We All Fall Down

by Rosemary Friedman

  “I’m sorry,” Arthur said, “I didn’t realise. It’s Number Six, above this.”

  “Sorry for butting in,” the girl said, and picked up her case.

  When she’d gone Vera said: “What a funny time of night to arrive! Who do you think she is?”

  “I don’t know,” Howard said, “but I should imagine it’s Basil’s wife.”

  Eighteen

  “Elisabeth!” Basil said, peering blearily, not properly awake, into the hall. He remembered that he had been in a deep sleep when the bell rang, and that it must be some time in the middle of the night.

  “Has something happened, Elisabeth? Are you all right? What time is it?”

  “Nothing’s happened.” She looked at him, his pyjamas rumpled, his hair on end. “May I come in?”

  Suddenly thoroughly awake, Basil leaned forward and took her case from her. “Elisabeth,” he said, as though he had just seen her.

  She followed him into the bedroom where he put on his dressing-gown. He looked round, seeing it with her eyes. “It’s a bit sordid,” he said.

  Elisabeth said, “On the contrary. It looks very tidy for you.”

  “Come inside,” Basil said, “there’s a fire in the sitting-room I can switch on. It isn’t very warm. How did you come?”

  “By car.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “I got lost once or twice.”

  “You never did have a sense of direction.”

  The sitting-room had an unlived-in look, and when Basil switched on the stove it smelled of burned dust.

  “You haven’t a drink, have you Basil?”

  “For you? Are you all right, Elisabeth? Did you have dinner? You look cold.”

  “Just a little tired. If you’ve some whisky. The drive made me feel a bit shaky. The roads were so dark. I suppose I was nervous. I’m sorry about this; it’s a stupid time to arrive. I just made up my mind and I felt I couldn’t wait until the morning.”

  She sat curled on the hearthrug still in her coat, the red of her hair shimmering in the light.

  Basil put a glass into her hands, which were twisting nervously before the pink glow of the fire, and said: “Why did you come, Elisabeth?”

  “First, tell me if you’re glad.”

  Basil sat on the very edge of the armchair, holding his glass, and watched her. “I’m so glad,” he said, “that this is one of the most wonderful moments of my life. I don’t know if you’ve come back to me. I know I don’t deserve you. But I love you, Elisabeth, and with you sitting there the flat looks suddenly like home. I don’t know if I shall be able to stand it if you’ve come to tell me there’s someone else; that you want a divorce. I suppose that is what it is. You’d better tell me; don’t be afraid, Elisabeth. I’ll try not to make it difficult or embarrassing for you.”

  Elisabeth looked down at her drink, then into the fire.

  “I came back because I’m going to have a baby,” she said.

  “But Elisabeth…”

  “I know. You’ll be very angry. I had a suspicion, you see, when I left you. I’d got myself all worked up and rather at the end of my tether, wondering who would support all three of us, and my idea was to go home, and if I was pregnant to get rid of it.”

  “You had no right…”

  “I said you’d be angry. I got as far as going to see this doctor, and it was all terribly smooth and simple as long as you had the money, and that wasn’t very difficult – I told father I needed a new fur coat – and two psychiatrists saw me and answered their own questions, and I had the bed booked and everything, and when the day came I just couldn’t go through with it. I went to the pictures and saw the same film three times – Frank Sinatra in a night club – then I came out and cancelled the whole thing.”

  Basil took a sip of his drink. “I suppose it’s just because of the baby you’ve come back,” he tried to sound casual, to hide his disappointment.

  “No, Basil. If it had been only because of the baby I should have come back ages ago. I waited to see; to sort things out in my own mind. I went round and round in circles and always came back to the same point.”

  “What was that?”

  “A fundamental one. I love you. I don’t know how we shall manage, what will become of us, my father won’t help me any more, but I want you and I want our baby. I’m sorry that I walked out. It wasn’t that I didn’t love you, didn’t have faith in you, you know I always have had. It was just that I was tired, terribly tired, my nerves were on edge…”

  “Elisabeth, don’t!” Basil said. “I can’t believe, looking back, I did those things to you. I can only think I could not have been quite sane.”

  Elisabeth finished her drink and putting her glass on the hearth, kneeled round to face Basil. Her violet eyes opened wide.

  “Tell me you want me back.”

  “I wrote to you.”

  “I know. I want you to say it.” She raised a hand towards his face.

  “Elisabeth, don’t!” Basil drew back.

  “What is it?” The violet eyes were puzzled, hurt as well as tired from driving through the night.

  Basil stood up and, putting his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown, went over to the window although he could see nothing in the black night. With his back to Elisabeth, he said: “I’m afraid I’ve made a hash of things, Elisabeth.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Still not looking at her, he said: “I was fed up, desperate, and there was this girl, Honey, she was always laughing…it meant less than nothing, it was just that…well, a man can’t cry, Elisabeth.”

  “I see,” Elisabeth said.

  “I suppose I’ve torn it properly now.”

  “I have to get used to the idea. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t walked out. Or would it?”

  Basil turned round. “Elisabeth!”

  “I’m sorry. I know it wouldn’t.”

  “You won’t go away again now I’ve told you?”

  Elisabeth stood up. “No, I won’t go away. Only…”

  “I understand. I wish it hadn’t happened.”

  “You must give me a little time…”

  “As long as you want. Only stay, Elisabeth.”

  He watched her take off her coat. She had a thick, white jumper over a fawn skirt.

  “You don’t look any different.”

  “I’m done up with safety-pins underneath.”

  “When will it be born?”

  “At Christmas time.”

  “I’m terribly pleased, Elisabeth. I hope it will be a girl. Beautiful, like you.”

  “And with your brains.”

  “I have no brains. I had an illusion that I was capable of greatness. I suppose every man has at one time or another. I clung to my illusion too long. You needn’t worry about me writing any more. I’ve given it up, put it all away. I am as other men. I’ll look after you, Elisabeth; you and the baby. I’ll make it all up to you. I promise.”

  “Do you mind if I go to bed?” Elisabeth said, sitting suddenly on the arm of the chair. “I must be tireder than I thought.”

  “Darling!” Basil said. “How thoughtless of me! That long drive, and the baby… Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Elisabeth smiled. “Of course.”

  “I’ll make the other bed up. That is… I’m afraid there’s only one bedroom… I understand how you feel… Perhaps…”

  Elisabeth smiled. “Basil, don’t. I’ll help you with the bed.”

  Basil picked up her coat from the settee. “Those days are over. You sit down. I’ll see to everything.” At the door he said:

  “Thank you for coming back, Elisabeth. I know I don’t deserve it but you’ve made me terribly happy.”

  She looked at him unwaveringly, her eyes black-ringed pansies in moonlight.

  “Don’t thank me, Basil,” she said. “I’ve only come home.”

  Louise, her hair loose on the pillow, her nose slightly pink, her hands encased in cotton sleeping
gloves, lay in a dreamy, pleasant, half-waking state, thinking of Harry. It was not quite time to get up. She could feel the sun, up early, shining through the thin pink cotton curtains on to her eyelids. Lying there, her face was not shiny, her nose not pink, her nightdress not serviceable lawn, her hands most certainly not in gloves. She was lying, she thought smilingly, on a pillow strewn with rosebuds; naturally the sheets were bordered, a wide border, with the same; her skin was smooth, matt, one would almost suppose made-up; her hair was gold, her features, tiny, provocative, and her body, which left nothing to be desired, lay impertinently in transparent nylon; black, she thought; yes, most certainly it would be black. She had bought a nylon nightdress once, only it hadn’t been black; pale blue, she remembered, and light as a dream. She had been cold all night though, and hadn’t slept a wink; the next day she had given it to one of the girls in the salon and gone back to the warmth and comfort of lawn. She really wanted to think about Harry. Last night had been fun, more fun than she had had for a long time. Harry seemed to like her, he really did. She had no illusions. She knew he was a bit common, probably a thoroughly bad type, but he was interested in her, whatever his reasons. He made her feel protected, wanted, as one only felt when one was with a man, and as she hadn’t felt for an awfully long time. When you were a woman on your own you couldn’t just slop or dissolve into tears as married women did, you had to stand on your own feet. She was expected to look after her mother, make the decisions, be a tower of strength. It was the same at the salon. She was in charge of the girls, the one who told them what to do, chastised them, praised them, chased them up and very often advised them. Nobody ever wondered that she had no one to turn to, no one to help her with the gas bills, the burst pipe, the loose joist in the bedroom floor at home, the insurance, the payments on the television, the income tax. There was always something to worry about, and never anyone to share the worry with. It was the same in a way when something pleasant happened, some-thing amusing or enjoyable at work. She might be bubbling over, warm with whatever it was that had happened, but there was never anyone to tell it to or share it with. Her mother was only interested in herself, and she had no real friends. By the time she had kept her excitement to herself for a few hours it had burned itself out or gone sour, or was forgotten in the necessary trivia of her daily routine. Harry had been someone to talk to. He listened to her, seemed interested in what she told him; they laughed together, joked. True, last night she had paid for the drinks but what did it matter? She hadn’t laughed so much for ages. Harry had told her about his landlady, about the feuds amongst the cast of the concert party, about the pianist who was in love with the trombone who was in love with one of the stage hands. There was something else, too. Two other things, in fact, that needed thinking about. One was that Harry had kissed her. Of course, she had seen it coming, she wasn’t stupid. He had been looking at her in a certain way all evening, and just before they left the ‘Landscape’ he had taken her hand and squeezed it, and then as they waited in the dark, country road for the bus that ran only every half hour which would take them back to Whitecliffs, he had suddenly gathered her in his arms. And because it was dark she had forgotten the too bold stripes on his suit, the over-padded shoulders, the new look of his teeth, the artificial silk of his breast-pocket handkerchief, and smelled only the tobacco and the manliness of him, and felt that she was wanted. She supposed it was the drinks, but she hadn’t been at all scared, not even when he held her tightly, almost crushing her to him, and he had said, shut your eyes, Louise, and she remembered that on the films they always shut their eyes when they were being kissed. When the bus came she had felt shy and rather shaky in the light, and imagined everyone was looking at her. Harry had seemed not at all moved, but appeared to be thinking, and was quiet all the way to Whitecliffs. At the bus stop where he left her he said: “Will you meet me at the ‘Landscape’ on Saturday night, Louise? I’ve something important to ask you,” and she had said, “All right, Harry,” and all the way back to the flat had wondered what it could be. Could it be marriage? If this was a film that was what it would be. But this wasn’t a film, it was life, and about life Louise had very few illusions. If Harry wanted to marry her it would be because she was capable of earning a good living, easily enough for two, because she could cook and sew and make a home, and he wouldn’t have to worry too much about music-hall in the winter, and in the summer Southend and Clacton and Merry-down, and there would always be enough cigarettes and enough to drink. And on the other side of the coin Louise would no longer be alone, and she would have status because she had a man by her side, even though he was not her type, nothing like, in fact, and she would have someone to share things with and talk to at night, after work, and there might be something more to look forward to than the black dress and the shawl and loneliness before the television. She might even be able to persuade Harry to get a regular job and stop wearing those awful suits, and not drink quite so much. He could be quite presentable more quietly dressed; he had a good physique, and really nice hands. Her mother would live with them, of course. Harry wouldn’t mind that, he was very kind-hearted, she had noticed that… She was letting her thoughts get out of hand. Perhaps it hadn’t been anything like that at all he wanted to ask her. But his tone of voice, the lingering look he gave her, what else could it be? She would have to wait until Saturday to find out, meanwhile it was pleasant to daydream; to let her imagination run on. The sound of the front door bell brought her in a moment out of her reverie. Her eyes, quickly opened, saw no rosebud pillowslip, no nylon nightie, only the pink curtains with the sun shining through, and her clothes, unglamorous, where she had left them on the chair the night before.

  “There’s someone at the door, Louise!”

  “I know, I’m going, Mother,” she called. She pulled off her sleeping gloves and struggled into the cotton, candy-striped housecoat which made it not unpleasant to get up because it was summery and pretty. She brushed her hair back with two quick strokes over her shoulders, stooping to look in to the mirror, and put her feet into her slippers.

  “Who is it, Louise? Perhaps it’s bad news or a registered letter.”

  “I haven’t gone yet. I wasn’t up.”

  “You do take a time.”

  Outside on the landing, fully dressed as usual in his clean stiff collar, stood Howard. Louise blushed because her hair wasn’t done and she wasn’t dressed.

  “I thought it was the postman,” she said, then: “I’m not opening up this morning, you know. I gave the keys to Victor. He asked me to change with him…”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Howard said. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but something has happened to Victor…”

  Louise wasn’t able to help much. She told Howard that Victor had asked her yesterday morning if she would mind changing early duty at ‘Le Casse-Croûte’ with him, and she had given him the keys, thinking no more about it. It hadn’t even occurred to her to ask him why. Upset and depressed by what had happened she shut the door after Howard, and turned towards the kitchen.

  “You were a long time, Louise. Who was it?”

  “It was Howard, mother, Mr Pennington-Dalby. Something about the café.” She took the kettle off the gas stove and started to fill it with water. It was then she remembered the first night she had met Harry at the pavilion and that they had seen Victor there with that blonde girl. Harry had said at the time he knew who the girl was, but they hadn’t pursued the conversation. She would dress quickly and go and see if she could find Harry. She didn’t even know where he lodged, but perhaps someone at the concert party place would be able to tell her. It would be nice if she could throw some light on the situation to help Mr Dexter. Not that it would do Victor much good, but the Dexters had been so kind she would like to do something to help. Poor Victor, it made her go cold to think of it. A razor gang…ugh…

  “Are you making the tea, Louise?” The voice without its teeth, was more than ever plaintive.

  �
�I’m coming, Mother.”

  Nineteen

  Upstairs, on his own landing, Howard found Honey dressed in pink trousers and jumper, about to ring Basil’s doorbell. She had no shoes or stockings on, and her toe-nails matched her outfit.

  “Good morning, Your Worship,” she said, turning to him and bowing low until her long black hair almost swept the ground.

  Her lipstick matched, too.

  “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” Howard said, looking for his key.

  “Why?”

  Howard found his key. “His wife came back last night.”

  Honey crossed the little passage. “Elisabeth?”

  “If that’s her name. Pretty girl with red hair.”

  “That’s Elisabeth.” She shrugged, her face serious for just a moment. “Well, that’s that.” She smiled again and putting her hands in her pockets started to whistle.

  Howard opened his door. “You’d better come in for a moment,” he said. “I have something to tell you.”

  In the little sitting-room Honey said: “My word, you are a tidy one. Not like Basil.”

  “You were fond of Basil, weren’t you?”

  Honey sat on the sofa and drew her knees up to her chin. Over them her eyes were wide-looking at Howard who was lighting his pipe.

  “I don’t mind telling you,” she said. “You’re like a doctor or a…a Judge or something. I have the feeling you can see through me. I don’t have to put on an act. You don’t say a lot but I don’t think you miss much either. I suppose I am a bit in love with Basil; he doesn’t know it. There wasn’t any point in saying anything. It’s difficult to explain but when I was with Basil I felt different…as if life could be something else but what it is…for me at any rate…there’s something about Basil, he’s straight, honest… Anyway I’m glad she’s come back. He needs her.” She shook her hair as though dismissing Basil from her thoughts, and curled her pink toes on the cushions.

  Looking at her through the haze of smoke which burst fitfully from his pipe, Howard thought, she is Eve. I have seen her in court, many times, in the theatre, on the streets. She is pure woman; a body with little soul or brain but a heart that is overflowing for mankind. She does not know it, that I understand her, pity her. She wants admiration, not pity. Pity would drown her. She knows how to keep her head above water.