‘It wa’n’t me this time,’ he muttered rather smugly as we passed.
‘Of course it wasn’t, lovie,’ said Mrs. Stephens briskly. ‘You sleep a bit more, it’ll soon be time for your dinner.’
We put the cot in the middle of the pink satin bedspread on some newspapers. There was a stifling odour of old flesh and old clothes and chamber-pots in the room and I sidled over to the window to open it. Thick lace curtains, brown with age, obscured the light, and the window stuck after being opened the first inch or two. Also I was none too happy about the proximity of the room to the wandering old man.
As we went out, I noticed a key in the door. ‘Should we lock it, perhaps?’ I asked tentatively.
Mrs. Stephens stiffened. ‘There’s no need for that,’ she said shortly. ‘No need whatever.’ And she paused on her way back to the shop to kiss the palsied head of her husband over the back of the chair with defensive tenderness.
The rest of the morning passed without incident. Mrs. Alf, a broad-beamed dark-haired blonde who, until the birth of her own baby recently, had helped her husband with great skill and joviality behind the bar, came round sharp at 10.55 to help me carry David to the pub. I was glad to get him out of that frowsty bedroom and into the open air. Mrs. Alf suggested we leave him out with her own baby in the small garden behind The Swan, so we set the cot squarely on a defunct fountain. Both babies, my little dark one and the Davieses’ fat red-cheeked fair one, were fast asleep. Mrs. Alf folded her large arms across her bosom and remarked with perfect seriousness: ‘Don’t they make a lovely couple?’ I agreed that they certainly did, and she added, ‘Now don’t you worry, Jane duck. Just as soon as yours wakes up, I’ll give him his dins. Got everything there?’ I handed her the hold-all containing the ready-made formula in a thermos and the two tins of baby-food. She looked at the thermos disapprovingly. ‘The bottle should be in the fridge,’ she said. ‘Easy to see you haven’t had much to do with bottles. Now mine, she had a bottle from the start.’
I glanced at her large, soft, maternal bosom in surprise. She caught the glance and laughed.
‘Oh, it’s not that I couldn’t’ve,’ she hastened to explain. ‘Just that I wasn’t having any. Such a nuisance! Well, what I mean to say, having ’em’s one thing, but givin’ up your whole life to ’em’s another. This way anyone can feed her, and I can get out in the evenin’s. Always was one for a bit of a gay time,’ she added, cutting a clumsy caper in the grass.
I wondered what Alf thought of this arrangement. If his wife was free to go out in the evenings, was she not equally free to stay at home and resume her duties behind the bar? But for the moment, her frolics were my bread and butter, so I was not inclined to argue.
The work in The Swan was a great deal harder than that in the Post Office, but also more lively. It was the local for many farm workers as well as those who worked up their thirsts in the village shops and businesses. It interested me to see how they divided themselves—the farm workers in their reeking overalls considerately placed themselves in the public bar, together with the blacksmith, the odd builder’s labourer and grimy coal-heaver, while the farmers themselves, however they, too, might reek, occupied a place in the saloon bar in company with the men of property and stature in the neighbourhood—the coal merchant himself, for instance, though frequently as engrimed as his men, thinking it no shame to give them a hand with the sacks, evidently considered it unseemly to drink with them.
The tiny private bar, carefully screened off by frosted glass panels and not even visible indirectly via the huge mirrors behind the bottles, was for the local ladies (though these generally preferred the more matey atmosphere in the saloon) or for visiting gentry—the Alan Innes type driving through the village with their chic women in Jacqmar headscarves and sheepskin coats, who dropped in for gin and tonic or a lager and perhaps a Scotch egg, or a ham sandwich which it became my job to make.
The Davieses lived, like the Stephenses, behind their premises, but there the similarity ended. The pub might be furnished in the traditional fashion—horse-brasses, pewter mugs and well-rubbed leather seating were much in evidence—but this clearly did not represent the Davieses’ personal taste, which burst upon anyone walking through into the living-quarters with all the force that extreme contrast could lend it. From the sober darkness of the pub to such a dazzling welter of ‘contemp’ always gave me a slight shock, especially in that building, which had been untrammelled Queen Anne before the Davieses took over. Not a wall but was papered in a contrasting pattern; not a vase lacked embellishments of twirling glass tendrils; the furniture was lacquered whitewood (now getting scuffed) upholstered with rexine and speckled with contrasting cushions; the pictures were many and featured a certain study of a green Chinese girl that I had seen in a number of branches of W. H. Smith but never before in anyone’s home. The lovely old fireplaces had been blocked in and replaced by flickering electrical monstrosities and the diamond-paned windows were effectually cancelled out by curtains of a much bolder cubist pattern.
Despite all this, there was an atmosphere of cosy hospitality about the place which defied the décor. Mrs. Alf, whose real name was Dora although nobody ever called her that, was a very gregarious woman, as indeed she needed to be, since her husband had probably chosen his business in deference to his own need for constant companionship, noise and activity all round him. There was no such thing in the Davieses’ household as a ‘quiet evening at home’, which would have been death for both of them. They entertained from morning till night, if not in the way of business, then privately, and if the licensing laws were not actually broken they were decidedly bent by Alf’s own system, to which I was soon made a party. What happened if customers or friends (Alf regarded the two as more or less synonymous) ‘came visiting’ out of hours was this: Alf would offer drinks from his own cocktail cabinet, a monstrous piece of furniture made of high-gloss maple and white formica with glass panels inside, and the visitor would partake, on the clear mutual understanding that the next time he called during pub hours his bill would be enlarged to include what he was drinking now. The scheme paid dividends in goodwill, but I don’t know how much profit it could have shown in actual cash, since when serving drinks in his own home Alf considered it bad manners not to drink too—that, he said, would look too much as if a friendly visit were being exploited for business. Alf was a gargantuan drinker and could put away pint for pint or tot for tot more than twice what any average man could manage—I suppose it was some form of professional immunity.
The Davieses had been married for ten years before the longed-for child was born. ‘Bashin’ away to no avail’, was how Alf put it. Actually, it was he, and not she, as I soon realised, who had so much wanted a family—Dora was too gay a girl, too proud of her figure and too fond of her freedom, to sink readily into motherhood. From one or two of the broad hints she let fall, I guessed that the unavailingness of the bashing had not been entirely a natural accident, at least for the first five years. After that, she probably co-operated spasmodically, according to her mood—she was very fond of Alf, and no doubt sometimes felt guilty that she was depriving him of the ‘nippers’ he wanted so badly—‘But after all,’ as she said to me, ‘it’s not men that has to do all the doings, not just having them and that, but after.’ Adding without the least hint of cattiness, ‘As you well know, poor ducky!’
Chapter 6
WELL, all in all, it was a terrific ‘shvitz’ as Toby used to say—a mad rush—but worth it, if only in terms of having enough to pay cash to Mr. Acre at the end of the week. Actually, I enjoyed it. I’d forgotten how naturally gregarious I am—living alone is pleasant in a way, but it’s certainly much pleasanter at night by contrast with a dayful of people. But still, I felt I was only marking time until Dottie arrived and gave me my marching orders. I felt certain she would somehow take me over and get us both organised.
I found time to nip into the local estate agents (which was also the local lawyer’s office) and enqu
ire about the shop. The rent was so high that I just stood aghast, but the man gave me a reassuring wink and muttered something about that being the asking-price and that the asking had been going on for a long time. I said, ‘Well, what’s the paying-price?’ but he looked quite shocked at that and said he really couldn’t undertake to say. It’s obvious that bargaining is just as necessary in the property business as in any oriental market—if you don’t want to bargain, they don’t feel you’re a proper customer or that the deal is a real live deal.
I was serving in the saloon bar on Saturday evening, while David slept the sleep of the full-bellied in the Davieses’ nursery. He was getting so active now that I was afraid to leave him alone to sleep in his carry-cot, but this was a minor problem that the practical ingenuity of Dora soon overcame. Her own baby was equipped with the largest drop-side cot I’d ever seen, of which she occupied perhaps 10% of the groundspace; so we simply waited till they were both asleep and then dumped them in together at opposite ends. Since Alf was constantly in and out to see that Eleanor (the baby) was still breathing, there was little danger of their suffocating each other. ‘Or of any other untoward incidents occurrin’,’ as Alf put it with his innocent leer. ‘Dunno what’s happening to the younger generation these days,’ he pursued relentlessly. ‘Start shackin’ up together in the cradle.’ Dora, in the Public, gave a shriek of laughter and insisted upon telling the customers that her daughter was already sharing her bed with a gentleman-friend.
I heard the door of the Private swing to, and slipped through to see who it was. It was Dottie, and there was a man with her. They were deep in conversation and he had asked her what she wanted, she had told him and he had given me the order before she noticed me. She stared at me from between the high wings of her sheepskin collar. Then she affected to be not at all taken by surprise and remarked, ‘Oh, there you are, Jane. We were just talking about you!’
‘This is her?’ asked the man in some amazement.
‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ I said to Dottie. ‘Six pun’ a week and it’s not my only job. Rare roast rib for lunch tomorrow, and steak tonight, if you can wait that long.’
‘You’re terrific!’ she said, with a genuine admiration which warmed me since I did feel a little bit embarrassed about it (oh God, how one’s middle-class conditioning haunts one even unto the grave!) ‘However, it occurs to me to wonder if you’re one of these bar-maids who stand gassing all day and forget what they’re there for.’
‘Oh! Yes, madam! Beg pardon, madam!’ I fixed their genteel drinks (no trouble at all, of course, after pulling pints; my nightmare always was that someone from the sophisticated world beyond the village would come in and ask for some complex cocktail like a Backlash or a Blue-tailed Fly that nobody had ever heard of). The man, whom Dottie introduced as Henry Barclay, offered me a ‘noggin’ but I thought better not and hurried back to the Saloon, which was still unattended since Eleanor had just been heard to give a tiny cough.
Dottie and her companion stayed until closing-time, consuming quantities of alcohol and seeming none the worse for it, talking away with their heads close together over the solitary table. Nobody came into the Private to disturb them. Even I didn’t; I was worked nearly off my feet as the rush-hour built up. It was my first Saturday and it practically killed me. Dora said she didn’t know how they’d ever managed without me. I didn’t either, unless it was because Dora had had to work harder previously than she did when I was there. She seemed to spend her time rubbing noses and exchanging cackles with her favourite customers while Alf kept the swing-door between the Public and the Saloon constantly whupping to and fro, doing most of the work, occasionally giving Dora’s ample behind an indulgent pat when it impeded him in his progress.
At last time was called, we mopped the bar, and Dottie, bless her, ducked under it, put on an apron and helped wash the myriad glasses while Henry Barclay had another gin-and-lime and looked on, watching her with a bemused expression. I still had no idea what their relationship was, but it was clear he was rather taken with her. He was a somewhat unimpressive figure, no taller than herself, stocky, with a square, ruddy face and a flat top to his head covered closely by hair of the same colour and pattern as a beach when the tide is far out—little shallow, regular sandy waves. He didn’t smile much and from this, and his rather po-faced reaction to my job and Dottie’s timely help, I adjudged him to have little or no sense of humour and to be possibly somewhat of a stodge. However, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
When we’d cleared everything up, I collected David, put him in Dottie’s arms in the front seat of my car and drove off, leaving Henry Barclay to follow in his rather new Triumph. I had to have a private word with Dottie to find out how the land lay and why she’d brought him.
‘My dear, he’s a find!’ she began at once. ‘Don’t be deceived by his looking like Dick Tracy’ (I hadn’t thought he did, which just shows how different people look to each other); ‘he could be the answer to our prayers. Actually, what he is, is a sort of private money-lender. You know, he’s got a bit to invest and he doesn’t want shares, he wants to put it into something he can take an active interest in. No, no, now don’t put that face on! He’s just what we need.’
‘I thought you said you had enough capital.’
‘Well, I haven’t. I had no idea then what things cost. Anyway, why should we put our own money into it if somebody else is willing?’
‘Because it’s better to lose our own than somebody else’s.’
‘Is it really? You must be mad. If money’s going to be lost, let it be someone else’s every time, say I! But there’s no reason to suppose we’ll lose it. We’ve got the know-how—’
‘Have we?’
‘I have,’ she said with superb confidence which quite swept me along with her. ‘I’ve spent the last three years selling things, arranging things, buying things to sell. I know how it’s done, Jane, and I’m telling you, there’s gold in them thar hills, providing you’ve got two things—the money to get started, and flair.’
‘Flair …’ I didn’t care for the word, somehow. It had a reckless sound.
‘Henry has £5,000—’ (I gasped)—‘which he’s willing, subject to finding everything satisfactory, to put into a modern fancy-goods shop run by us—’
‘God, what’s a modern fancy-goods shop? It sounds ghastly.’
‘Nonsense, it’s what I told you. Glass, wood, ceramics, hand-woven fabrics—toys, perhaps. Since David was born I’ve been looking at a lot of toys. I’ve had a million ideas. Maybe we could find some old craftsmen in the countryside near here who hand-carve things or weave and make pots and so on, whom we could employ in a sort of cottage-industry way to supply us. Of course we’d have to show them exactly what we wanted—no fusty old tat, everything’s got to be bang up to date.’
So she rattled on. Her enthusiasm was dangerously infectious. By the time we had bounced over the last splashy rut, I could almost see it all myself—the little shop cleaned out and stripped for action, its basic beauties revealed or highlighted to provide the best possible background for our wares, which Dottie would arrange in the finest Heal’s tradition of display. The wares themselves would combine Dottie’s intrinsic love for the finest in contemporary urban elegance and taste, with her new-found desire to patronise and nurture the simple talents and produce of the countryside—hand-carved dolls, hand-thrown white-glazed pottery, hand-woven wall-hangings and rugs, hand-hammered iron and copper-ware. Not to mention hand-painted pictures. ‘Because as I see it, it will be part art-gallery as well as shop. I mean, if Catesby’s can use oil-paintings as background dressing, and sell them too, why can’t we? We can seek out local artists—maybe uncover an unknown primitive like that marvellous man who does the suits of armour in little dots or those gorgeous steam-engines.’
‘They aren’t primitives.’
She brushed this aside. ‘Jane, this is going to be wonderful. I know it. Henry falling into my net like that is a sign from heaven
that it’s going to be a success.’
‘How did you capture Henry?’
‘Ad. in the Times Personal.’
‘Yours or his?’
‘Oh, his. I wouldn’t have thought of it.’
‘So you fell into his net, really.’
‘Don’t put it like that! Henry’s not a bit like a spider.’
‘And you’re not a bit like a fly. Still, he doesn’t look to me like a manifestation of the Heavenly Will, either.’
‘You know what I mean,’ she said impatiently as we climbed out of the car. ‘Why aren’t you being more excited?’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘The whole thing’s moving too fast for me. I hope you haven’t forgotten that in less than a year I’m going to New York?’
‘Oh, that … Well, you never know, you may not want to go by then.’
‘Oh yes I will. And then you’ll be annoyed at my going off.’
‘It may well be running on its own momentum by then.’
Henry drove up behind the Maggot and climbed out backwards, bringing out a small, neat overnight bag.
‘You can put him up for the night?’ Dottie whispered.
‘Yes, if he doesn’t object to the sofa. Here, we must get David to bed, it’s cold for him out here.’
We were soon sitting round the fire eating underdone steaks from plates on our knees. Dottie was chatting away, I was answering in indistinct monosyllables due to extreme hunger, and Henry was keeping very quiet. I hadn’t got Henry’s number at all yet. He had vaguely asked if there was anything he could do, but in the end had taken no for an answer and had let me light the fire and get the supper while he sat staring rather moodily into the flames with a glass in his hand. He had brought his own bottle, though, for which I gave him points, even though Dottie had probably told him to.
The Backward Shadow Page 7
