All the Way Home and All the Night Through (31 page)

“Please, Janet. We can't end like this. Not over the telephone. We can't finish. You know it. Why did you phone if it's finished?”

“I phoned because I had to. I love you, Vic. But I'm not going to see you anymore. Ever. I've made up my mind. Vic, how do you think I feel. Everything's been destroyed. You destroyed it and you were everything. I'm almost going mad because I loved you so.”

“Then for Christ's sake see me. You must.”

“If I saw you it would make it worse for me. It's over and it's going to stay that way. I've got to go now. I've got to get back to college.”

“Don't go. Listen. I'll phone you tonight at home.”

“Don't do that. That's another thing: My mother knew you stayed the night on Saturday. She thought we slept together until I broke down and told her everything. She's furious. I had to beg her not to telephone you and tell you what she felt about everything.”

“Oh, hell. Hell fire.”

“I'm going now.”

“No wait. Phone me again, please. Tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

She laughed.

“Please.”

She paused before answering.

“I can't tomorrow.”

“Why? You're not seeing anyone else are you? Janet, I—”

“How dare you ask me that? It's nothing to do with you anymore. Nothing.”

“You must phone me. You must. You must.”

“Oh, Vic. Why couldn't you—why did you have to spoil everything.”

“I didn't. I didn't.”

“I'll—I'll phone you on Wednesday.”

“Janet—”

The phone went click.

After a time I put the receiver back on the cradle and walked back into the dining room. I could hardly see through the wetness in my eyes. I sat down on the settee and picked up the newspaper. My father was eating his lunch at the table. My mother was sitting by the fire.

“Do you want to tell us, son,” said my father, setting down his knife and fork.

“There's nothing to tell, Dad. Just a difference of opinion. It'll straighten itself out by tomorrow.”

“That's good,” said my mother. “So long as it's nothing serious.”

“No, it's nothing serious, Mother. You know how it is. Sometimes you're up, sometimes you're down.”

“Anyway,” said my father, getting up from the table, “you must always feel you can talk to us about things, whatever they are.”

“I know.” I turned to my mother. “Is there any tea going? I could just fancy a drop.”

The phone rang on Wednesday at half-past one.

“I'll get it,” I said. “It'll be for me.”

I picked up the phone.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello, Vic.”

There was a silence.

“I don't know what to say to you,” I said.

“There's nothing you can say.”

“How do you feel about things now?”

“I don't know. I can't stop thinking about it. I've never been so unhappy.”

“Neither have I.”

“You see, it hasn't changed my loving you, but it couldn't be the same again.”

“Why not? It could be, the way we feel.”

“The way we felt. We trusted each other. That's the difference.”

“I still feel the same way about you.”

“You can't. You can never have felt the way I thought you did or else you wouldn't have been able to go with the others.”

“Try and understand.”

“I asked you to do that over something that was nothing and you couldn't. How am I expected to get over this?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know. I can't think yet.”

“Can't we try again?”

“No. It's too late. It would be useless.”

“You love me.”

“I know. But that isn't enough now.”

“This can't be happening.”

“That's what I thought on Monday morning.”

“Don't go with anyone else. Please.”

“Why shouldn't I? It's going to be hard enough to get over this terrible time. I have to use everything I can to be able to bear it.”

“But you can't go with anyone else. Not after the way we've been. How could you?”

“You could.”

“But try and understand.”

“I'm going now.”

“Who did you see yesterday? When you couldn't phone.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does. You must tell me.”

“It's no good. I've got to go now.”

“But college doesn't start till two.”

“Good-bye.”

Half-past eleven on Saturday morning. I walked off the ferry. Ron, from home, was with me.

“Which one first?” he said.

“The King Billy is as good as any. It's got music. A juke box.”

The cool wind shredded fast flying clouds and from time to time the sun rapidly drove back the grey shadows before us. We reached the pub and went in, ordered our drinks and sat down.

“That's better,” I said, after I'd taken a drink.

“What's the plan, then?” asked Ron.

“Move round the pubs until closing time, pictures, then in again at six. How's that strike you?”

“Suits me. Makes a change from sticking at home at the weekend.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“It must be worse for you, after having lived it up over here for the past four years.”

“It's not too hot. But it won't be for long.”

“You had a good time, didn't you? I mean, you could tell the way you looked when you came home at weekends sometimes. We envied you --- Mark and me and the lads. We wished we'd been able to do it. We were the original no-talent kids.”

“No, you weren't.”

“No, I guess not. We just didn't bother.”

“Anyway, it's not bringing a lot of joy at the moment.”

“No, but at least you've got prospects. And that bird, Janet. You're bloody lucky there, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“How come you aren't seeing her this weekend?”

“She had to go away for a few days. Relatives. Gives me a chance to get a few in. It's not all roses.”

“Neither with me and Jean. I've been going with her for about eight months now and she's still a bloody virgin. Won't let me touch her. I mean, she likes pictures and music and everything, and I like going with her a hell of a lot but it's bloody narking. Still she's the only girl I've met with the same interests. It's bloody rare is that.”

“You're lucky. You want to stick hold of it.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Ron went and got some more drinks. I tried not to think of Janet, but, of course, it was impossible. All the impotent misery of my twenty years was collected together in a great black knot in my stomach. The telephone calls of the past week pursued me every minute of my waking.

Ron returned with the drinks. We sat in silence for a while. My mind, although still not properly comprehending the events of the last days, yearned in pain for a path out of the churning sickness which the speculation of Janet's actions brought. And I still believed that it was only a temporary state, however crashing, which could be ended by my seeing her and talking to her.

“You know, Ron,” I said, “whatever happens to me, to you, to any of the other lads, there'll still be the lads. I mean, they'll always be close. Nothing can change that.”

“Yeah. It's funny. Phil's a doctor, studying to be one anyway, down in London, and Noel's with him doing chemistry, and there's you an artist, and Ash an engineer. And the rest of us in no account jobs stuck for the rest of our lives but whenever we meet, it's never forced. It's always good.”

“Yeah. Hey up, why don't we really hang one on today. I mean, I feel like it. I don't know about you. I need it.”

“Sho' nuff. But what about between closing time and six o'clock?”

“I tell you what we'll do. We'll have another here, then we'll have one in the Steam Packet where I used to play in the band, and then we'll get a trolley-bus down to Harry's and we can drink there across closing time. How's that?”

“Terrific.”

I got up and bought the next round. The juke box was playing “Here Comes Summer,” a tune connected with Janet and me. I leant at the bar waiting for my order, drinking in the secondhand presence of Janet that the record conjured up. She wouldn't go with anyone else. Couldn't. I smiled. We'd be all right, I thought.

We drank our beer and walked along the dockside to the Steam Packet. We entered the long dark bar. Ivan, the drummer, was sitting on one of the high stools talking to the landlord.

“Victor!” he said. “What the hell are you doing? Where've you been? I thought you were in London or somewhere. For hell's sake, have a drink.”

“No, I'm still at home. This is a mate of mine. Ron. Ron, Ivan. He drowns the rest of the band on drums.”

“Cheeky. Anyway, we now have no piano. Why don't you come across if you're still at home?”

“I dunno, really. It's a bit difficult. Anyway, what's doing?”

The landlord passed us our drinks.

“Harry's been offered a job with Geoff Whitehouse's Mainstream Group. I think he'll take it.”

“But that would mean the band would have to pack up.”

“We know. But there you are.”

Ron went out to the toilet.

“Anyway,” said Ivan, “what's all this about you and Janet? It's all kaput, so they say.”

“They say that, do they. Well you know how it is—” I leered, “a change is as good as a rest. I mean, now I've left college I can't be expected to sit at home every night, can I?”

“I suppose not. It always seemed untypical of you, anyway. There'll be one or two people glad to know it, anyway. My mate Chris Fox for a start.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. He's been keen on Janet for months. He never bothered asking her because he knew it'd have been pretty silly.”

“And now?”

“Well, the coast's clear, isn't it?”

My stomach was suddenly filled with iced water. She wouldn't. Not with that nonentity Chris Fox, that clown who tried to ape the sports car boys in dress and voice while only possessing a Morris Tourer.

Ron came back. I didn't want to stay and have Ivan catalogue the list of Janet's would-be suitors.

“Anyway, Ivan, we're off now. We've got to meet somebody.”

“What, you're off already?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, look silly bugger, keep in touch will you? I'm in here most Saturday dinners.”

“I know. I used to come with you, didn't I?”

“Well then, start again.”

“Maybe. Ta-ra, Ivan.”

“Why didn't you want to stay?” Ron asked when we got outside.

“Oh, I don't know. If we'd have stayed, Ivan would have wanted to come to Harry's and Mrs Burton might not have fancied too many after hours.”

We walked through the main thoroughfare to the trolley bus terminus. I had suddenly become afraid of meeting anyone I knew who might know about Janet and myself. I didn't want to hear them telling me anything about Janet or looking at me and knowing how bad I felt. I took Ron on a devious route and happily no one that knew me was to be seen.

“Now then, you flamers,” said Mrs Burton. It was a quarter-past one and the bar was packed. Coalmen, labourers, downers, credit traders in their mohair suits, they all drank with the quick heartiness that goes with a Saturday lunchtime session. Darts flew through the air and Woodbines graced the uncarpeted floor.

“Now then Mrs. This is a mate of mine from home, Ron,” I shouted across the din.

“Hello, Ron.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“What're you having then, lads?” said Mrs Burton.

“Oh, ta. I'll have a black and filthy and Ron'll have a large dark.”

“Right you are,” she said.

“Where's Harry?” I asked while she made the black and tan.

“Didn't you know? He's gone to Nottingham to see Jazz at the Philharmonic and Ella. He went in Paul Markham's car. He's home on leave.”

“Oh.”

“They went this dinner. There was Harry, and Jenny, Paul and another lad and two more lassies.”

“Pity. I'd like to have seen Harry. And Paul.”

We took our drinks over to a table. I found I was out of cigarettes, so I went back to the bar.

“Ten Parks please, Mrs B.”

She got the cigarettes.

“Will you be staying over until tomorrow?” she asked.

“No, I don't think so, why?”

“Well, they'll be back tomorrow dinner if you wanted to see him.”

“I've got to get back, really. So Harry went with Jenny did he? How's he getting on with her?”

“Oh, fine. She's a nice lass. She came round here before they went with that girl you hammered at that party, Janet what's-her-name.”

“Janet?”

“Yes, Victor. I heard all about it. You deserve what you get. She's a lovely girl. Not like the rest.”

“She went to Nottingham? What, with Harry and everybody?”

“Aye. It'll do her good after the time you gave her last week. You really are a silly sod. Harry told me how you used to mess about behind her back.”

“And they're staying till the morning.”

“I don't know why you're looking so shocked, Victor, with your history.”

“But I can't understand it. How is it her mother let her go?”

“I don't know, Victor. You know what lassies are. Probably told her Mam she was staying with Jenny. Then again, she's growing up. What is she now? Eighteen? Perhaps her mam reckons she's due for a bit of freedom. Maybe she thinks there isn't much chance of Janet getting pregnant now you're not round her anymore. Whatever it is, she's well on her way to Nottingham by now.”

“Bloody hell.”