Getting It Right (23 page)

He met her eye in the mirror for a moment, but didn’t reply, so she had to go on: ‘To like doing something you’re good at.’

‘I don’t think I’d be much good at it if I hated it.’

‘You probably wouldn’t be doing it then.’ After a pause, she said: ‘That’s why I don’t do anything. I don’t know what I like.’

‘Have you tried to find out?’

‘Of course not! I’m waiting for it to happen.’ And, seeing that he didn’t think much of that, she went on: ‘I’ve had to spend so much time being against
things, you see. Can you imagine? They tried to make me do a secretarial course after school. They’ve given
that
up. Now they just hope I’ll get married. Like my boring
sister.’

‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’

‘She’s older. She’s only a half-sister. She’s called Sheila. I’m staying with her: she’s awful.’

‘You told me you were a model.’

‘I told you I’d done some modelling. I’ve given it up: it’s boring.’

‘So now what are you going to do?’

‘I told you: I’m waiting for something to happen.’

‘I can’t spell, you see,’ she said after he hadn’t answered. ‘So it would be no good my trying to be a secretary. I don’t want to do anything unless I’m
terrifically good at it.’

‘People don’t just
start
good at anything.’

‘Some people do. Still, I can’t be one of them, I suppose, or I’d be doing whatever it was. I’d quite like to read the News. Or do some singing with a group.’ She
yawned. ‘Things are so dull when you get close to them. And difficult! Oh boy! When I was little, I wanted to be a conjuror. Surprise people with quite ordinary things. The trouble is I
don’t know how to find out what is interesting.’

‘What about your friends?’

‘Friends? Oh – you mean, people I knew at school. I don’t see them. I don’t much care for people of my own age . . . It’s one of the reasons why I like
you.’

He was combing her strands of front hair over her face and remembering the careers lecturer who’d come to his school. If he hadn’t come, perhaps he, Gavin, would never have gone into
hairdressing. Not that the man had suggested hairdressing: it was simply that all the careers he’d suggested seemed to Gavin so awful that he’d gone home and decided first that he
couldn’t go in for any of them, and then his sister had had a dud perm and she’d asked him to cut it off before their mother saw it. And that had made him think of going into
hairdressing as a career. Perhaps Minnie hadn’t had that sort of talk at her school. Perhaps girls didn’t get the same opportunities. Then he remembered something else.

‘You told me you were an actress.’

‘Did I? Well I used to be. I mean I tried it for a bit. I went to a drama school but the trouble is getting work after you leave. And you’re supposed to get an Equity ticket. You
have to work to get one, and it’s quite difficult to get work without one. Anyway, it wasn’t a bit like I thought it would be – I say, Gavin, I think I’m going to be sick
– ’ She shook her hair back from her face and he saw that she looked really frightened. The nearest lavatory was outside the salon and up half a flight of stairs.

‘Come on. I’ll take you.’

He helped her to her feet: she crammed her hands against her mouth and he practically lifted her up the stairs.

‘In there.’ He moved down the stairs out of earshot – he loathed people being sick – and waited. It really was a good thing that it was Mr Adrian’s day at home or
wherever he spent his days not in the salon.

She seemed to be a very long time. Why did he feel so
sorry
for her? He really didn’t like her much: she wasn’t at all interesting. Then he realized that he didn’t
feel frightened of her – frightened, sometimes, of things she did, or might do, but not exactly of
her
. She didn’t seem to fit anywhere much on the Ladder of Fear. He wondered
whether this was a good or a bad sign. It was obviously good in a way, but on the other hand if he was only to feel unafraid of girls who he felt sorry for and who also showed every sign of being
boring that seemed merely to leave the Ladder intact with him somehow beside it.

She emerged at last, shivering.

‘Do you want to lie down for a bit?’

She shook her head. ‘No – I’m okay now. I just feel cold.’

‘Well, you’ll feel warmer when your hair is dry. I’ve just about finished the cutting. Like a cup of tea?’

‘No, yes, I would.’

He put her back in the chair and went to find Jenny.

‘I’ll start the blow dry but, as soon as my next client’s come in and you’ve washed her, you’ll take over.’

Jenny rolled her eyes and stumped off to get the tea.

‘Feeling better?’

She nodded.

‘I expect it was something you’ve eaten. What did you have for lunch?’

‘Pea soup, steak and kidney pudding and treacle tart.’

‘Whew!’

‘Actually, I had a Mars bar and a Coke. It was all my fault. I’ll know better next time, won’t I.’

‘I expect so.’ He clipped some of her hair aside, picked up the hand dryer and set to work.

Jenny brought the tea and a plate with two biscuits on it.

‘I don’t want them,’ she said: she sounded peevish.

‘You could have said no, thank you.’

‘I could have. I didn’t though, did I?’

‘No. You’ve got rotten manners for a Lady.’

‘Who said I was one?’

‘You did.’

‘That was to please your mother.’

‘You said it to me. At the party.’

‘I
am
a Lady,’ she said instantly. ‘And don’t tell me how Ladies behave because they behave any old way – like everyone else.’

Gavin said nothing. His next client had arrived and Jenny was helping her out of her cape.

‘If you’re nasty to me, I shan’t tip you.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘I
hate
sarcastic people. I
hate
them.’

‘Okay. All right. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.’

‘You weren’t meant to be able to think of anything to say.’

He decided to say nothing at all – just concentrate upon her hair until Jenny arrived to relieve him.

‘I
was
going to ask you a favour,’ she said, as though it was the other way round.

‘Two favours, really,’ she said some time later. ‘Although one of them oughtn’t to be.

‘All right, I’ll tell you . . . One is, would you mind awfully if I don’t pay for this hair do? The thing is, I’ve got a little cash, but I bet it’s not enough, and
there isn’t any money in my bank at the moment, until my father antes up, so if I wrote a cheque it would simply bounce, and you wouldn’t like that, would you? I’ve got enough to
pay you a tip,’ she added.

Fabulous, Gavin thought. She comes in without an appointment, gets me to do her hair, and then she tells me. For the third time he thanked God that Mr Adrian wasn’t in today.

‘I’ll do it this time for free,’ he said. ‘But I can’t do it again. You were lucky today. Usually, I wouldn’t have had time if you hadn’t made an
appointment. And the owner doesn’t care for us doing people’s hair for free.’

‘It won’t be quite for free, because I can give you a pound as a tip.’

‘Never mind the tip. That’s not the point.’

‘Surely it’s the point for you.’

‘No. It isn’t.’

‘Okay.’ She sounded sulky – almost as though
she
was the one who was making the concession. ‘Well, the next thing is – ’

‘Mr Gavin. Client’s ready.’ It was Jenny again.

‘Right. There’s just this side to finish off. And maybe round the back again, Jenny.’ He moved thankfully over to Lady Birdseye, who normally bored him with a whole load of
social moralizing about the young: however, anything would be better than that girl. Today she was on about music. Pop, rock, folk (although he doubted whether she knew the difference), it was all
degenerate stuff and only went to show something or other. He switched to his bland, neutral, apparently listening personality which simply meant worthless ruminations in the wake of her
indignation: ‘You wouldn’t think so, would you?’ and ‘I don’t know what they get out of it’, stuff like that. Lady Birdseye often told her friends what an
intelligent young man he was, after she had made clear how good she was at talking to people who worked for her. Once upon a time, Gavin would have made the mistake of trying to talk to her about
Steptoe and Cage – of actually assuming that she was interested in real music, but he had learned better years ago. She only knew what she didn’t like. While he put her hair into
rollers he watched Jenny out of the corner of his eye. He could see reflections of both of their faces: he could see that his cut was turning out to be a minor triumph. From a distance, she looked
– well, certainly striking: her pallor made her eyes look more interesting and the shortened hair emphasized the poise of her head on the slender neck. Jenny had her usual expression of wry
amused acceptance as she listened to her client talking. In fact, Gavin realized, Jenny nearly always looked like that; it was only in the Park that she’d seemed different. In a way he knew
her less well even than he knew Minnie. Which was funny when you thought how long Jenny had been in the salon – best part of three years, nearing the end of her apprenticeship . . .

‘Run for miles if they’re offered a proper job! Unlike you and me, Gavin, they’ve no idea what life is actually like – they expect everything to be handed to them on a
golden platter!’

Gavin made sycophantic noises while he wondered how near Lady Birdseye had ever got to a proper job, and what her notion of real life actually might be, and what modern, gold platters might look
like supposing them to be in such common use as she said they were. Two a penny – no, nothing was that any more – two for one-fifty with special offers in the Sunday supplements . . .
Fortunately, Lady Birdseye didn’t have very much hair, which made dressing her a tricky business, involving a lot of back combing, but it also meant the minimum number of rollers. Two ticks
more and they’d be done; he’d have her safely under the dryer so that she would be unable to hear any more bricks that Minnie dropped. He’d remembered the other favour, as yet
unasked for, with a sinking heart.

Just as he wanted her, Jenny was at his side with a clean net and ear pads. Sharon was sweeping up the hair from round Minnie’s chair when he got back to her. Minnie was staring at herself
with an expression of critical complacency that he associated with any client who had her hair drastically cut.

‘It looks – funny – to me,’ she said.

‘It’ll take a bit of getting used to,’ he said, ‘but I think it looks good on you.’

‘Do you really think so, Gavin? You don’t think it makes my face look fatter?’

‘No. Your face isn’t fat, anyway.’

‘Oh. Isn’t it?’ She stared at it for a moment and then said: ‘It feels fat, to me.’ Then, as he began taking off the towel from her shoulders, she said: ‘Are
we going?’

‘Well – you are: you’re finished, I’ve still got work to do.’

‘When do you stop work?’

‘It depends on my clients,’ he said evasively; he had the feeling of being propelled into some trap.

‘I’ll wait,’ she said. ‘It’s quite all right; I can read something.’

‘When I’ve finished work I’ve got to get back home.’

‘Oh. Look here, that’s my other favour!’

‘What is?’ He wasn’t having her back to supper, if it was the last thing he did.

‘I wanted to show you something. They’re at my sister’s. I want your advice – that’s what.’

‘Where does your sister live?’

‘Oh – bang on the Northern Line. Near Chalk Farm. It’s not in the least out of your way. Just half an hour, Gavin: I haven’t got anyone to ask.’

In the end, he agreed: he felt furious with himself, but he agreed.

All the while that he was combing out and dressing Lady Birdseye’s hair and agreeing with God-knew-what nonsense that she was talking, he castigated himself for being so weak, so feeble
with someone who was well on the way to becoming a pest. She read quietly enough until he was escorting Lady Birdseye to the desk, whereupon she leapt to her feet and thrust a pound note into his
pocket, saying with penetrating clarity: ‘Thank you
so
much, Gavin – it looks great.’ She had not collected her golfing jacket, and her nipples showed through her thin
and faded T-shirt: he saw Lady Birdseye fasten upon them and felt his ears burning – other people seemed to afford him nothing but discomfort. But when, finally, he was out in the street with
her, she hooked her arm through his and said: ‘I
like
you so much, Gavin. I think you’re the most nice, unusual person that I know.’ He felt disarmed; touched – she
couldn’t know many people, could she, and he felt sorry for her all over again.

They got on to the Victoria Line at Green Park to Euston, and changed to the Northern Line. It was the rush hour: along the passages unkempt youths were strumming guitars ignored by almost all
of the travellers. Minnie had no money for her fare: ‘I gave you all I had, Gavin – as a tip.’ This meant queuing at the ticket office although he had a Season. On the Victoria
Line they had to stand; on the Northern there was one seat. ‘Why don’t you sit in it, and I’ll sit on your knee?’ He managed to get out of that one – stood half-turned
away from her while she sat, pretending that he had to be in that position to hold the strap.

The sister lived in Chalcot Square – a very pretty place, he thought, with the houses all painted good, but different, colours and children playing on the small patch of green. Minerva
pulled at a piece of string round her neck on which a latchkey was hanging and opened the door. The hall smelled of cooking, but not the kind that his mother did, and on the right there was a door
to a dining room, an oval, dark, polished table with silver candlesticks and a flat bowl of camellias and white, lacey mats. It all looked very grand, and for a moment he wondered whether all those
tales of the deer park were, in fact, true.

‘Is that you?’

‘Yes.’

The voice came from above and they started to climb the stairs towards it.

‘Where the hell have you
been
? Dr Rankin’s secretary rang – she said you never turned up – again! And don’t just sneak downstairs. I want to see
you!’