There was no Mercedes in the road, green or otherwise. Perhaps he had telephoned getting no reply.
“This is where I live.”
“What a lovely house.”
Medium nice. I’d always had a yen for a town house. I didn’t mind about the number of stories or a basement, in Lowndes Square or Cheyne Walk or else by the river or in the country in its own acres with lawns and flowerbeds where you could lose yourself.
We stopped in the drive. “If you get out I’ll lock it after you.”
She looked at the door handle, the window winder, the ashtray, fingering them nervously.
“It’s that one. Pull it towards you.”
She held it uncertainly.
“Wait there. I’ll do it.”
I opened the door and she got out clumsily, looking at the house with its pine front door and draped curtains.
“I’ll just see if the children are in then I’ll come back for the shopping.”
Mrs Mac had left the house tidy. There was an advert for soap powder stuck through the letter box. It felt unoccupied.
“Robin! Di!” I waited. “They aren’t home.”
I took the shopping basket out of the boot.
“What about this?” Ellen Potter said. “Shall I bring it?”
It was Diana’s skirt, I’d forgotten to take it to the cleaner’s.
“No. I’ll take it tomorrow.” Another of the things I had planned to do and hadn’t.
In the kitchen I said, “I expect you could do with a cup of tea.”
“I’m being such a nuisance.”
“I’m gasping anyway.”
I put the kettle on and took her coat and showed her where to wash. In the kitchen I let down the Venetian blinds, the slats open, and switched on the fluorescent light waiting for it to pop-pop into life.
When she came back I was getting the stewing steak I had got from the supermarket what seemed years ago ready for the pressure cooker.
She sat stiffly on the grey, plastic-topped stool, and looked around.
“It’s a lovely kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“All electric. I’m a little bit afraid of electricity.”
“The machines look a bit fearsome but you soon get used to them. They make life easier. Especially with a family.”
I gave her her tea and thought perhaps I’d said the wrong thing about a family remembering what had happened to hers.
“Don’t they cost a terrible lot though?”
“They do, yes.” The new kitchen two years ago had cost Tim eight hundred pounds.
“Everything goes up and up except our pension. I don’t know what I’m going to do about coal this winter.”
The pressure cooker was hissing and I turned the heat down and unwrapped the frozen pastry.
“It looks as if we’re going to get a Labour Government too.”
“Don’t you want one?” I was surprised.
“I don’t, no. I’ve always voted Conservative, my husband too. Not that it’s the same without Churchill. You always felt, when you heard him on the radio, that everything was going to be all right. I won’t say a lot hasn’t been done in my lifetime, well since the war really, milk for the kiddies and school dinners and the National Health but there’s a lot more needs doing. Of course they have to spend a good bit on these bombs, but you can’t really grudge that.”
I rolled the pastry.
“You aren’t a ban-the-bomber then?”
“I think it’s scandalous. These bits of boys and girls who go along to make an exhibition of themselves and even the clergy getting mixed up in it. After all it’s for our own protection.”
“Or destruction.”
“I’ve seen people march for all sorts of things in my time. Sit down, stand up, wave banners. It never does a mite of good. Most of them don’t know what they’re marching for anyway. If there was a march in the other direction they’d join that too. Does that pastry come all ready?”
“Quick-frozen, yes.”
“Marvellous, isn’t it. My husband used to like pastry. Of course when you’re on your own you don’t bother.”
“Would you like another cup of tea?”
“If there’s one in the pot. Let me get it. I’m not used to sitting.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes thanks.” She felt the side of her head. “I must have a bruise coming.”
“Will they be worrying about you?”
“Who?”
“At home”
“There’s no-one to worry.”
“You live on your own?”
“I’ve got used to it,” she said defensively.
“They said you had to be looked after.”
“I can look after myself. Have you any idea of the time? I don’t like being out in the dark.”
I struggled with my conscience.
“Look, you’d better stay here for tonight.”
“I’ve given you quite enough trouble already. I really have to get home.”
“But there’s no-one there.” No-one to care, but I didn’t say it.
“I don’t like being out in the dark. I took the bus as far as Piccadilly then walked down Regent Street and along towards Marble Arch. I like looking in the shops when it’s getting near Christmas.” She looked at the broken watch.
“It’s half-past four.”
She stood up and carried our two cups over to the sink turning the water on.
“Leave them. They go in the dishwasher with the dinner dishes.”
“It won’t take a moment.”
I let her wash them, picturing her at home alone passing out with concussion or whatever one did.
“You must stay. Just for tonight. I promised the doctor you wouldn’t be alone. We’ve a spare bedroom.”
The bed was not made up. Had I known Mrs Mac could have done it before she went home.
She went out into the hall and came back with her coat on.
“I can’t allow you to go.”
She fastened the buckle. “There’s Ginger anyway.”
“Ginger?”
“My cat. He’ll be waiting to go out.” She sat down suddenly on the stool.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Funny. Everything went round suddenly.”
“You see.”
She put her head down.
“Please come upstairs and lie down.”
The back door opened and Robin and Diana came in.
“Hello, Mum!”
“I got a star for History…”
They stared at Ellen Potter.
I helped her up. “I’ll be back in a moment. Take some tea.”
Upstairs she said, “What about Ginger?”
“Can’t I telephone a neighbour to let him out?”
She looked at me. “There’s no telephone.”
I took off her coat again and could see that she was glad to lie down on the spare-room bed.
“I’ll be all right in a moment. Must be this wretched bump.”
“Would you like a little brandy?”
She shook her head.
“I’ll tell you what. As soon as I’ve got the dinner ready I’ll pop over and let Ginger out. Diana can manage.”
“Oh no, please…”
“I insist. You aren’t in a fit state…”
“I’d rather you didn’t…” she looked quite distressed.
“He has to be let out hasn’t he? Besides I could bring your things.”
She looked at me oddly.
“If you give me your key I can go without disturbing you. Perhaps you’ll sleep. It’s Colchester Street isn’t it?”
“It’s not very easy to find. You want Fulham Palace Road, Wargrave Road, left into Hawtry Street and Gorringe Place; Colchester Street is the third on the left. There’s a scrap-iron on the corner.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve a street map. I have to have. No sense of direction.”
“I’d rather go home if my he
ad would stop spinning.”
“I’m sure you would but it wouldn’t be wise. What do I do with Ginger? Just let him out?”
“I’m sorry to put you to so much bother.”
“No trouble at all,” I lied, not feeling in the least like driving to Fulham. “Is there anything else you want?”
“It will go off in a moment.”
“From home I meant.”
“No, thank you.”
“Robin and Diana are downstairs and my husband will be home shortly if you need anything.”
She shut her eyes. I put the raincoat over the chair and left leaving the door ajar.
“Who was that?” Diana said.
“A lady who had a street accident. She isn’t feeling very well.”
“What’s she come here for?”
“I was going to take her home but there’s no-one to look after her. She’s going to stay the night.”
“What did she hurt?” Robin said.
“Nothing really. Just bumped her head.”
He looked disappointed.
“May I go and play with Jane?” Diana said.
“No you’ll have to stay here and see to dinner while I go over and let Mrs Potter’s cat out.”
“Can I come with you?” Robin said.
“Better stay with Diana. In case Mrs Potter needs anything.”
“Can you make me a monkey’s dress for Friday?” Diana said.
“What on earth for?”
“We’re doing a play in French. I’m, the monkey.”
“You don’t need to dress up,” Robin said.
“Couldn’t you have picked something less complicated?”
“It’s the best part.”
“You’ve split your blouse,” Robin said. “Under the arm.”
Diana raised her arm to look, examining her shirt with the other hand.
“Look at the monkey scratching!”
“I suppose you think that’s clever.”
“Very.”
“Look, out of the kitchen if you can’t stop squabbling!”
“Well can I go to Jane’s?”
“No.”
She held her hair up on top of her head. “Does it suit me like this?”
“Quite.” I went closer. “Did you wash your neck last night?”
She let the hair flop down.
I finished the steak pie.
“Tell Daddy about Mrs Potter and put this in the oven and the potatoes on at half-past. I shouldn’t be long but there’ll be all the traffic now.”
“What’s for afters?”
“Peaches.”
“Pineapple,” Robin said.
“Whatever you like. You can open it.”
“We had peaches for lunch.”
“Lucky beggar,” Robin said. “We had stodge.”
Six
The roads were still wet and the evening traffic beginning to build up in the gloom that threatened more fog. At the wheels of Fords and Renaults, Rovers and Jags, men drove with gritted teeth, cut in, overtook at every opportunity, concerned with knocking minutes off the journey. Night and morning a madness gripped them. They were not to blame. Roads filled to more than capacity frustrated them twice in twelve hours. The alternative was the tube, strap-hanging, hemmed in by stale breath, or queueing for buses. They regarded each setback as a personal affront, unlike women were unable to sit back, allow the situation to flow over them. Possessed by devils, like knights of old, they had to beat the lights, the car in front; had to. We were more equable, better able to cope. We had to be. We had, in addition, our bodies to deal with. What did men know of fortitude? They were the bread-winners, yes, struggled for their living, ours. Each day though was the same. Their prowess was governed by intellectual or manual ability; ours by hormones. Some mornings we woke up ten feet tall, on others devoid of strength enough to pluck our eyebrows. One week found us moving mountains, on our knees cleaning loft or garage, the next incapable of throwing away the things on saucers that had accumulated in the fridge. How would men like, in addition to their daily round, the insufferable worry of every month? The days, which seemed a life-time long, when you were unsure whether you had taken sufficient care, when you were tortured, and it was torture, with desperate thoughts of what you were to do. In your teens you had the pain, in the middle years the anxiety, later on the sense of overwhelming loss. We were never free; bound by our physiology, condemned, since Eve, to our additional burden.
There was a hold-up at the traffic lights. I reckoned they would have to change three times before I got across. I switched on the radio. Number One on the hit parade begged me to love him tender. Diana would have liked it.
I wondered, with a sob of self-pity, whether Dobbie would be free tomorrow, then, as I crawled forward a few feet, what it must be like to be Ellen Potter; everyone dead. The baby first; enteritis. It probably wouldn’t happen today, everyone calling the doctor often, too often, and the new drugs. Six months old; just at the cuddly stage with rounding limbs; watching it sicken and die. Jean and her growth. Cancer was a dirty word in a world where there were few. Trying to find crumbs of comfort to sprinkle on self-inflicted ignorance. You’ll be all right, Jeannie. All right! Buried beside the baby. Flesh of your flesh. She hadn’t had to bury the boy. They had done if for her, the purveyors of war. One eighteen-year-old please fighting fit. Thank you very much, Mrs Potter, we shall try to return him in good condition. They tried. Five little niggers, now there were two, Ellen and Dad. Listening to the cough, cough, cough, and knowing one more bad winter and that would be that. Did they put him next to Jean and the baby, cosy?
Alone. You tried to make it mean something and failed. Like the war crimes you read about, the tying together of women’s legs in child-birth, the bestiality to small children, you attempted a realisation and came up with nothing. The imagination, perhaps fortunately, baulked. You could not suffer vicariously. My own life was more or less untouched by tragedy. My parents were still alive. A second cousin only had failed to return from North Africa, a shadowy youth I scarcely knew in life. The death of grandparents shook for the moment but did not hurt. How must it be to be alone. To have no-one of one’s own to talk to. I think I would be desperate if I had to empty the clutter of my mind each day to an unsympathetic wall.
At Hammersmith the traffic was again at a standstill; a girl, alone in the next car, laughed crazily to a funny on the other programme; Dinky cars crossed the flyover like on Robin’s construction set.
Fulham Palace Road she’d said. I asked the policeman on point duty for directions as we crawled by. At this rate I’d be late for dinner. I was unfamiliar with this part of London. People were hurrying now, home from work, one in five coloured. It was difficult to distinguish the names of the roads in the dark. I went right by Wargrave Road and had to turn round. I felt once more a sense of unreality. This morning I hadn’t known of the existence of Ellen Potter. All I had been conscious of was Dobbie waiting. It was like some horrid plot, not happening to me. Hawtry Street, Gorringe Place; past a hospital and a cemetery. You forgot how London sprawled with slummy-ended tentacles.
There were few cars now. Ellen Potter had travelled a long way to look at the Christmas shops. Outside the scrap-iron all manner of metal ware was heaped and hung. Round the corner was Colchester Street. I slowed down in an attempt to find number thirteen A. The street was wide, the road littered with peels and rubbish beneath the orange lights.
Mine was the only car. A girl in a thick suit with a tight skirt and slippers with pompons carried home a wrapped loaf, a small boy sat on the kerb picking his nose, empty milk bottles stood on the pavement outside the flat-faced houses with their windows right on the street. I asked a youth in a leather jacket for number thirteen A. He stared at me as if I’d addressed him in Russian. I got out of the car which as if by magic was surrounded by small children, black and white. A green door said number eleven. The next was open, I looked inside, it smelled like a stable, but couldn’t see the number
.
A woman with her hair in rollers came out.
“Is this number thirteen A?”
“Asright.”
“Does Mrs Potter live here? Ellen Potter.”
“Dunno. I’m upstairs.”
Nobody knew, cared.
There was a door on the right of the stairs. I opened it with Ellen Potter’s key. Something tickled my legs as I searched for the light-switch and I almost screamed. The room was lit, the centre of it, at any rate, by a single bulb in a burned shade. Ginger, fur on end, humped his back.
“Pussy, pussy,” I said.
He backed away.
The room was about half the size of Robin’s bedroom. My head almost touched the ceiling. Ginger had been lying on the bed, there was a dent in the patchwork quilt. I looked at the gas-ring with the rusty kettle, the empty grate above which hung a pair of bloomers on a fraying string, the dress and cardigan on the peg behind the door. There was little else to look at. A saucer of milk for Ginger, a bottle of beer almost empty on the table, a shelf with some tea in a packet and a sugar bag, an old fashioned radio with heavy knobs. Could this be all? On the mantelpeice was a photograph in a tarnished frame. A pipe lay in front of it. A plain-faced youth in a paratrooper’s beret had scrawled to Mum, love George. Jean was tucked into the corner of the frame a tall young woman with a bicycle. Slit-eyed, Ginger watched me. I laughed at the idea I had had of packing a case with a night-dress, dressing gown, bed-jacket, slippers. I looked under the pillow to make sure but there was nothing. I tried to remember what the old-age pension was, two pounds something, I thought, I didn’t really know. The rent for this ghastly place probably took most of that, and a bit of coal, there were signs that there had been a fire. How could people live, not live, exist? The draught came up between the floor boards. There were patches of damp on the walls, I would put the cat out and go. It wasn’t right, really not, when someone had given a son. Didn’t they get some kind of compensation? Even if they did the money went nowhere today. A few groceries and ten shillings had gone, a pound; like water, slipping away. I could hardly account for it to Tim. It seemed so ridiculous to spend so much on nothing. I went towards Ginger who was dribbling and he dived for the bed. Pussy, pussy, I said, come on, I won’t hurt you. A mist hung round the light-bulb. Pussy. Pussy. I grabbed him and he dribbled on to the sleeve of my black coat. I put out the light and shut the door, locking it, and shunted Ginger out into the road.
The Commonplace Day Page 17
