For Love or Money (11 page)

‘I’ve always loved your mother most. I’ve just been weak.’

‘Did you ever try and stop seeing that woman?’

‘Yes, but I loved her too, in a different way. When you’re older perhaps you’ll understand that there are different kinds of love, some more beautiful than others.’

‘So you knew you were harming a more beautiful love?’

‘I couldn’t help it. But now I promise you it’s over.’

‘You’ll never see her again?’

‘Never.’

‘But how will you ever be able to talk to Mummy without feeling guilty?’

‘I have got to learn to try again. If she ever knew, it would kill her.’

‘Can you do it, though, after what’s happened? Don’t you want to go away with that other woman?’

‘I can’t cut off fifteen of the most valuable years of my life because I’ve been stupid once.’

‘So I’ve got to forget tonight?’

George nodded.

‘How can I? How can I?’ David started to cry again. ‘And
you may only be saying all this for her. You want to leave us, you want to, I know you do.’

‘I swear I don’t.’

‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t …’ his sobbing increased, ‘I may have to tell her.’

‘She’ll never get over it. My suffering, if I go back, would be nothing to hers if I don’t.’

George heard the telephone dimly, he walked over to answer it. Soon the sound of Mrs. Crofts’ voice jarred his ear.

David half-listened; nothing mattered any more. But George made no mistakes. Snatches of broken conversation came to David.

‘… well as can be expected … time will tell … back in a couple of days … no trouble having him … David’s visit has meant a lot … being a bachelor is a lonely business … tell him you called … phone his mother myself … Good-bye.’

George turned back to David.

‘I don’t suppose it matters why you didn’t tell me you were coming. I think I can guess. And Steven gave you the address, it would have to be Steven, wouldn’t it?’

‘I don’t see how you can blame him. How could he have known about this?’

‘I’m sorry David, I’m very sorry.’ George paced over to a chair and sat down. No more to be said. He glanced over the carpet towards the edge of the bed and David’s feet.

‘You’ve torn your trousers.’

‘In the park coming.’

‘Shuts at six.’

‘I climbed.’

‘Ah.’

They heard the noise of some people in the street
slamming
car doors, and laughing. A long silence followed. Finally George got up and said quietly, as though pained at the sound of his voice.

‘I’ll get a bed ready for you.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Only eleven.’

All that in half an hour. A life ruined in half an hour.
Just thirty minutes of hysterical indignity. George got up and moved slowly towards the door. His feet felt strangely detached.

When he got back David looked embarrassed.

‘You see, after what’s happened, I don’t feel I can stay the night here. I’d rather catch the last train for Exeter.’

The ultimate rejection … Oh Absalom, my son, my son. George said: ‘But where would you stay?’

‘There’s a fairly cheap hotel near the station.’

Birds have their nests … The whole situation was getting too ridiculous to be taken seriously. With an effort George returned the answer expected by reality:

‘You can’t possibly do that.’

‘If you won’t take me I shall have to catch a taxi.’

Reality was clearly not to be taken seriously. George went to collect his overcoat.

 *

As they drove towards Paddington a thin sleet started to fur the windscreen.

‘It usually does something when I go back to school.’

‘This is the first time we’ve ever had sleet.’

David didn’t answer. George went on:

‘My wiper isn’t working as well as yours.’

He looked anxiously at David; he thought he saw a weak smile.

‘You mustn’t tell her, really she’d never get over it.’

George hoped that David’s silence was consent. A slight thread of hope seemed held out before him. Perhaps if he walked carefully, very carefully, he might survive.

They arrived at the station with five minutes to go.

‘Do you want anything to read?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Anyway, I expect the bookstalls are shut.’

‘Do you mind if I get in now?’

‘Yes, but I suppose you must.’

As George watched the train spinning out its twin spidery threads of gleaming metal, he wondered whether he ought to
have felt like crying. Perhaps just one tear would redeem him, blot out what had happened. ‘Blood from a stone, blood from a stone,’ he muttered as he walked towards the barrier. Must be shock. He felt momentarily reassured of his humanity.

‘Can I see your ticket, please?’

‘I’ve been seeing somebody off.’

‘That’s what they all say.’

‘How much?’

‘Fourpence.’

‘They’ve gone up.’

The ticket collector nodded and once more ducked back behind the barrier of his evening paper. George wandered towards the main exit. Not even the ticket collector wanted to talk to him. No cause for anger though; only shouldn’t wounds like his leave some mark, some visible proof of suffering that elicited instant sympathy? A severe shock could change the colour of a man’s hair overnight.
Involuntarily
, he raised a hand to his head. A truck carrying
heaped-up
mail bags passed a few feet in front of him; he hardly noticed it. Although there was barely a handful of people left in the station, piped music still echoed spongily over the microphones across the dank emptiness. George halted for a moment. How could he go back to the flat now to see the cushions just where David had replaced them? How could he bear to inhale the still-lingering fragrance of Sally’s scent? Only with company could he lighten the burden. How many hours, how many minutes till he would be able to find a temporary solution in sleep? He looked hopefully around him for a protective confessor and comforter. To his right a tramp was being turned off a near-by bench. A man with a watering-can was sprinkling the ground in front of the Ladies’ Room. Nobody else was visible in that normally crowded vastness.

No good staying here. Mechanically George’s feet moved under him. The pubs would be shut by now. Nothing for it but a night club. Hadn’t been to one for years; Sally didn’t like them … Sally—he thought of the morning and the
inevitable
breaking of his promises. There really was worse to
come. When he had reached the entrance and walked out into the covering night, he felt safer. Tomorrow might come, but now, now at least in the few hours of tranquillity that remained to him, couldn’t he live a little still? By himself probably not, but with assistance it should be possible. He had a right didn’t he, as much as any man did, to forget the inevitably sobering dawn? What’s done is done, no good crying over … crying, out of the question, too numbed, too cold for that sort of thing. But why not? Because
he
was the real victim? A wave of acute self-pity made George shiver. David would get over it; but he might very well never
recover
, certainly materially it would be the end of the road if the news reached home. His teeth were chattering, grimly he fixed his jaw. The snow felt cold and wet on his forehead. On the streets in weather like this without even the
consolation
of being able to play the violin. Visit Father
Christmas
in his fairy cave under the railway bridge. There wouldn’t even be the money for the uniform. The cold seemed to seep with a slow and agonising numbness through his shoes. But inside in the warmth, in the dark, with a large deep glass of brandy … while David was alone in that train … when tomorrow Sally would come and after that when he had been rejected … Was it the melting snow or were they, could they be tears? If so, tears of what? George didn’t think, as he blundered on towards the car. Inside the club the warmth would be so warm, the darkness so protecting, the brandy so forgetful.

After almost eight years’ absence, George had not
forgotten
the way to
The
Naked
Angel.
As soon as the
windscreen
wipers had pushed aside the snow, he let out the clutch and accelerated.

 *

In his empty third-class compartment, David gained small consolation from the feeble reading lights muffled by their dusty faded shades. Outside the countryside fled by in its cold and dark indifference. At last he got up and pulled down the blind. Still standing, he reached into his coat
pockets and produced a crumpled ten-shilling note and a few coppers. Not enough for a hotel and there was no chance of going back to the school in the middle of the night. He flopped down into his seat and tried to sleep. But closed eyes were no defence against the pictures of the mind. Sally was still with him, her eyes, her smell, but worst of all her
laughter
. And all the time he was returning to the unfeeling world of ’flu and football boots, half-eaten sardine tins and echoing corridors. Then there would be the unenthusiastic
bickerings
of Hotson and Chadwick. Whom could he tell? The morning’s sunshine seemed as far away as the previous term. His walk through the park might have happened to
somebody
else. How could anything ever be the same again for any of them? And yet it would have to be. Perhaps George was right, to say nothing might be the only way. But was it possible not to break down and tell her everything. If only there were somebody else to ease the load, but there was nobody … nobody … nobody … The rattling of the train seemed to re-echo the word over and over again.

If only she had been a little like Mummy, only a very small bit. But she had been so terrible, vulgar and common. Her voice, everything about her had been awful. He could still almost hear the harshness of her laughter. How would he be able to go on living at home seeing his mother
deceived
? If George couldn’t see how much better she was, then he didn’t deserve going on being near her. Perhaps he really didn’t want to. But what would she do without him, what could she do? His thoughts turned to the night in front of him in the cold of an unknown waiting-room. What did I do so wrong to deserve all this. What did I do? His breath began to come in starts. With his head cradled in his hands he gave in to the rhythm of the train as the tears came. Bent almost double, he felt his chest swelling until the bursting pain wrung each individual sob from the centre of his body.

She hadn’t been a perfect mother, but so much better than he had ever felt till now. Remembered presents, smiles and kisses broke the words from him unsummoned: ‘Mummy, oh Mummy.’ How would he be able to speak to her again without pain if he didn’t say what he knew? The remorse
less jolting and clattering of the train dulled his thoughts. There seemed no possible answer.

 *

Some minutes later the guard saw him from the corridor, small and crumpled in his corner seat. He slid back the door.

‘Nothing wrong is there, son?’

‘Nothing,’ said David looking away trying to hide his tears. ‘I’m going back to school.’

‘Somebody meeting you at this hour of the night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, we’ve all had to go to school, like it or not. You’ll feel better when you’re back with your mates. If you want to sleep ‘I’ll wake you. Where are you getting off?’

‘Exeter, thank you, thank you very much.’

Gently the guard shut the door again. David’s tears started once more. Why did he have to be so kind?

The train was coming into Reading, hardly a third of the way. Opposite David was a map. The track ahead of him stretched on for miles under its deepening cover of snow.

 *

It was just after three o’clock in the morning; George was sitting in the flat opposite a ratlike-looking man. Between them on the carpet was an empty bottle: on top of the neck a pile of matches rested precariously. The rat was speaking nasally.

‘Your turn, old man.’

George jerked out of his chair. He picked another match out of the open box; holding it gingerly by one end, he lowered it slowly towards the matches on top of the bottle. Just as he was about to let it go, he faltered, flicked his hand away again. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. The bottle was quivering too much. He held his hand out in front of him. Funny, that seemed firm enough. He sensed his opponent’s eyes on him, willing him to make a mistake. He looked beyond the bottle to where an alien pair of black
shoes rested on the carpet; above them rose a pair of trousers. George looked no higher than the knees. His eyes fell back to the bottle again; taking a deep breath, he once more lowered his hand. Lower, lower, until the match was touching the pile. He dropped it and let out his breath in a long hiss of disappointment. The pile slipped slightly to one side before slowly toppling to the floor. George’s hand groped blindly in his breast pocket. Another pound note was extracted and handed over.

‘You don’t want to stop, old man?’

Never, never. George nodded violent disagreement. Of course it was ludicrous to be gambling with a total stranger on a night like this. The man had given him a number of drinks at the club, but that hardly explained the indignity of his present position. How the hell had he been talked into it? All that brandy and now this, ‘Just to see who’s got the steadiest hand.’ My God. Yet to stop now …

‘I’ll go on,’ came his proud if indistinct words.

They repeated the exercise several times more, alternately placing matches on the bottle-neck. George lost another three times.

‘Just the luck of the game,’ said the man complacently.

Giving money to strangers; must be out of my mind. George angrily splashed out another whisky for himself. A lot went on the table. Didn’t even know the fellow’s name. If he knew what that money meant, what robbery it was, it would burn a hole in his suit. Like robbing a child, no better than that.

Both men were sitting in silence now. The chair gave a warning jolt under George. Mustn’t doze. At least that bloody game had made him forget how drunk he was. He fixed his eyes on one of the flower prints to steady the room. The floor steadied but the wall still pulsated intermittently like a living thing. George looked at the hairs on the backs of his hands as they rested on the arms of his chair. His feeling of nausea grew: disgust with himself, disgust with his body, disgust that he’d asked such a little worm back. And what had they done at that club? Drunk too much and talked about women like a couple of sex-starved adolescents.
Absolutely nothing in common. What did he want to know about anybody else anyway? Wasn’t what he knew about himself bad enough? He took another gulp from his glass. A bit dribbled down his chin. He looked across the room: the little sod wasn’t even drinking. George got up with difficulty. He forced his features into a smile. The result was
diabolical
.