We All Fall Down

by Rosemary Friedman

  The paper from Parker & Parker had been in front of him all day. He had nostalgic memories of Whitecliffs, where they had gone year after year to rented houses when the twins were small. He remembered the wind and the smell of the seaweed and being huddled in an overcoat on the beach watching the children paddle or catch shrimps; the brisk walks along the front, when the tide was up and the sea spray drenching the promenade; the children on stuffed photographers’ donkeys saying ‘cheese’; visits to the fun-fair, rolling pennies, candy floss and long empty evenings when there was nothing to do except perhaps go to the pictures. Vera, of course, had hated it. Year after year she sat uncomfortably on the beach trying to keep the sand out of the picnic tea, and talked about how wonderful it would be when the children were old enough to take abroad. She hated the rented houses full of someone else’s possessions, the bracing, spray-damp air, the cups in the beach cafés. But there was something about Whitecliffs, and Arthur wondered if there he might find time to think. There were many things he wanted to think about, and yesterday, which had begun as ordinarily as any other, had brought home to him the realisation that unless he took active steps to do something about it he would simply never have the time. His days were mapped out. With his morning cup of tea he thought about the French in Algeria, the Russians in Hungary, the Arabs in the Lebanon, depending on the headlines; with his bath and shave he wondered whether he should have the car serviced or wait till next week, or whether he should change it, he had had it a year but it was running fairly well, of course the new model had the automatic gear change… At the office there was more than enough to keep him occupied; the morning post, the orders, the deliveries, the staff, the travellers, the designs, the factory, the imports, the exports, the eternal battle with HM Customs…the day soon went. Then home. At home a man could relax, but not at his home. The Lawrences were coming to dinner, to bridge, to sell him tickets for the Spastics Dance; the maid had given notice, Victor couldn’t manage on his allowance and there was that new tape-recorder he wanted, Vanessa, out with a new boy-friend, had not come back at midnight. There must be something else. There must. Arthur picked up the white sheets of paper whose contents had burned into his memory all morning. He pulled the telephone receiver smartly off its rest and leaned back in his swivel chair.

  “Get me Parker & Parker,” he said, and already he was sitting on the beach at Whitecliffs.

  It wasn’t often that he held out against Vera. Usually they felt more or less the same way about things, and if they didn’t it was simpler to drift in her direction as she was nicer when she had her own way. That she would hate living in Whitecliffs Arthur knew. She had already said so in no uncertain terms. That this was something he was going to insist upon he also knew. There are things a man must do, he said to himself as he left the office, and looking again at the pavement where he himself might so easily have died, he knew that this was one of them.

  When he found himself walking towards Fleet Street he was only a little surprised. Tonight he was not in need of a drink, nor reluctant to go home, but he knew that he was making for the pub. It was stupid, he realised, they probably wouldn’t be there, mightn’t remember him if they were, but he had to go and look, open the door, if he could, a little wider. All night, in his fitful sleep, he had dreamed of the young man in the green jersey, the barrister and the girl; the conversation, the argument about the treadmill which had, after all, started him on the track of Whitecliffs, had gone round and round in his head. He had never talked to people like that. Ordinary people, the people who jostled each other in the streets and earned their living at different interesting things. That they existed he knew, for they were brought into his own home by his children. He was, though, scarcely allowed to speak to them, and he knew that it was in case he disgraced himself. There was that boy, who had called one night for Vanessa, who had been studying art in Italy and wore pointed suede shoes and a duffle coat. He would obviously have been most interesting to talk to if he hadn’t been primed by Vanessa. He said ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘No, sir,’ and how was business? And didn’t Arthur think there would be a war in the Middle East? And what a lovely house they had, when Arthur had wanted to hear about how it was in Italy and with young people, because he never heard from his children. He was a man of commerce, a philistine, and they kept him in his cage where he could continue to make the money so that they could roam freely in the world of art and music and books and history and religion; a world unbounded by the office and the telephones, and nine till five, and worry, and the income tax.

  Possibly last night, for the first time, he had realised what he was missing. The young men in the pub had treated him like an equal, a man capable of thought about matters which did not earn money. He had enjoyed their unfamiliar company, and looked forward to meeting them again. Yesterday had been quite a day.

  As he opened the door the stuffy welcome of the place enveloped him. Like an habitué he hung his hat and his umbrella on the stand and looked quickly round the room. There was no familiar face, and by the depth of his disappointment he realised how much he had been banking on meeting them. At the bar a group of pink-faced young men laughed and drank beer. He could not tell whether they were the same young men as yesterday or not. Today they were discussing England’s chances in the Test. He ordered whisky from the indifferent bartender and, pretending to read the evening paper, but actually watching the door, he made it last as long as possible. By the time the glass was empty there was still no sign of his friends. He could not stand there drinking all night. Disappointed he unhooked his umbrella and bowler from the stand.

  In the street he walked along behind a tall girl whose long black hair swung over her shoulders. She was carrying a small square make-up case and had long, slim legs. There was something about the way she walked. Arthur walked faster. When he was level with her he looked into her face.

  “Excuse me,” he didn’t know whether or not to say ‘miss’. A few people who had seen him accost her stared.

  She looked at him, and he recognised the wide blue eyes, the lashes, the tip-tilted nose. She didn’t stop walking.

  Arthur kept in step with her. “I thought I recognised you. How is your cold? The pub last night. The same table, we were talking, don’t you remember?”

  She stopped and, looking at him, laughed. “Oh, of course,” she said. “I was thinking you had seen me in the show. It’s always happening. It’s a nuisance. I feel all right today, thank you.”

  They walked along together, Arthur pushing past the people as it was nearing rush hour time and not easy to walk two abreast. “I was wondering about the others,” he said, “the young chap in the green jersey and the other one. I looked for them in the ‘Journeyman’ but they weren’t there. I’d like to find them. I was interested in what they said, about keeping on until we drop and all that.”

  The girl turned suddenly down a small side turning and he followed her. After a few paces she stopped.

  “This is where I work.”

  Arthur looked at the small entrance hung each side with pictures of nude girls. At the box office was a queue of men.

  “I’d like to talk to you.” He was reluctant to let her disappear again, feeling she was the link that might lead him to the two young men.

  “Why don’t you come and see the show?” She seemed neither interested nor particularly disinterested. “We could talk afterwards.”

  Some of the men in the queue had turned round and were staring at them.

  “All right,” Arthur said rashly. “We can talk afterwards.”

  “I’ll meet you in the bar,” she said, and disappeared through a side door.

  Standing in the queue, Arthur realised just how rash he had been. In front of him and behind him were men of all descriptions. Some carried raincoats, some brief cases, some looked sheepish, all eager; middle-aged schoolboys on an outing. Outside, men walked by, examined the photographs, looked at the queue, joined it or walked on. The tiny foyer was hung with notices
. ‘Amateur Striptease contest. £2,000 prizes.’ ‘The Paris Striptease Show’ (First Edition). ‘English and Continental Star Artists.’ He thought the girl had said she was a singer. He couldn’t see anything about singers.

  At the box office a sharp-faced woman said: “Are you a member, sir?”

  Arthur said he wasn’t.

  “This is a club, sir, and you have to join the club if you wish to see the show.”

  It was too late to back out. He gave the woman five pounds for a year’s subscription, the minimum, and received his membership card. He wondered if he had gone a little mad. Upstairs he walked through the bar which was full of men waiting for the show to begin, and into the theatre. It wasn’t exactly a theatre. It was a large room, about the size of a very small ballroom, and it was filled with a semi-circle of small tables covered with white cloths. At one end was a curtained stage, and an apron stage came out into the midst of the tables. The tables immediately surrounding the apron stage were already occupied. Men with glasses before them on the tables held the vanguard positions they had obtained. Arthur sat down nearer the back and beckoned a waiter.

  “I can get you nearer the front, if you wish, sir,” the white-coated man who looked as if he was capable of chucking-out, as well as waiting, said. He looked surprised when Arthur said he was quite all right where he was, and ordered a Scotch and soda.

  Arthur opened his programme and looked at it in the dim light. There were twenty items in the show. The names varied: item one was, ‘Welcome to the Paris Striptease’, Item three, ‘Nudes on the Town’, Item eight, ‘Striptease Teasers’, Item twelve, ‘Ladies Only’, Item fifteen, ‘The Girl with the Swinging Derrière’… The rest of the programme was filled with artistic studies of the Nudes. He recognized the girl with the long black hair. Her name was Honey DuPont, and her figure was as good as her face. There were ten minutes still before the show began. Suddenly Arthur remembered Vera and got up to look for a telephone.

  When he got back the lights were lowered, the tables nearly all occupied, and the spotlight bright upon the stage. As he sat down the music started, the curtains opened and the six chorines appeared with the opening number. They wore only gloves and hats.

  Three

  The taxi dropped Vera outside Doctor Gurney’s. It was the first time she had been to the house, as she and Arthur were private patients of the doctor’s and when they called him he came to visit them. It was a large house, set down amongst rows and rows of smaller houses in a working-class district. She hadn’t imagined that Doctor Gurney had so far to come when he visited them. She hadn’t imagined anything about him at all, in fact. When she needed him she just lifted the phone and rang, and sooner or later he would appear. She hadn’t realised that it was twenty minutes’ drive. Perhaps they ought to find somebody nearer in case of emergency, although Arthur seemed quite fond of Doctor Gurney who had looked after them all for the ten years they had lived at ‘The Yarrow’, and she had always found him very pleasant.

  The red step was not very clean. Vera pressed the bell marked ‘Day’ and waited. The door was opened by a cross-looking, untidy young woman who was wiping her hands on her apron.

  “The surgery’s round the other side of the house,” she said before Vera had a chance to say anything.

  “I don’t want the surgery. I must have a word with Doctor Gurney. It’s extremely urgent.”

  “Can I give him a message for you?”

  “No, you can’t,” Vera said. “I must see him at once. I’m a patient of his. A private patient.”

  The young woman sighed. “You’d better come in,” she said, and held the door open wide.

  The room in which she asked Vera to wait had the remains of tea on the long table, half of which was covered with a plastic tablecloth. There were partly eaten sandwiches on plates, spilled milk, a sliced loaf still in its wrapper.

  “I’m sorry,” the young woman said, “I’ve no help and the baby’s got whooping cough and the other room’s being painted… I’ll tell my husband you’re here. What name shall I say?”

  When she came back she had tidied her hair a little and taken her apron off. Vera saw that she would probably be quite attractive if she wasn’t so weary-looking and had some make-up on.

  “He’ll come as soon as he can,” she said. “He’s with a patient at the moment.” Vera smiled and the young woman smiled back. She had nice teeth.

  Alone, Vera brushed the crumbs off a chair and waited for Doctor Gurney. When he came, bursting almost into the room, he looked anxious and harassed, not like when he visited her at home.

  “My wife said it was something urgent,” he said, prescription pad, stethoscope and pen in his hand. “Sorry you had to wait but I’ve a packed waiting-room.”

  Vera said: “It’s Arthur. I’m worried about him. This morning he said he wanted to live in some God-forsaken seaside place, and not half an hour ago he rang me to say he’d gone to a show, a striptease show, and would be late home for dinner. It’s Willie Boothroyd dying that’s done it. It’s made Arthur go all peculiar.”

  Doctor Gurney tapped his pen on his prescription pad. “Look, Mrs Dexter,” he said, “I’m frightfully rushed just now and I haven’t time to sort this problem out. It doesn’t seem all that urgent. If, when your husband comes home, he still seems strange give me a ring and I’ll come along and talk it over with you. I’m just in the middle of surgery.”

  “I can’t do that,” Vera said. “He was cross with me for calling you last night. I came over here so that he wouldn’t know I had consulted you about it behind his back. Can’t you tell me what to do? I’m terribly worried. It’s not a bit like Arthur. A striptease show! I’ve never ever had any trouble like that.”

  Doctor Gurney thought of the roomful of people waiting patiently for him while this middle-aged matron complained of the husband who was kicking up his heels. He remembered his conversation with Arthur Dexter last night and thought he understood about going to live at the seaside. He couldn’t quite see where the striptease show came in, though. It struck an odd note.

  “Can’t you tell me what I should do?” Vera pleaded.

  Doctor Gurney said: “My advice is to let your husband do exactly as he wants. I think he’s upset by the death of his friend. But apart from that he seemed perfectly normal to me. Don’t worry too much about the striptease show, and if he wants to live at the seaside let him. I wish it were me. You must excuse me now, Mrs Dexter; you can ring me later if you’re still worried.”

  After he’d gone Vera let herself out into the hall. There were two small girls sitting on the stairs. One had a fairy dress with sequins over her school tunic, and the other high-heeled shoes and a hat with a feather.

  “We’re waiting for our husbands to come home,” the one with the fairy dress said. She had no teeth in the front and she pronounced it ‘huthbanth’.

  “Are you really?” Vera said. They both looked like Doctor Gurney. “Where’s Mummy?” She wanted to apologise for intruding.

  “Seeing to the baby; he keeps being sick.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Four. We shan’t be having any more.”

  “Not unless there’s an accident.” The smallest of the two adjusted the feather in her hat.