England's Lane (52 page)

And that's when everyone started to dance—even Jim was horsing around with the odious Charlie, but here was merely the outlet for the earlier stages of inebriation—I knew that, of course, but still I was pleased to see it. And Kelso …! Oh my word! He ought to be on
Sunday Night At The London Palladium
, that one, he really ought—quite the professional. It's in his bones, of course—it's in the blood: from all the war dances or something, I suppose. Or is that Red Indians …? Oh honestly—I just don't know what I'm talking about, do I? The other one though, Obi his name is, he wasn't there—didn't come, I can't imagine why. Maybe just as well though, because most people seem to be quite terrified of him—and I do have to admit, his general demeanor is more than somewhat menacing. Mr. Lawrence—I heard him earlier declaiming that more or less their very existence was a downright disgrace, let alone the presence of the two of them in England's Lane: “If we have a color bar in this country,” he was saying really quite loudly, “then
will someone please explain to me why is it not
applied
 …?” Edie was sitting with Mrs. Dent, which was kind of her, and they both seemed to be enjoying the Libby's tinned peaches with Carnation—but then, who wouldn't? And Paul now—he'd set down his dish of fruit cocktail (always he insists upon leaving all the little half cherries till last, dearest soul) and now he was starting to dance with Amanda …! My heart did swell, I confess it. I think they were attempting the jive sort of thing, I do believe it's called, that Elvis Presley has popularized in America: they did look perfectly sweet, the two of them. Poor little Anthony, though … just looking on at them both, and with a fairly set expression, little fellow. Then I caught sight of Gwendoline chatting away to Miss and Mrs. Jenkins in the furthest corner, and the shaft of milky light through the window, you know—it had caught her just so … and her hair, it was the loveliest and most delicate shade of auburn, quite like I used to wear mine. I determined on the spot to ask her to recreate it, and make my perm rather shorter and looser while she was about it. It was time, I felt, to display the truth that now I am changed: I only wished I had thought of it before the party, so that I could be flaunting my brand-new look to anyone who cared to glance in my direction. Anyway—I have had it done now, and I couldn't be more delighted with the result. I do think it makes me appear rather younger—but then, with all the energy at my disposal these days I honestly feel like a five-year-old anyway … though I suppose as my condition becomes gradually rather more apparent, I shall be recalling this time with both a languid nostalgia, and longing envy. Jim—he wasn't in the slightest bit put out when I told him quite plainly that I should simply expire from boredom if he gave so much as one more Yardley bath cube, and that instead I should like him to pay for a new coiffure.

The next thing that happened is that Mr. Levy's dog, well—thoroughly
inexplicably, he just went quite mad, so far as I could see. Everyone was laughing, of course, as he was careering around and yelping—though I did spot the face of one of the old lady librarians rather cloud at the point when the jug of orange juice was spilled all over the parquet flooring. And then Mr. Bona appeared with the most extraordinary-looking camera with a great big silver sort of bowl on the top of it, and everyone was shrieking and wincing as suddenly the flash bulbs were immediately dazzling them. I simply can't wait to see all the photographs—and he was so awfully good, Mr. Bona: he made quite sure that everyone was included in at least one of the photos; I shall look awful, of course—I seldom take a good picture: always look an absolute fright. He must have used two whole rolls of film, I should think—and I well remember from the last time we took the Brownie to Bournemouth how horribly expensive they are. I saw him again just yesterday, Mr. Bona, but he said that Boots had told him that they wouldn't have developed the pictures for at least another three-and-a-half weeks, because this and the summer are their busiest times. Bit of a disappointment—but quite something else to look forward to.

You could tell when the drink was beginning to have its effect on most of the men—raised and slurring voices, all the usual sort of thing—and I couldn't swear to it, but I rather fancy that some of the boys from the council schools might also have been tippling things that really they oughtn't. Yes and then suddenly these very rowdy boys, they were bursting balloons with cigarette ends. I know—cigarettes! And some of them can't have been much older than fourteen or so, I shouldn't have said. Well it's the parents, isn't it really? Serves them right. If you skimp on a child's education, that's the sort of thing you're going to have to expect. And here, I think, was the juncture when I came to sense the murmuring of a change of direction … the discordant arrest of the music, this quickly
supplanted by the muttering masses. I turned with reluctance from the perfectly fascinating spectacle of the gorging Sally … and there I saw him: Stan—looking perfectly and tragically absurd in just a striped pajama jacket and clearly somebody else's trousers. He looked about him briefly, and then was walking toward me with purpose, his eyes so very dark and zealous. Many now were glancing over to poor little Anthony, and I saw him quickly turn away.

“Hello, Milly. I'm sorry if I'm late …”

“Stan …! Stan—what are you …? Here, Stan—let's just go and sit in the corner, shall we? Just over there. Nice and comfy. Now can I get you something …? Something to eat? A drink, maybe? Do they, um—know you've come? How did you get here, Stan …?”

“Well yes, Milly—fair point, very fair point. Devil of a journey, you want the truth of the matter. Bus only got me so far. Then I had to walk. Why I'm rather late, you see. I do hope I haven't held you up though, or anything, Milly. I didn't want you to be holding anything up on account of me. Though of course I wouldn't have missed it for worlds …”

“No no—of course not, Stan. Well you're just in time, I assure you. So … you've come on your own then, have you? There's nobody with you? Well … does anyone know you're here?”

“No no. They said I mustn't leave. Quite firm about it. But there's all sorts of things, Milly, they say I mustn't do. It's less than friendly. I don't even know why I'm there. Why am I there, Milly? Do you know? I don't at all care for it. And the pills they make me take …! I've never been a one for pills, as well you know. Look at my Janey. Look what the pills did for my Janey. Killed her. Didn't they?”

“And so, what … you've just been walking then, Stan …? Dressed just like this? Oh but you must be absolutely freezing …! I'll get you some tea, Stan.”

“Is a bit parky out there, I'm not denying. Lovely here, though. Warm as toast. Milly—never mind about tea for a minute. Something I want to say to you, see? Why I came, really. Here … what's everyone looking at …? Staring. Why's everyone staring at us, Milly? Rude, I'd say …”

“Yes—quite right, Stan. Doreen …! Doreen—can you hear me …? Yes …? Put on a record or something, will you? Nothing too jazzy. Thank you, Doreen. Come along, everybody …! Lots of food and drink left …! We'll cut the cake in a minute, and then we can all sing carols, yes? Yes? All right, then. That's fine. Now then, Stan … it's just us again. All right? But do let me get you a cup of tea—and possibly a sandwich, yes? Would you like that? A sandwich?”

“No appetite, if I'm honest with you Milly. But listen—first off, I've got to say I'm sorry.”

“Sorry, Stan …? You've nothing to be sorry about …”

“Oh yes I have. Because I haven't brought you a Christmas present.”

“Oh … Stan …!”

“But I'm going to make up for it, you see, because I'm going to tell you where I keep the spare key to the shop, and then you can just go and help yourself to some of the special chocolates in the glass counter. Violet creams, maybe. Mint fondants, you might care for. The hazelnut whirls come highly recommended. Whole pound, if you like—I don't care. I would have gone there first and fetched them for you—make them look all nice, you know? But I didn't like to think I was holding up the party. It's good of you to have waited for me. Where's Anthony …? Is Anthony here …?”

“He's … yes—yes, he's here somewhere, Stan. Can't quite spot him at the moment, though. He's maybe gone to spend a penny.”

“Even that's a bit of a to-do for him, poor little lad. He well is he, Milly …? Bearing up? Ever so good of you to, um—you know …”

“He's as good as gold, Stan. Really is. A pleasure to have around. And yes—he seems very, um … fit. Happy. Healthy. If you know what I mean … Um … Stan … don't you think I ought to telephone the, er—place? I think I ought to let them know where you are, don't you? They're bound to be concerned. Then maybe they can send a … maybe there's some way whereby you don't have to go all the way back on your own, yes? And in the cold.”

“In a minute, Milly. In a minute. Let me tell you what I have to, yes? Well first off—you remember that negligee, do you?”

“The … the negligee … oh yes. John Barnes.”

“That's the man. Well when I said I'd bought it for my Janey … well I hadn't. Not really. It was for you. Always meant to be for you, Milly. Never could forget how you looked in it, see?”

“Yes … I do see, Stan. Well … that was extremely thoughtful of you. Very kind. Thank you.”

“Yes. Except Aggie's got it now. Sorry about that. Aggie—she's a floozy in Adelaide Road. Very pleasant woman, as I recall. Not in your league, Milly. Goes without saying. You're a lady. Proper lady. Different class. But Aggie—she's a nice enough sort, I will say that for her. Lives with Daisy—your Jim's little friend. Well I say little … truth is—she's a big girl, Daisy. So anyway—she was ever so grateful for the negligee, Aggie was, but she didn't want to marry me. Take Janey's place. No she didn't. Which is perfectly understandable. Well—you didn't either, did you Milly? No blame in that. Perfectly understandable, course it is. Understand that of any woman. And the other thing I want you to know, Milly, is that I wouldn't let my Janey write all those bad things about you.”

“What …? You wouldn't let … what bad things, Stan …?”

“Oh—bad things. But I wouldn't have it. Wouldn't stand for it. Put my foot down. You would have been proud of me, Milly—I really was a man about it. Showed a bit of gumption. Well in her
suicide note, you know …? She wanted to accuse you of things. Wanted to write all that she says you were up to with Mr. Barton, of all people—which of course I know was all lies, Milly. I do hope you understand that I know that. And then how you tried to take me away from her … and that was a lie too, more's the pity. Then kind of saying that you'd driven her to it, sort of style …”

“But Stan … I don't understand. How on earth could you …?”

“Well she read it out to me, you see. That evening—when I'd just got back from Aggie's, in point of fact. I was quite tight, I don't mind telling you. Went in to see her. All was quiet. Quiet as the grave it was, in there. Peaceful as you like. And then a light came on. Bit of a shock. She was sitting up in bed, you see. And the pills all around her. Already she'd swallowed quite a few, I'd say. And she was just putting the finishing touches, I suppose. To her note, you know. And it was lucky, wasn't it really? That I happened to be there. Because when she read it out to me, I said: oh no, Janey—I'm not having that. You've got to rewrite it. I'm not having all that about Milly in there. So she did. Meek as a lamb, which was a fair surprise. She rewrote it. Stood over her while she did it. Like I say, I was quite a man about it. Fair deal of gumption, don't you think?”

“So Stan … you …
knew
 …! You
knew
she was going to kill herself …!”

“Did, yes. Well, to be fair—by the time I popped in to see her, she was well on the way, I'd say. I helped her along with the rest. Gave her little sips of water—because some of them, you know, they're ever so large. Don't know how these doctors are expecting you to cope. Held her hand. Seemed only polite. She was smiling at the end. Very serene, she seemed. Oh yes. She wasn't saying anything. But I was well used to that, wasn't I? Christ Alive—I should say so!”

Well of course I was perfectly stupefied. I put into Stan's hands a little bowl of gooseberry jelly—absurd I know, but it was the nearest thing to hand—made some sort of reassuring noises to the man, and then I quickly went over to Edie to ask her to sit with him while I went out to telephone the institution. I would simply say to them that Stan, as I trusted they were aware, had wandered, that he was safe, and could they please send an ambulance for him as quickly as possible. And I would upbraid them for their appalling carelessness in ever permitting such a thing, unwittingly or no: anything might have happened. And that is all I would say: that I had decided immediately. For whenever Stan would emerge from whatever it was into which he had so suddenly and very deeply receded … well then we simply couldn't have, could we, his then being taken off somewhere else, and so very much worse? For the sake of Anthony, if for no other reason. That little boy's future is so difficult and quite uncertain enough, I feel, without his father—already now with a history of mental illness—then being publicly branded as at the very least an accessory to a murder.

So I did all that—and the relief in the voice of the ward orderly, or whomever I was addressing, was as palpable and heartfelt as it was thoroughly undeserved; a private ambulance, he assured me, would immediately be dispatched. I then went in search of Anthony, who I felt quite sure was deliberately hiding. I understood the poor little fellow's embarrassment, of course I did—but this was his father, after all. And whatever may be set against Stan, no one could deny his strong and abiding love for the boy. And on my way across the room I threw a passing thank you to Doreen for having attended to all of the music side of things—for I did feel that undeniably it had added a very necessary dimension to the whole of the proceedings. She said she was enjoying herself, and so was everyone else … and Mrs. Stammer, that Mr. Miller over there—he all right, is
he? Well no not really, Doreen: but he will be soon, I do feel sure of that. And then, well … she said something else … something that I am afraid has lingered within me. What she said was that she was pleased though that that Barton hadn't stayed. And I queried that, genuinely surprised: Mr. Barton …? Why, Doreen? Why ever do you say that? Because he's a right bastard like all men are, that's why—just takes what he wants, and then he buggers off: but then you know that, don't you? You know all about it, Mrs. Stammer.