For Love or Money (12 page)

‘Have another, won’t you?’ he leered.

‘Think I’ll pass this time actually, old thing, if that’s all right. Doctor’s orders and that sort of thing.’

‘As you like.’ George gritted his teeth. Namby-pamby little swine. His own glass was empty; uncertainly he stumbled over to the drinks table. He sensed a cold pair of piggy eyes following him.

‘I hope I’m not being an old busybody or anything like that, but do you think you ought to have any more?’

‘Yes.’

George’s head was throbbing, his eyes felt as though they were being pressed forwards from inside his skull. Wouldn’t be able to hold it back much longer. What right had he got, wasn’t his drink. Anyway why the blazes shouldn’t he know? It’d make him feel the worm he was for taking that money. He looked at his small, dark, darting eyes, and his thin little nose. Nothing generous or big-hearted there. Even his mouth was mean. Lips like a thin pair of rubber pincers … pretty good that. George dwelt on the neatness of his tie knot. Bet he has his nails done too. No dirt anywhere, no revelations. Just a tidy mistress somewhere and a bit of vicariously prim sex in night clubs as a change. Only silence now. Silent night, holy night, even down to the snow. What a marvellous final celebration. Tell him; that would make him sit up a bit. George’s mouth opened; slowly but
distinctly
the words formed,

‘I suppose you think I own this place?’

The man looked puzzled.

‘Or rented it. Look, I’m afraid I don’t quite see what …’

‘Well, I can tell you; I don’t, not one thing. Everything’s paid for by her. Tables, chairs, curtains, teaspoons; she doesn’t know it, even the lavatory seat’s hers.’

George dimly heard him cough. Must have embarrassed him. He was probably thinking gents don’t say things like that. Damn fine specimen him … having his nails done. At last the answer came.

‘Terribly sorry.’

George hardly heard. Sorry for what anyway? Hadn’t told him; must have guessed. What did he know about it? About the long-tolerated familiarity that didn’t even breed
contempt
.

‘It was just the money. Seduced by silks and satins.
Despicable
isn’t it?’

The man seemed sunk in contemplation. George was
beginning
to feel sleepy. Everything was slowing down now. No more surprises. Anger seemed so unreasonable. He heard the man speaking.

‘Looking at it realistically, what have you and I got?’

‘Twenty years.’

‘More, more I’m afraid. Depressing but true. Thirty years of fatty degeneration and restraining garments if you care. And have you ever thought of making it less? … Well, exactly. When it actually comes to it the ground looks too far away, the water too cold and the sleeping-pills too cowardly.’

The sing-song sadness of his voice made George feel more sympathetic. Wasn’t that how
he
felt? Even the most
unlikely
humans had a mystical bond. Everybody ought to try and help his neighbour.

‘I suppose one must try and learn to start again.’

‘Would we could. No, oh dear me no; not a chance of that. Far too late. No good running after the last bus ten years after it’s gone. Just a matter of waiting. Somebody might die possibly, if you wait long enough. You could even try
somebody
else if you felt up to it. You’ve retained most of your teeth and lost little of your hair.’

‘But I’ve lost my initiative. I’ve been tamed.’

‘Even domestic animals have a remarkable talent for
finding
new homes and new feeders.’

George nodded his head sadly. How nice it would be to agree.

‘But they can get up on their hind legs and beg. What can I do? I’m not black so I can’t be a bus conductor.’

‘How about starting a prep. school?’

‘Can’t even do that without capital. And when there’s nothing else left I won’t even be able to listen to the Daily Service on the radio.’ The petals of his self-pity opened still wider. He didn’t notice the growing look of disdain on the other’s face. Lugubriously he went on: ‘If you’d been tempted as I was, lived through what I did, you’d have done the same. A hero’s reward, a place in paradise for the asking with no strings attached … a country house, the chance of a London flat and money, money, money. No more worrying. Would you have refused in my place?’

‘I’m not you and nobody offered.’

‘I can’t even drink without money.’

‘Look, about that money; I’m quite prepared to give it back.’

George hesitated before refusing.

‘Quite out of the question,’ he murmured sadly. There were limits after all. Limits to what? To suffering, to
indignity
? He felt suddenly poetic.

‘I loved and was abused,’ he said loudly.

‘Better than never to have loved,’ came the softer answer.

‘I gave, but my gift was rejected.’

‘There was nobody to whom I could give.’

George heard his voice at last ringing with the wisdom of ages:

‘To have something and then to see it snatched away is the worst that any man can suffer.’

‘Worse than never to have and never to hope for?’

‘Only words,’ George muttered from his great eminence. Suffering did things to a man, it was true; ennobled him. There was no point in saying more. He hiccupped slightly.

‘I think I’m going to bed now,’ he said.

‘Mind if I stay the night?’

‘Do, please do,’ George’s smile was almost seraphic as he rose before leaving the room.

As soon as George had gone, the man got up and went
over to a suitcase that had been intriguing him for some minutes. The feminine name on the side could hardly be that of the occupant of the flat. Yet there was certainly
nobody
else around. Deftly he opened it. On the top was an envelope: ‘To darling George from Sally.’ He frowned. George had told him his name was Simon at the club. Next he fished out a brassière. The woman it belonged to was clearly not a fat one. A pair of frilly black pants seemed to indicate that she was not an old one either. He pursed his lips and started to whistle. Idly he flicked the brassière into his hand with his toe.

At that moment George reappeared in the doorway.

‘I’d rather you put that down.’

‘I don’t think you’ve been quite fair you know,
telling
me that lie about your name. For all I know
everything
you’ve said may have been part of an enormous practical joke.’

‘I can assure you it was not at your expense. Good night.’

George had spoken wearily, and it was with an effort that he went back to his bedroom. He felt numbed rather than drunk. He didn’t want to see or hear anything else for a long time. Laughter and tears both seemed so unlikely now. He sank down on to the bed fully dressed and for that brief moment before sleep came he knew what it was to feel and understand nothing.

Sleep came in the drawing-room too. Two hours later the man woke up feeling cold and stiff. He stretched and
laboriously
heaved himself out of his chair. The sound of George’s regular breathing was the only noise in the stillness. He crossed the room to the windows and drew the curtains. The snow had stopped, but even in the darkness he could sense that the sky was still heavy. Not a single star shone through. The snow had settled on the street lamps too, dimming their light. He shivered slightly, then turned away from the
window
and went out into the hall. On a chair he saw an
overcoat
. It was too dark to gauge its colour. He couldn’t
remember
bringing a coat, except of course with it being so cold he would hardly not have done so. His arms slid easily into George’s silk-lined sleeves. Soon he had quietly closed
the flat door behind him and was walking noiselessly away down the muffled street.

 *

Sally was wearing a blue cape with a large buckle that fastened just below the chin. Her knee-length otterskin boots effectively kept out the cold dampness of the snow underfoot. Eagerly she scuffed her way towards the tube station.

Sitting in the train she caught sight of her reflection in the window opposite. The cape and the boots were only a few days old. She looked around her at the other women in the carriage; there was no doubt about it, she was better-looking than any of them; perhaps better than any woman in the train. A man standing on the other side of the carriage was looking at her tartan-stockinged knees. Demurely she covered them with her handbag, lowering her eyes at the same time. The cape really suited her enormously.

How lucky it was that George had never been able to marry that woman, she thought with satisfaction. There would be no divorce or anything squalid like that. They would be able to go away at once for a nice long rest. Rome, Paris, New York, the names sounded so much better than they ever had before. Stewards, and pilots, take-off and
touch-down
, crowded streets, sunshine, parasols, piazzas. She smiled with this new delight in her situation. Nobody else in the train on a Sunday morning would be able to entertain such thoughts.

She looked up to see that they were coming into a station. She had missed the right one. But what did it matter if she missed the next?

In her otterskin boots the distance did not deter her. As she left the station, she slipped on a pair of dark-blue gloves that matched her cape.

It was almost eleven o’clock; George was bound to be up. She hurried along clean white streets, not yet dirty grey with churned-up slush. Each individual railing spike had a little cap of snow. She crossed a road; on the corner was a
pillar-box
;
playfully she scooped some snow off the top. Her gloved hand left a neat cut of red. She threw the snow on to the ground hastily. Might mark her gloves. She could see a pale sun shining behind the trees of a garden to her right. One more street to go.

 *

In the flat George lay on his back in bed snoring softly. His mouth was hanging open. He hadn’t drawn the curtains the night before, so the wan sun softly lit the room. George’s clothes were lying in an untidy heap on the floor. An open cupboard door revealed a number of suits and a cluster of ties on a rail.

His snoring was still the only noise in the flat. Church bells were ringing in St. Cuthbert’s at the end of the street.

George woke up suddenly. He shook his head violently to try and get rid of the noise; but it went on. Another second and it had stopped. He pulled himself up into a sitting
position
. His mouth felt terribly dry. The bell was ringing again. He swung his feet on to the floor and looked around
helplessly
for a dressing-gown. Where the hell was it? Useless. If he could only find a coat to cover his nakedness. He had vague memories of having left one in the hall. He went out but there was no sign of it. The hall felt unbearably cold. He could go into the bedroom and cover himself with a blanket. George looked at the door of the flat. He only had to walk a few feet and open it. That was all. He stood in the middle of the hall as though turned to stone. No, he wouldn’t answer it. She could ring and ring and ring, till the bell gave up or her finger froze to it. He went back into the bedroom and got into bed. The bell rang once more and then all George could hear was his breathing and the bells of St. Cuthbert’s. Sleep was impossible now. He lay there warm but restless.

 *

Sally’s boots flipped through the snow as she ran on, slithering, sliding. She ran past the gardens, this time to her
left, she raced past the pillar-box where the little red wound showed as clearly; the white-capped railings blurred in a continuous line of white and black.

At last she saw a taxi, she gave an address and then,
throwing
herself down on the seat, burst into tears.

‘The bastard, the bastard.’ But it wouldn’t be the end of it, oh no. He couldn’t go crawling out of it like that. She had trusted him and he had deceived her; deceived a simple unsophisticated girl. She beat the leather seat with her small clenched fists. Her feet drummed on the floor of the cab. She looked down at her otterskin boots, ‘Horrid things, I’ll never wear them again. I’ll burn my cape and my gloves.’

She was nearly home when she had an idea. Once again she was smiling and this time it was not with innocent joy and anticipation.

F
RANTIC
exertions with brushes and spades had ensured that the Finals of the House Rugby Competition would take place.

Crofts was standing on the touchline in front of a dirty bank of slush and snow. His overcoat was pulled up well round his neck. He opened his mouth as wide as he could.

‘Co——me on, Greville,’ he roared hoarsely. It had been seven years since the house had got to the finals and even then they had been beaten. Winning the competition would be extremely good for house morale and might well be the beginning of better things. Crofts’s mouth opened again.

‘Let’s have another try, Greville.’

He looked around him with disapproval at the ranks of junior boys in his house. Perhaps it had not been a good idea to make it compulsory to watch the match. So far he had been the only person to cheer.

Cold hands had meant fumbled passes and to date David had not touched the ball. He was wishing that he had put on two vests. Patiently he waited for another scrum to form. Almost all sensation seemed to have left his fingers.
Suddenly
the scrum-half had the ball away. David saw it coming down the line towards him. He took it well on the run. Three of the opposing forwards were running round to cut him off. He swerved and went on running. His breath was coming in rushes. One of them got a hand to his vest but he wrenched himself free. He handed off another in the face with all his strength.

Ahead of him he could see the posts and the solitary figure of the full back (full back for the school). David ran straight at him. Not much further if only he could get past. He
glanced behind. Nobody there. Have to go on. At the last moment he pretended to slip, swerved and he was through.

‘Played Lifton, played,’ yelled a distant Crofts. A thin cheer rose from the chilled spectators. David got up slowly, mud all over the front of his body; he walked back with the ball for a few yards before tossing it to Hotson, who was going to try and convert.

David trotted down the field again and turned in time to see Hotson’s massive kick rise high between the posts. There was another slightly weaker round of applause.

Over on the far touchline, David caught sight of Andrew Matthews wearing a dark overcoat and a silk scarf round his neck. Even at that distance he could tell that he was smiling. David felt enormously proud—of course it couldn’t really make any difference, only somehow it undeniably did.

The game ended without further scoring. Greville had won.

Several days after, lunch was drawing to an end in Greville.

‘Any more for you, Lifton?’

Crofts invitingly held out a spoonful of trifle.

‘No, thank you, sir.’

‘Well, you’ll have some anyway, won’t you, Chadwick?’

Crofts was smiling.

‘I think I’m fairly full actually, sir.’

‘No offers?’ Spoon still poised, Crofts glanced round the table, ‘I’ll have a bit myself anyway.’

Every week two boys from the middle of the house enjoyed the privilege of sitting on the housemaster’s table: the idea being to give the house a sense of unity. So far neither David nor Chadwick had opened their mouths. Crofts made several hopeless efforts to save the flagging conversation before finally admitting defeat. Sometimes he began to doubt his abilities as a schoolmaster. It was a rare day indeed when the conversation rose above the standard of Intermediate
English
for Beginners. Slowly he rose to his feet amidst the usual scraping of chairs.

‘For what we have received, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’

Crofts paused respectfully before going on to other
matters
.

‘Father Peter will be taking House Prayers this evening and will be having coffee with me afterwards. Anybody who would like to meet him would be most welcome …
confirmation
candidates especially. Last time very few people came, so I hope that there will not be a similar occurrence tonight.’ He paused again, then, taking a deep breath, went on: ‘I’m afraid it has once more come to my notice that the lavatories are being improperly used.’ The inevitable titters died away. David caught Andrew Matthews’s eye
momentarily
. Had he winked? David looked down at the table. ‘Orange peel and waste paper should be put in the
receptacles
provided and not down the lavatories. It only causes extra work for the cleaners. I think that’s all.’

As they walked out of the room together, Chadwick turned to David, ‘I do wish Crofts wouldn’t clean his teeth with his tongue while he’s speaking.’

 *

Half an hour later David was sitting in the Biology laboratory writing down Mr. Fisher’s words.

‘Then I took a length of glass piping and covered one end with a semi-permeable membrane. I then …’

‘How do you spell that, sir?’

David relaxed gratefully and looked around him. All along one side of the room were specimens in glass jars, floating in transparent preserving fluid. Sad and isolated … brains, eyes, intestines; rows and rows of them stared at him. In some other glass cases rested bone after bone, all of them neatly labelled, ulnas, tibias, clavicles. David didn’t like biology. Worst of all was a single frog in a tank. The creature was breathing heavily as it sat in a corner, waiting to be dissected by the sixth form after a speedy execution.

Fisher droned on,

‘After one week the water had risen six inches up the piping, after two, nine inches. The water to equalise the sugar content …’

David stopped listening. Since he had returned to
Edgecombe
he had still been unable to come to any decision about George. School routine had not, as he had feared, made the burden more difficult to bear. It was only when left by himself that he had time to think about it. Night was the worst time, although half-days in the study with Hotson and Chadwick were none too easy. Looking out of the window he could see the main drive twisting down towards the village. He thought of the following day when Matthews was to take him out to tea. He had said nothing about it to anybody else as yet. Boys were not often taken out by masters. There was no doubt about it, it was a considerable privilege. David smiled. He looked at the frog and no longer felt sorry for it. Come to think of it, the thing looked rather like Mr. Fisher: all wrinkles and pouches.

At last the talking stopped. Everyone sat back and waited.

‘For the rest of the lesson we’ll do some diagrams of corms and bulbs.’

David looked at his watch; at least twenty-five minutes till he was free.

 *

When he got back to the study Hotson and Chadwick were in the middle of an argument. David had a fair idea of what it would be about. The previous day Hotson’s mother had come down to the school for the afternoon and had sat in the study long enough to force David and Chadwick into the library; a room that was as cold as it was
uncomfortable
.

‘She could have taken you out to tea or to the cinema. But did she? She has to sit in here all afternoon.’

‘Maybe she liked it,’ said Hotson phlegmatically.

‘Here of all places. You might have told her it was a
half-day
.’

David stood listening in the doorway.

‘Shut up, can’t you,’ snapped Chadwick. ‘It isn’t exactly summer, in case you haven’t noticed.’

Obediently David complied and went over to the table to
put his books down. He dropped them on top of a piece of butter, which he noticed just too late.

‘I wish you didn’t have to leave your bits of food all over the table,’ he retaliated.

‘Who had toast this morning?’ Hotson said.

‘Exactly,’ Chadwick backed him up.

‘All right, start on me,’ said David wearily. Why did they always have to bicker? The real trouble was that they seemed to enjoy it.

While wiping the table, David was unlucky enough to knock over a bottle of orange juice. Hotson’s mother was forgotten in the general reprimand that followed.

‘Thank God, I shan’t be here tomorrow,’ said David defiantly.

‘I’m almost in tears, tell me all. Is it to be the races or the Cup Final?’ sneered Chadwick. ‘Or perhaps another
afternoon
in the library?’

‘Actually I’m going out to tea with Mr. Matthews.’

‘Going up in the world I see,’ Chadwick paused, then said more thoughtfully, ‘Really, come to think of it that’s quite smart.’

‘No more work,’ Hotson added sourly. ‘I went out with a master once. Some time ago of course.’

‘Of course. I’ll say; when you were young and pretty I suppose. Tell us another.’

‘With the art master actually,’ said Hotson with dignity.

‘And you weren’t asked again?’ said Chadwick sweetly.

Hotson grimaced.

‘I ate six out of eight sandwiches.’

‘A lesson for all,’ said Chadwick to David.

‘Has anybody ever told you, you’ve got real charm,’ said Hotson, smiling he hoped ironically.

‘Frequently.’

‘You know, I don’t think I can stand either of you any longer,’ Hotson announced as he got up from his chair.

‘You mean you’ve got to go for extra French,’ returned Chadwick.

‘I damn well don’t.’

‘You’ve changed the day?’

‘Yes, if you must know.’

‘Aren’t you going then?’

‘I’ve changed my mind, since you
want
me to go.’

David watched them both from over by the window. On and on and on, day after day; biology, even with frogs, was immeasurably preferable. A few minutes and they would be on about Hotson’s mother again. He walked quietly towards the door.

‘I think I’ll go for a walk.’

‘Lovely day for one,’ said Hotson, glancing at the
darkening
window. ‘And for Christ’s sake shut the door,’ added Chadwick.

 *

Andrew Matthews drove a small green Morgan; old but fast. He stole a sideways glance at David sitting in the seat next to him. He liked to drive out of the school grounds at speed in second. The noise was enormous.

They were approaching the lodge gates already. Ahead of them the road curved down into the valley. The village was hidden by mist streamers which glowed golden in the
afternoon
sunlight. Patches of snow still shone white in the fields. David rested his hands on the dashboard to stop himself sliding sideways as they cornered into the village street. Andrew turned to him and smiled:

‘Thank God for being out of the place.’

David laughed.

‘I’m glad, too. Where are we going?’ he added.

‘A few miles yet, wait and see.’

Andrew was casually dressed in a pair of old flannel trousers and a heavy brown sweater. Just the right off-duty touch, he thought with satisfaction. He had felt a little apprehensive about what to say to David, but now after several pints with lunch it all seemed so easy. They’d talk about school of course and that ass Crofts. ‘Thank God for being out of the place,’ how right it had sounded and how successfully it had put him at his ease. Andrew glanced
upwards
momentarily at the clear blueness of the sky. The
sheep on a hill to their left looked as clean and well-defined as plastic toys.

‘Does it seem long since you came to Edgecombe?’ asked Andrew. ‘Ages and ages, I expect, even my month seems like a lifetime.’

‘Years, and years, sometimes I can hardly remember
having
been anywhere else.’

‘I hated school myself,’ Andrew eagerly confided. ‘I had the most awful housemaster.’

David grinned. Did he dare ask? He paused a moment before doing so.

‘Worse than Crofts?’

‘I don’t know that I ought to be discussing my colleagues with a pupil,’ Andrew said with mock pomposity.

David was not sure whether he was being serious. Better to play safe.

‘I suppose not,’ he said betraying his disappointment.

‘Come on, I wasn’t being serious. No, he was far worse than Crofts.’ Andrew wondered how far he dared go. Stories did tend to get back. But David seemed upset. Anyway he’d started so had better go on. ‘Crofts isn’t that bad is he? Just a bit of an old fool with no sense of humour.’

‘“The lavatories are being improperly used,”’ David mimicked laughing.

‘“The proper receptacles should be used,”’ went on Andrew.

‘Have you noticed that he cleans his teeth with his tongue after lunch?’

This time Andrew laughed out loud.

‘Perhaps his wife doesn’t give him enough to eat in the evening.’

‘Chadwick says that he hasn’t bought a suit for the last five years. But I suppose one oughtn’t to make fun of him.’

‘Quite right. I’m a schoolmaster too.’

‘But not like him,’ David added hastily.

‘Thank you,’ said Andrew smiling. Ahead of him he saw a sign ‘Double Bend’, he accelerated as they got nearer. David gripped the dashboard as he was thrown first across the
gear-lever
and then against the
door.
In spite of himself
he
let
out a little
gasp
of
fear.

‘Makes one grateful to
be
alive, doesn’t it?’ said Andrew calmly.

‘
But somebody might have been coming the other
way,
’
said David
,
trying to get his own back for having so
unman
fully
squawked.

‘I’m sorry,
sir.’

David tried not to laugh at Andrew’s
show
of sadness and contrition, but failed.

‘
Anyway you won
’
t do it
again
.’

‘
Scout
’
s
honour
.
’
chirped Andrew in his
most
unbroken voice.

‘
Good
,
’
David returned sternly
.

‘How
do you get on with your
room-mates
then? Do you put them in their place
too?’