. ‘Why didn’t you do something with the piano,’ he said irritably. ‘All those lessons you’ve had. I’ve only heard you play one blithering tune.’
‘They don’t have much call for pianos,’ he said. ‘It’s mostly violins and cellos.’
‘Well, you should have played some of those. When I think of—’ He pulled himself together and walked on.
‘Did they say I’d get a bad report?’ asked Alan.
‘No,’ said Father, ‘they didn’t.’ He drew out his handkerchief and blew his nose. He looked as if he wanted to say something important. Instead he said emotionally: ‘You stop worrying, son. You take things too seriously.’
Father was trying to be kind; it couldn’t have been easy for him, struggling as he was to forget the price of Mrs Evans’s music lessons. It was puzzling. If he wasn’t due for a bad report, what on earth was wrong?
In the car going home Mother and Father were both elated. What an enjoyable evening – how charming the headmaster had been! What was that rubbish Alan had told them about Mr Rufus being a dried-up old stick?
‘Isn’t it odd?’ observed Mother. ‘That woman had no dress sense whatever. You’d think she’d know what’s what.’
‘She had a nice way with her, though,’ said Father. ‘She wasn’t in the least stuck up.’
‘What did Mr Tomkins have to say?’ asked Alan.
‘You have a lot of ability,’ said Mother. ‘A lot of ability. Of course you don’t stretch yourself. You go to that club too much. You shouldn’t read so many comics.’
‘I don’t read any,’ he protested.
Her voice became shriller. ‘You don’t put yourself out.’
‘Ease up,’ said Father. ‘Abide by their advice, Connie. They’re educated men.’
‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand,’ she said, ‘it’s laziness.’
‘Hush up,’ advised Father. He squirmed on his seat and tried to find Alan’s face in the driving mirror. It was too dark. Mother leaned her head against the seat and dozed.
The car sped past the disused lighthouse and the estuary; the headlamps flashed across the heaped sand blown against the boathouse door.
‘You’re a touch secretive,’ said Father. ‘I understand it, mind you. When I was a lad I kept back one or two things from your Aunt Nora. Nothing too big, mind. Climbing roofs, that sort of thing. The young have a right to their secrets.’ He sounded pompous. He was a liar; if he’d thought Alan was keeping a secret, he would have wrung his neck to learn it.
In the darkness, a mile away, Madge was cavorting with her unknown German.
7
They were all going down to the shore for an airing. It was one of Mother’s impulses. Janet Leyland had telephoned Alan in the morning and Mother answered; she invited Janet for Saturday tea.
‘It’s a beautiful day,’ she said. ‘We could all go for a little walk.’ She put the phone down. Seeing Alan standing in the hall, she scolded: ‘Take your shoes off. She’s coming to tea.’ It might have been her friend and nothing to do with him.
Father was summoned from the greenhouse and told of the outing.
‘Are we going in the car?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Mother said. ‘It’s a beautiful day. It’s fresh air you need.’
‘Is that so?’ he said testily. ‘I suppose it’s stale air in our back garden.’
All the same, he went upstairs to change his clothes. Mother wore her spring coat and a headscarf and her white court shoes. She carried a handbag. She took Father’s arm at first, leaving Alan and Janet to walk behind, but she was moved by a show of daffodils in the garden of the bungalow next door to the farm. She stepped backwards, neatly severing the two of them asunder and clung to Janet’s arm, pointing at the yellow flowers stiffly bordering the patch of lawn.
‘Look at them,’ she cried. ‘Oooh, look at that hydrangea.’ Haltingly they proceeded down the lane towards the railway crossing. ‘Winter’s dying,’ she proclaimed, tilting her bright face to the sky and stumbling in her high-heeled shoes.
Father marched self-consciously ahead, military fashion, with swinging arms. He wasn’t used to walks. Though he’d changed into a sports jacket, he still wore his beret. Mother and Janet followed, clutching their handbags and bouncing chummily against each other. In the rear walked Alan.
The season was changing; the branches of the trees were beginning to thicken with tight black buds; on the waste ground beside the goods-yard the forsythia bush had burst into bloom. Even so, as they crossed the railway line, a chill little breeze tore down the cinder track and whirled the dust into their faces. In slow procession they sauntered awkwardly down the road.
‘We had a garden with a swing,’ Mother was saying. ‘And one of those double seats under a striped awning. My father gave it to me.’
‘It was broken,’ said Father, eavesdropping.
‘And a wrought-iron table, painted white.’
‘I like white,’ said Janet.
They passed the wool shop and the grocers and the last grey-stone house, set in a wilderness of uncut grass and blackcurrant bushes. It had been taken over by evacuees during the war; the seesaw still lay in the grass – a barrel and a plank of wood – rotting beneath a chestnut tree. Straight between the flat fields hedged with hawthorn ran the dirt lane to the sea. On one side there was a ditch clogged with reeds, upon whose banks two boys sat hopefully, dangling jam jars on lengths of string.
‘It’s very bracing,’ said Mother, headscarf fluttering.
‘It’s blasted freezing,’ Father said.
The sun stripped the fields of colour; under the white and glittering sky only the distant pines showed dark blue against the horizon. Buffeted by the wind, the family walked in single file through the bleached landscape.
When the path cut through the woods, they were more sheltered. Amidst trees opposite the vicarage, stood a wooden shack with a solitary bell hanging in the porch. Alan and Madge had attended Sunday school there. Madge used to pile the crimson hassocks one on top of the other and kneel high and eager above the pews. When she overbalanced and
sprawled upon the floor she pretended to be dead. They were given pictures with sticky backs to paste in books – St John the Baptist, the baby Jesus crowned with golden curls, Elijah and the ravens. Madge called Jesus ‘Bubbles’. In summer the door of the shack was left open. The sand seeped over the top step of the dark hut. Along the path to the railway crossing, Madge leapt backwards and forwards across the ditch. She came home with her socks mucky.
‘Look at that,’ shouted Father. He had snapped a stick from an alder bush and was pointing nostalgically at the shack. ‘Remember that, son?’
‘What about it?’ muttered Alan. Did Father think he was suffering from amnesia? Sunday school was only yesterday.
Disappointed, Father strode on, swiping at the air with his stick.
There were a few cars parked on the sandy verge beside the wire netting. The army had put up the fencing because of the unexploded shells.
‘God knows where they get the petrol,’ said Father, scowling at drivers dozing over the wheel. He bought his on the black market.
Alan wished his mother would stop looking at people as they passed. She had a curiously intense stare, like a greedy child waiting for sweets. Someone waved to him from the window of a car. It was Hilda Fennel, out for a spin with her parents. He nodded his head in recognition.
‘Someone you know?’ asked Mother, turning round to have a good look.
He denied it.
‘But you nodded. I saw you.’
‘Something got stuck in my eye,’ he said.
‘Who was it, pet?’ asked Janet.
He wouldn’t answer. She shouldn’t have been taken over; it was Madge’s place to be hanging on Mother’s arm.
The sunlight was bewildering after the months of grey days. It shone on the chrome bumpers of the cars, on the pale leaves of the eucalyptus bushes. The slender saplings of birch that grew in the hollow beneath the ridge of pines fluttered silver in the breeze.
‘Isn’t it just beautiful,’ cried Mother, shading her eyes, dazzled by the shimmering light.
Father was determined to walk further. He led them beyond the woods until the path narrowed between stretches of gorse and dune. The marram grasses that bound the sand to the earth flickered like strips of metal in the sunlight. The last telegraph pole was reached; the cinder path petered out. Ahead lay the sea, far out across the brown waste of shore. The beach was strewn with driftwood, whorled, salt-encrusted, piled in heaps by the tide. Everywhere they looked was wreckage – pieces of timber, empty crates, the smashed hulks of small fishing boats. The margin of the sea was flecked with ring-plover and oyster catchers. When the waves broke the birds rose in the air and wheeled inland.
A Quiet Life Page 12
