by Stan Barstow
‘Didn’t you like the Beehive?’
‘It was further to travel and only a couple of nights a week. I wanted a bit more than that.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Was that opera you were playing on your gramophone?’
‘Yes. Mozart.’
‘I used to like Mario Lanza.’
‘A bit before your time, surely.’
‘I was only a kid. I had some of his records, though. He got fat.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘It just piled on to him at the back end. He got like a barrel. Have you got any of his stuff?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t.’
‘They all seem to get that kind of weight, the best singers. Look at Harry Secombe.’
‘And Pavarotti.’
She frowned. ‘I don’t think I know him.’
‘You’ll have seen him on television, perhaps.’
‘I don’t get to see much TV, working nights.’
‘No.’
She gave a sudden sigh, more like a catch of breath, clasping her fingers in her lap, then examining the nails of one hand. ‘Are they all right?’
‘The references? You seem to have given satisfaction.’
He didn’t know. Employers sometimes gave a reference to get rid of someone. It was hard to refuse anyone who had not been downright dishonest. Whoever came to him without a personal recommendation he would have to take on trust. Was she the one? She seemed more subdued now than when she had arrived, different altogether here from what he thought of as her natural surroundings, in the lounge bar of the Beehive, at ease, efficient, chatting
with the regulars, flashing on that smile which had so enchanted him.
He realised that neither of them had spoken for several moments and that he was staring at her. He wondered what he could say to make her smile. He shifted in his chair.
‘Would you like to look over the house?’
‘If you like.’
‘You’re still interested...?’
‘I need the work,’ she said bluntly. ‘I can’t make enough behind a bar at night. I was a machinist in ready-made clothing,’ she went on, ‘but everybody’s cut back. It’s all this cheap stuff coming in from abroad. They work for nothing there. It’s not as if we were rolling in it.’
Jordan stood up. ‘Come and look round.’
She followed him through the house.
‘Of course, I don’t use all these rooms now.’
‘No.’
‘But I like the privacy.’ Not the loneliness, though, he thought. Not that.
The choice was his. He would have to decide soon.
‘What were you thinking of paying?’ she asked as they came back down the stairs.
He told her, having added a little to what he had found out was the going rate.
‘How many hours?’
‘Say three hours, two mornings a week. That should keep things spick and span.’
‘You’d have to take my time-keeping on trust, wouldn’t you?’
‘My wife was very fussy,’ Jordan said. ‘She had a time-clock installed in the hall cupboard.’
Now she laughed. She put her head back and her lips drew away over her teeth, a thin skein of saliva snapping at one corner of her mouth.
He smiled with her. He felt committed now. He asked her if she would come for the first time on a Saturday morning so that he could show her where everything was.
It was as she was putting on her coat that he sensed an uneasiness in her.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘I don’t like to ask you, but it’s dark outside and there’s this maniac about. I wonder if you’d be good enough to see me to the bus stop.’
‘If you’re nervous, I’ll drive you home.’
‘Oh, no, no.’
‘You’re quite right to take care. There’s no knowing where he might pop up next.’
‘I’ll be all right at the other end.’ He went for his coat. ‘I’m not usually timid, but you don’t know what it’s like to be a woman with him about. You begin to look sideways at every man who comes near you.
‘There’s one thing you can be sure of,’ Jordan said. ‘He isn’t coloured green and he hasn’t got two heads.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean, he’ll look like a million other men. Like me, for instance.’
‘Give over’ she said.
‘Sorry.’ Jordan opened the door. ‘Is it still raining? I’d better have a hat in any case.’
Her bus went from the other side of the main road. He saw her across and stood with her at the stop.
‘I’ll be all right now.’
‘I’d rather see you safely on.’
‘You can call for a quick one.’ She nodded at the lighted windows of the Beehive, opposite.
He thought of asking her if she would like a drink before she went, but said instead, ‘What’s the pub like where you work now?’
‘Different.’
There was a double-decker bus standing in a line of traffic at the lights. It swung towards them and pulled up.
‘I’ll see you Saturday,’ she said, stepping on.
‘Yes,’ Jordan said. ‘Saturday.’
One morning several weeks later he had to get out of bed to let her into the house.
‘I’d forgotten about the bolt,’ he apologised.
‘I wondered, when me key wouldn’t open it.’ She looked at him as he stood in the hall, in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. ‘Did you sleep in, or are you–?’
‘I’m not very well,’ Jordan said. ‘I think I may have the flu.’
It had started yesterday, with a prickling sensation in the soft flesh behind the roof of his mouth. In the afternoon he had begun to sneeze. By evening, his bones were aching and he could not keep warm. He had been sweating in the night and now his pyjamas felt clammy against his skin.
‘You get back to bed, out of these draughts,’ Mrs Nugent said.
‘I must just phone the office.’
She was carrying the vacuum cleaner and dusters from the cupboard under the stairs as he finished his call.
‘Don’t hang about here. Go back where it’s warm. Shall I get you some breakfast?’
‘A cup of tea would be welcome.’
‘You get off up. I’ll bring it in a minute.’
He had not seen her since that first Saturday morning. Every Thursday he left her money in an envelope on the hall table. The house shone and was fragrant with the smell of polish.
‘Have you taken anything for it?’ she asked when she brought in the tray. ‘Can I fetch you anything from the shops?’
He dozed, hearing the whine of the cleaner from downstairs. He was not aware that he had fallen asleep until he woke to find her standing there again.
‘How are you feeling now? Is your head thick?’
‘No.’ He could breathe quite freely.
‘Perhaps it’s not ready to come out yet. Perhaps it’s only a chill.’ She put her hand on his forehead in a movement that was totally without diffidence, as though she were a nurse, or someone who had known him a long time. It was cool and dry. He wanted her to leave it there. ‘You don’t feel to have a fever.’
‘I really felt quite dreadful last night.’
‘A night’s sleep and a good sweat. They can work wonders.’
She sat down on the edge of the bed. He felt the pressure of her buttocks against his leg. Jordan had to remind himself that he had seen her only three times. It was as though the time she spent alone in the house had given her a familiarity with him. Yet her voice remained level and impersonal.
‘I expect you usually have your lunch out.’
�
��Yes.’
‘What will you do today?’
‘I hadn’t thought about it.’
‘What if I stopped on a while and got you something ready?’
‘Oh, no, there’s no need for that.’
‘I’m not in any rush to get away.’
‘I don’t know what you’d find.’
‘There’s bacon and eggs in the fridge. You must eat, y’know.’
‘Yes. Perhaps I will, later.’
She looked at him contemplatively, like someone about to make a diagnosis or recommend a course of treatment.
‘I’ll tell you what you ought to do.’
‘Mmm?’
‘You ought to get up and have a hot shower and get dressed in some warm clothes. Then come downstairs and have some bacon and egg.’
Jordan smiled. ‘If you say so.’
She nodded and got up. ‘I do.’
When, some time later, he was sitting at the kitchen table with a plate of egg and bacon and fried bread before him, Jordan said, ‘Don’t you want anything yourself?’
‘Well, I...’
‘You must have something. You can’t stay behind to feed me and miss your own lunch.’
‘All right, then.’
He was finished and drinking a second cup of tea by the time she sat down opposite him.
‘You made short work of that.’
He had eaten with a good appetite. Odd, he thought, how different the same food could taste when somebody else had cooked it.
‘I hope you’re settled,’ Jordan said. ‘Happy in your work,’ he explained as she looked at him.
‘Oh, yes. It’s easy now I’m on top of it. There’s nobody to make much of a mess.’
‘No.’
‘I was thinking I’d wash some of your paintwork down.’
‘Whatever you think.’
‘Who does your washing for you?’
‘You mean my clothes? I’ve been sending them to a laundry.’
‘I didn’t know there were any left. That must cost a bomb nowadays.’
‘It’s not cheap, but–’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve all that much. You could put a bundle through the launderette once a week and leave ’em out for me to iron.’
‘If you’re sure you don’t mind.’
An idea came to him. He was silent for a time, not knowing how best to express it.
‘I still have all my wife’s clothes.’
‘Oh?’
‘She was about the same build as you.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘I don’t want to offend you, but she had some nice things. If there was anything you fancied…’
‘What made you keep them?’
‘I’ve just never bothered about them. I did wonder if I might donate them to an Oxfam shop.’
‘Hadn’t she any friends who might fancy something?’
‘I’ve lost touch. Besides, some people don’t like to –’ He stopped.
‘Wear a dead person’s clothes, you mean?’
‘Perhaps not somebody they’ve known.’
‘I couldn’t entertain anything intimate myself.’
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Jordan said. ‘I could put all that out for jumble. But why don’t you look at the rest?’
‘All right.’
‘Come upstairs,’ Jordan said. ‘I’ll show you what there is.’
A few minutes later he was taking suits and coats out of the fitted wardrobes in his wife’s room and laying them on the bed. To them, he added woollens from the tallboy.
‘Of course, he said, ‘they might not be your style, but it would be a pity to let anything go that you could make use of.’
‘There’s some nice things,’ she said. She was looking at the labels in the garments. ‘Things I could never afford.’
‘She was particular,’ Jordan said. ‘She always went to good shops. But, as I say, please don’t be offended, and don’t think you’ll offend me. It was just an idea.’
She was holding a wool frock against her. It was maroon, with a belt. ‘What was her colouring? Was she fair or dark?’
‘Fair-skinned. Her hair was sort of nondescript. Mousy, I suppose you’d call it.’
‘Like mine when I don’t do anything with it.’
‘Why do you do things with it?’
‘I dunno. Makes a change. D’you think it looks common?’
‘Oh, please...’ Jordan said. ‘I didn’t mean to be personal.’
‘Go on,’ she said, ‘say what you think.’
‘Well, perhaps you could use a rinse or something to bring out its natural colour, without... without going so far.’
‘Perhaps I could.’ She had picked up another frock and was looking into the glass. ‘Maybe I will.’
‘What do you think, then?’ Jordan asked. ‘About the clothes.’
‘Could I try some of them on?’
‘Help yourself. I’ll leave you.’
He wandered into his own room where he stood looking aimlessly round before pulling down the duvet and spreading it to air over the foot of his bed. Downstairs in the kitchen, he put on coffee, then, running hot water into the sink, he began to wash the pots they had used. He was standing there with his back to the door when he heard her come in.
‘You should have left them to me.’
‘I’m not altogether helpless,’ Jordan said. ‘And you’re on overtime already.’
He had switched on the ceiling light which hung low over the table and as he glanced up the darkening window gave him her reflection. For an astounding second he was convinced that it was his wife standing there.
‘What do you reckon, then?’ she asked as he turned.
She had on the maroon frock, but over it she was wearing his wife’s fur cape that she must have gone into another compartment of the wardrobe to find. She seemed suddenly unsure how he would react to this.
‘Splendid,’ Jordan said.
His stomach churned with a sudden desire to touch her. Looking away, he reached for a towel and dried his hands.
‘Course, I know you didn’t mean this, but I couldn’t resist just trying it on.’ Her hands were stroking the fur in long soft movements.
‘Why not?’ Jordan heard himself saying. Then, when he realised she did not understand: ‘Why shouldn’t I have meant that as well?’
‘You can’t,’ she said, lifting her gaze to his. ‘It must be worth a small fortune.’
‘Not all that much,’ Jordan said. ‘And so what?’
‘You can re-sell furs like this,’ she said. ‘Don’t shops take ’em back?’
‘I don’t want to sell it.’
‘You can’t give it to me, though. I couldn’t take it.’
‘Why not? I bought it. Why shouldn’t I give it to whom I like?’
‘You’ll want it for a lady friend.’
‘I haven’t got one.’
‘You will have. You’ll want to get married again, some time. Won’t you?’ she said after a moment, all the time her fingers moving along the lie of the fur. ‘What is it, anyway?’
‘Blue fox, I think,’ Jordan said. ‘Yes, blue fox.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Won’t you let me give it to you?’
‘Hang on a tick,’ she said on a slight laugh, ‘I’m just your cleaning woman. You don’t hardly know me.
‘I don’t want to embarrass you...’
‘You are, though.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Was there anything else you fancied?’
‘I’ll take this frock. There’s one or two other things I like.
’
‘Take anything you want,’ Jordan said. ‘And think about the cape. It will still be there when you’ve made up your mind.’
She had taken off the cape and was standing with it over her arm, her free hand still moving in long strokes across the fur.
‘I ought to be going, before it gets dark.’
‘I’ve kept you late. I’ll put it on your wages on Thursday.’
She laughed. ‘Nay, I reckon I’ve been paid enough.’
‘Would you like me to drive you home?’
‘You stop in and keep warm. How are you feeling now?’
Jordan put the back of his hand to his forehead. ‘I don’t really know.’
‘You get a few whiskies inside you and have an early night. You’ll likely feel better tomorrow.’
He sat for a long time at the kitchen table after she had gone, while the light faded in the sky beyond the garden. She had left in a casual, almost offhand manner which had taken him by surprise after the near-intimacy of their talk about the clothes. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ she had said, and before he could stir himself from the reverie in which he was peeling the maroon frock off her shoulders and freeing her breasts for the touch of his hands, the front door had closed behind her. He told himself that he had made her uneasy; that she lacked the social grace to handle the situation he had created. She would brood about its implications, wondering what his generosity implied, and – never crediting its spontaneity – from now on keep up her guard. Not that any of it really mattered, for they would not meet again unless he contrived it.
He asked himself if he could justify taking two more days off work so that he could be here when she came again, on Thursday. Could he risk scaring her off altogether by doing that? But he must, he told himself, build now on what had been started – on that curious apparently disinterested familiarity with which she had felt his temperature and sat on his bed; the way they had looked at his wife’s clothes together; her coming down in the fur cape. Why had she done that if she had not coveted it and wanted to give him a chance to offer it to her?
At first he drank one cup of coffee after another, telling himself that if he did not move he could pretend that she was still in the house, moving about those empty rooms. Then he got up to fetch whisky and as he was coming back through the hall the telephone rang.
