We All Fall Down

by Rosemary Friedman

  Looking at her watch, Louise knew her mother would be annoyed but she could not take the children home without at least giving them an ice-cream. She took them to a little tea place on the green. They queued up for cups of tea and cheese and biscuits in small bags (Amanda and Jennifer – it was Louise who had the ice-cream) and Louise carried the rusting metal tray out onto the green where there were tables and slatted chairs. Jennifer was only halfway through her first biscuit which she ate plain in order to enjoy the cheese later, when she stood up and shrieked: “Look, there’th Uncle Harry!” and Uncle Harry it was, striding across the lawn in his white trousers and red jacket, still with his make-up on.

  “Hullo, kiddies,” he said, “did you enjoy the show?”

  They said they did and offered him cheese and biscuits, but Uncle Harry said he was gasping for a cup of tea and went off to join the queue, promising to come back. And when he did, balancing his cup of tea, they asked him to sit down, and Uncle Harry looked questioningly at Louise but there was nothing she could very well say, so he pulled up a chair and sat astride it and made noises like a duck and then a dog, and sent Amanda and Jennifer into hysterics. And while they were laughing, the tears rolling down their faces, he asked Louise if she had enjoyed the show, and she saw that under his make-up he was not as young as he had looked and that his teeth, though nice and shiny, didn’t fit very well. He seemed kind though and they had a jolly time and Uncle Harry gave the girls sixpence each to buy chocolate bars. And when they’d gone across the green to the kiosk that sold chocolate Uncle Harry asked Louise what she was doing that night, and Louise, not understanding, said nothing, and then she did and she blushed and grew confused and didn’t know what to say and finally said: “I have my mother to look after.” Then Uncle Harry said: “Well, if you can get out come and have a drink at the pavilion bar,” and Louise said she was sure she couldn’t but thanked him very much, and Uncle Harry said, “Well, try,” and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Then the children came back and they said goodbye to Uncle Harry who said “Don’t forget,” but not to them, and Louise took their hands in self-protection and they walked towards the bus.

  At home her mother was still sleeping noisily, her mouth open and her expression disgruntled even in sleep. In the half-light of the bedroom where the curtains were still drawn, Louise peered into the mirror and examined her face to see what Uncle Harry had seen. Of course she had no intention of seeing him at the pavilion that night or any other, but it was nice, in a way, to know that she had not grown too old, too plain, too past it; that she still had a little way to go before the shapeless black dress and the lavender shawl and the two pairs of glasses and the Ovaltine.

  It had been an enjoyable afternoon, and she smiled to herself as she remembered the feel of Jennifer and Amanda’s arms round her neck as they thanked her, and the chocolate they pressed into her hand, which was better than words. She tied an apron round her pale blue skirt, and going into the kitchen began, humming quite happily, to prepare her mother’s tea.

  Twelve

  ‘On the red, twenty-four

  On the green, twenty-one

  On the yellow, thirty-three…’

  The chant of the Bingo men was audible as soon as he passed under the archway brightly lit with neon lights proclaiming ‘Merrydown Park’, and underneath in smaller letters, not lit, ‘The World’s Gayest Funfair’. ‘On the blue, twenty-two, on the green…’ Victor walked slowly, almost carried along by the tide of people, down the slope towards the funfair itself. Past the fish and chip shop, past the winkle stall, past the tavern, past the ‘Ladies’, past ‘Two eggs and chips 1/6d’ chalked on a blackboard, into the level of the amusement park itself which spread out wide before him as far as he could see. “On the yellow…” Now the chant was louder, and coming from various directions. And there were other noises. “Three for six, lady, three for six…come along, sir, try yer luck…win a ’andbag for the missus or a walking-doll for the kiddy…orl yer do is roll ’em dahn the slide…can’t miss…prize every time…come along, sir…” and from the firework display on Victor’s left there were long ‘ooooooh’s’ as the bumper rockets were released into the air and drawn-out ‘aaaaaah’s’ as the rain of stars, golden and red and blue streamed down through the inky sky. The men and women in cowboy hats shuffled endlessly past the stalls, dragging behind them sleepy children rubbing surreptitiously at their eyes; and there were anxious calls of “Maureen” and “Jimmy where’ve you got to? Stick wiv’ Dad or e’ll clock yer one!” and “Mum” and “Dad” and “Nana” and “Why can’t we see the bearded lady Mum?” and screams from the big dipper which swooped down high above them all, and the smell of hot dogs and onions and the flop-flop of darts. Victor walked past the weight-guessing (a ruby ring if I’m aht more that free pahnds), the flea circus, the ghost-train, the ghost-house, the water tubs, his ears gradually becoming accustomed to the cries of the stall-holders and the shrill shrieks, and his nose to the smell of fish and of vinegar. He was looking for Petal.

  She had told him to look for the first darts stall on the right. As he entered the amusement park, though, he had deliberately turned to the left and followed the people, borne along in their midst as they shuffled, their faces varying red and green from the overhead lights, round the funfair. He wanted to think. Not that he hadn’t been thinking about the same thing ever since he’d met her on the beach, before that even, since he had noticed her from the window of his fancy-goods. He was interested in Petal for one reason, and it was that which was making him nervous. He wanted to sleep with her. At eighteen, his mother called him girl-mad. It was only partly true, although it was how he liked to appear. In actual fact he was only curious and confused about the opposite sex, and it was a problem which, though he did not wish it, occupied his waking and sleeping moments. At school the talk, amidst the final battles with English, History and Latin, had turned always, ultimately and inevitably, to sex. At eighteen, tall, tousled and with small affectations of dress or manner, sprawled on chairs in studies or in common-room, he and his friends were men who were not yet men. They boasted to each other of the girls they had met in the holidays, the girls they wrote to and to whom they had sworn undying love, the girls they had conquered when in fact there had been no conquests. One of the ringleaders of these discussions, a short youth, bespectacled, who in thirty years’ time coming respectably home from the office, would linger at the bookstalls in Charing Cross Road, had hitch-hiked to Paris in the holidays and brought back, wrapped in his pyjamas, a book which was passed from hand to hand in the common-room and which brought, to Victor at any rate, only more confusion. He wished there was someone he could discuss it with. The other boys, despite their boasting and their bravado, were, he knew, as disturbed as himself. Twice he had considered approaching his father, once when they were alone, man to man, drinking sherry before one of his mother’s charity dances, and once when they slept, just the two of them, at the Whitecliffs flat together before the women of the family arrived. He thought of that night. Victor, less fussy, had been first in bed in the starlit room in which there were as yet no curtains. His father was busy, in and out of the bathroom, washing, brushing his teeth, preparing his clothes for the morning. Each time he came back into the bedroom Victor moistened his lips for what he was about to say. Each time he found the words his father had disappeared again before he could speak them. He waited until they were both in bed. Arthur, having hung up his dressing-gown as Vera had taught him to, and placed his slippers neatly underneath the bed, lay heavily onto the mattress, the springs creaking as he turned to find comfort.

  “Dad?” Victor said.

  “Mm?”

  “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “What is it, Vic?”

  He had thought that in the darkness it would be easier, but now that it had come to it there seemed nothing to say. The words floated away from him. What do I do about women, he wanted to say. I know how things are. I’ve known since I was th
irteen, more or less, that’s how it is at school. But now; what do I do now? I know that one should not be promiscuous, that one should wait until one gets married, it’s the middle-class code we live by. But I am eighteen, Father. I shall be at least three years at Cambridge, then I shall have to get some sort of job, and it’ll be years and years before I get married. I know what you’ll say. Wait, my boy, wait. That is, if you say anything at all. But you’re fifty, you’ve forgotten how it is at eighteen. The thoughts and the fears, and most of the time the desire that can drive you crazy and about which you must say nothing, for it is your own. There have been dances and pretty girls, nice, too nice, and the ride home in the car and “No, Victor!” or “Victor, you mustn’t!” when his hands have wandered. “It’s not that I don’t like you, honestly it isn’t, but…” He recognised the ‘but’, and knew that it was home and Mummy and upbringing and starry-eyed innocence, and he hated himself for upsetting them. Father, he wanted to say, what do I do? What did you and other men do at eighteen? Tell me what I should do. He cleared his throat.

  “What’s troubling you, Vic? If it’s about Cambridge, it’s all right, old son. I’ll hang on to the business for you in case you change your mind. I know how it is. You don’t want to settle yet. I suppose if I’d had the choice I wouldn’t have either.”

  “It isn’t that, Dad.”

  “What is it then? Short of money again?”

  Victor closed his eyes. With the talk of business and of money the moment had somehow passed.

  “It’s nothing, Dad. I thought…there was something but…it doesn’t matter… How long are we going to be at Whitecliffs?” he ended feebly.

  “I don’t know, Vic.”

  “Good night, Dad.”

  “Night, Vic. And if anything does trouble you you know you can rely on me.”

  “Yes, Dad.” He was glad he hadn’t said what was on his mind. Looking out into the stars he realised that it was something he had to work out for himself.

  In Petal he had seen a means to solve his problem. She was extremely desirable, the very sight of her in her swimsuit had brought his problems rushing back, she was not what he thought of as a ‘nice girl’, and she belonged to the world of Whitecliffs and Merrydown Park where he was not known. Such were his predatory thoughts as he shuffled, flanked by the slowly moving crowds, round the perimeter of Merrydown Park.

  He watched her first from a distance. Hidden by a stall which sold bottles of pop and ice-cream, he saw her calling the customers, enticing them, in particular the men, to her stand. With the light shining down on her hair she was as pretty as he had remembered. Tonight she was wearing a green shirt blouse open at the throat, and when she smiled he saw her even, pointed teeth like those of a little fox. She was working hard; calling her wares, handing darts, taking money, selecting prizes, flirting with the customers. He wondered whether the burly man who worked on the stall with her was her father. He came out from his hiding place and pushed his way across the stream of drifting people.

  “Five for six, mister,” Petal said, holding out the darts towards him.

  “I was wondering whether you could come out for a drink,” Victor said.

  Petal looked at him, not remembering.

  “On the beach,” he reminded her. “You said I could come. Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh! It’s you,” she said. “For the moment, with a jacket and tie, I didn’t recognise…”

  “Can you come out?”

  She left him to pick some darts someone had thrown out of the board at the back.

  “You playing, mister?” The burly man was ugly, his muscles bulged.

  “It’s all right, Dad. He’s a friend.”

  Petal’s father passed a calculating pair of eyes slowly over him then moved away.

  “I’ll meet you in ten minutes,” Petal said, “by the winkles.” She moved to serve two drunken sailors with darts.

  Victor walked away. Leaning against the side of Petal’s darts stall was a group of Teddy boys. Among them he thought he recognised the beefy character Petal had been waiting for on the beach. One was picking his teeth, one filing his nails, one tossing something up and down in the palm of his hand. One stepped out of the group as he passed them, lithe and black in his drainpipe trousers; he was pulled back by the restraining hand of one who was taller than the rest. The tall one muttered something, and the one who had been tossing whatever it was up into the air stopped. The little group became immobile, watching. They were watching him and it made him nervous. He held his head high and walked on. He found it difficult not to look back.

  Petal had put a faded mac over her blouse and skirt. As they walked away from ‘Merrydown’ and across the road which was full of cars and people and lights in the darkness, she winked up at him. He took her arm, crossing the road and kept it beneath his own, she did not object.

  “What about the pavilion bar?” he said, having spied out the land before going to Merrydown Park.

  “Suits me.”

  They walked along the promenade in silence, Petal’s hair illuminated now and then by the light from the lamp-posts.

  The bar was crowded. Victor ordered whisky for himself and port for Petal. They found a small table.

  “Do you work every night?” Victor asked.

  “Most.” Her eyes were green like a cat’s. She raised her little finger as she held her glass.

  Victor pressed his knee against hers under the table. She drank her port as if she hadn’t noticed.

  “I say!” Victor said suddenly.

  “What on earth…?” Petal said.

  “Well, don’t look but over there, at that table near the door, there’s Louise, with a man. She works at our café; we brought her down, but she’s frightfully old-maidish, I never thought…”

  “You mean with Uncle Harry?” Petal said.

  “With whom?”

  “Uncle Harry. Bloke with the red bow-tie. He’s the compère with the ‘Jollies’. Hope your Louise knows how to look after herself.”

  “How do you mean?”

  She looked sideways from the port. “How do you think I mean?”

  “Good Lord!” Victor said. “Do you think I ought to tell her? I mean I don’t think… I’m absolutely sure…she lives with her mother, you see.”

  “I should mind your own business if I were you,” Petal said wisely.

  Across the heads and through the smoke Victor’s eyes met Louise’s for a fraction of a second, then Louise looked away.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Victor said to Petal, and, pushing back his chair, stood up.

  They walked again along the promenade and this time Victor put his arm round Petal. She seemed co-operative and he tried to lead her away from the pier to where the people were thinning out and it was dark.

  “Let’s go and dance,” Petal said, looking up at him.

  “All right,” Victor said, wishing to tread lightly.

  The ‘Merrydown’ ballroom was full, the music, at its high-pitched loudest, hot. She was a practised dancer and led him, stiff-legged with unfamiliarity with the steps, round the floor.

  “Twist,” she called, laughing, “now step back and turn.”

  He did not wish to twist. He wanted to hold her in his arms again, but he did as he was told. In the slow numbers she did not seem to mind how tightly he held her; once she deliberately arched her back and pressed her body closer to his. They didn’t talk much. The music was too loud, and there was nothing to say. Looking over her shoulder as they weaved round the floor, Victor saw a cluster of black round the ballroom doors. He was sure it was the same group of Teddy boys. They were looking over the heads of the dancing couples, searching for someone.

  “Look,” he said to Petal, sensing an urgency. “We’ve some wonderful records at our café. How about us going there one night? I’ll get the keys and we can dance.”