Stories (15 page)

She began setting out the cups. She had a thin face, sharpened by worry, and small sharp blue eyes. As she sat down, she nervously felt her hair. “I must get the curlers onto my hair,” she muttered.

“Heard from the boys?”

Annie’s hand fell and clenched itself on the table. “Not a word from Charlie for months. They don’t think…. He’ll turn up one fine day and expect his place laid, if I know my Charlie. Tommy’s after a job in Manchester, Mrs. Thomas said. But I had a nice letter from Dick….” Her face softened; her eyes
were soft and reminiscent. “He wrote about his father. Should he come down and speak to the old so-and-so for me, he said. I wrote back and said that was no way to speak of his father. He should respect him, I said, no matter what he’s done. It’s not his place to criticise his father, I said.” “You’re lucky in your boys, Annie.”

“They’re good workers, no one can say they aren’t.

And they’ve never done anything they shouldn’t. They don’t take after their dad, that’s certain.”

At this, Mary’s eyes showed a certain tired irony. “Eh, Annie—but we all do things we shouldn’t.” This gaining no response from the bitter Annie, she added cautiously, “I saw him this morning in the street.”

Annie’s cup clattered down into the saucer. “Was he alone?”

“No. But he took me aside—he said I could give you a message if I was passing this way—he might be dropping in this evening instead of tomorrow with your money, he said. Thursday she goes to her mother’s—I suppose he thinks while the cat’s away …”

Annie had risen, in a panic. She made herself sit down again and stirred her tea. The spoon tinkled in the cup with the quivering of her hand. “He’s regular with the money, anyway,” she said heavily. “I didn’t have to take him into court. He offered. And I suppose he needn’t, now the boys are out keeping themselves.”

“He still feels for you, Annie….” Mary was leaning forward, speaking in a direct appeal. “He does, really.”

“He never felt for anyone but himself,” snapped Annie. “Never.”

Mary let a sigh escape her. “Oh, well …” she murmured. “Well, I’ll be getting along to do the supper.” She stuffed her knitting into her carryall and said consolingly: “You’re lucky. No one to get after you if you feel like sitting a bit. No one to worry about but yourself….”

“Oh, don’t think I’m wasting any tears over him. I’m taking it easy for the first time in my life. You slave your life out for your man and your kids. Then off they go, with not so much as a thank you. Now I can please myself.”

“I wouldn’t mind being in your place,” said Mary loyally. At the door she remarked, apparently at random, “Your floor’s so clean you could eat off it.”

The moment Mary was gone, Annie rushed into her apron and began sweeping. She got down on her knees to polish the floor, and then took off her dress and washed herself at the sink. She combed her dragging wisps of pale hair and did each one up neatly with a pin till her face was surrounded by a ring of little sausages. She put back her dress and sat down at the table. Not a moment too soon. The door opened, and Rob Blake stood there.

He was a thin, rather stooping man, with an air of apology. He said politely, “You busy, Annie?”

“Sit down,” she commanded sharply. He stooped loosely in the doorway for a moment, then came forward, minding his feet. Even so, she winced as she saw the dusty marks on the gleaming linoleum. “Take it easy,” he said with friendly sarcasm. “You can put up with my dust once a week, can’t you?”

She smiled stiffly, her blue eyes fastened anxiously on him, while he pulled out a chair and sat down. “Well, Annie?”

To this conciliatory opening she did not respond. After a moment she remarked, “I heard from Dick. He’s thinking of getting married.”

“Getting married, now? That puts us on the shelf, don’t it?”

“You’re not on any shelf that I can see,” she snapped.

“Now—Annie …” he deprecated, with an appealing smile. She showed no signs of softening. Seeing her implacable face, his smile faded, and he took an envelope from his pocket and pushed it over.

“Thanks,” she said, hardly glancing at it. Then that terrible bitterness came crowding up, and he heard the words: “If you can spare it from her.”

He let that one pass; he looked steadily at his wife, as if seeking a way past that armour of anger. He watched her, passing the tip of his tongue nervously over his lips.

“Some women know how to keep themselves free from kids and responsibilities. They just do this and that, and take up with anyone they please. None of the dirty work for them.”

He gave a sigh, and was on the point of getting up, when she demanded, “Like a cuppa tea?”

“I wouldn’t mind.” He let himself sink back again.

While she worked at the stove, her back to him, he was looking around the kitchen; his face had a look of tired, disappointed irony. An ageing man, but with a dogged set to his
Shoulders. Trying to find the right words, he remarked, “Not so much work for you now, Annie.”

But she did not answer. She returned with the two cups and put the sugar into his for him. This wifely gesture encouraged him. “Annie,” he began. “Annie—can’t we talk this over….” He was stirring the tea clumsily, not looking at it, leaning forward. The cup knocked over. “Oh, look what you’ve done,” she cried out. “Just look at the mess.” She snatched up a cloth and wiped the table.

“It’s only a drop of tea, Annie,” he protested at last, shrinking a little aside from her furious energy.

“Only a drop of tea—I can polish and clean half the day, and then in a minute the place is like a pig sty.”

His face darkened with remembered irritation.

“Yes, I’ve heard,” she went on accusingly, “she lets the beds lie until dinner, and the place isn’t cleaned from one week to the next.”

“At least she cares more for me than she does for a clean floor!” he shouted. Now they looked at each other with hatred.

At this delicate moment there came a shout: “Rob! Rob!”

She laughed angrily. “She’s got you where she wants you—waits and spies on you and now she comes after you.”

“Rob! You there, Rob?” It was a loud, confident, female voice.

“She sounds just what she is, a proper—”

“Shut up,” he interrupted. He was breathing heavily. “You keep that tongue of yours quiet, now.”

Her eyes were full of tears, but the blue shone through, bright and vengeful. “‘Rob, Rob’—and off you trot like a little dog.”

He got up from the table heavily, as a loud knock came at the door.

Annie’s mouth quivered at the insult of it. And his first instinct was to stand by her—she could see that. He looked apologetically at her, then went to the door, opened it an inch, and said in a low, furious voice: “Don’t you do that, now. Do you hear me!” He shut the door, leaned against it, facing Annie. “Annie,” he said again, in an awkward appeal. “Annie …”

But she sat at her table, hands folded in a trembling knot before her, her face tight and closed against him.

“Oh, all right!” he said at last despairingly, angry. “You’ve
always got to be in the right about everything, haven’t you? That’s all that matters to you—if you’re in the right. Bloody plaster saint, you are.” He went out quickly.

She sat quite still, listening until it was quiet. Then she drew a deep breath and put her two fists to her cheeks, as if trying to keep them still. She was sitting thus when Mary Brooke came in. “You let him go?” she said incredulously.

“And good riddance, too.”

Mary shrugged. Then she suggested bravely, “You shouldn’t be so hard on him, Annie—give him a chance.”

“I’d see him dead first,” said Annie through shaking lips. Then: “I’m forty-five, and I might as well be on the dust heap.” And then, after a pause, in a remote, cold voice: “We’ve been together twenty-five years. Three kids. And then he goes off with that … with that …”

“You’re well rid of him, and that’s a fact,” agreed Mary swiftly.

“Yes, I am, and I know it….” Annie was swaying from side to side in her chair. Her face was stony, but the tears were trickling steadily down, following a path worn from nose to chin. They rolled off and splashed onto her white collar.

“Annie,” implored her friend. “Annie …”

Annie’s face quivered, and Mary was across the room and had her in her arms. “That’s right, love, that’s right, that’s right, love,” she crooned.

“I don’t know what gets into me,” wept Annie, her voice coming muffled from Mary’s large shoulder. “I can’t keep my wicked tongue still. He’s fed up and sick of that—cow, and I drive him away. I can’t help it. I don’t know what gets into me.”

“There now, love, there now, love.” The big, fat, comfortable woman was rocking the frail Annie like a baby. “Take it easy, love. He’ll be back, you’ll see.”

“You think he will?” asked Annie, lifting her face up to see if her friend was lying to comfort her.

“Would you like me to go and see if I can fetch him back for you now?”

In spite of her longing, Annie hesitated. “Do you think it’ll be all right?” she said doubtfully.

“I’ll go and slip in a word when she’s not around.”

“Will you do that, Mary?”

Mary got up, patting at her crumpled dress. “You wait here,
love,” she said imploringly. She went to the door and said as she went out: “Take it easy, now, Annie. Give him a chance.”

“I go running after him to ask him back?” Annie’s pride spoke out of her in a wail.

“Do you want him back or don’t you?” demanded Mary, patient to the last, although there was a hint of exasperation now. Annie did not say anything, so Mary went running out.

Annie sat still, watching the door tensely. But vague, rebellious, angry thoughts were running through her head: If I want to keep him, I can’t ever say what I think, I can’t ever say what’s true—I’m nothing to him but a convenience, but if I say so he’ll just up and off….

But that was not the whole truth; she remembered the affection in his face, and for a moment the bitterness died. Then she remembered her long hard life, the endless work, work, work—she remembered, all at once, as if she were feeling it now, her aching back when the children were small; she could see him lying on the bed reading the newspaper when she could hardly drag herself…. It’s all very well, she cried out to herself, it’s not right, it just isn’t right…. A terrible feeling of injustice was gripping her; and it was just this feeling she must push down, keep under, if she wanted him. For she knew finally—and this was stronger than anything else—that without him there would be no meaning in her life at all.

O
—— in the Bavarian Alps is a charming little village. It is no more charming, however, than ten thousand others; although it is known to an astonishing number of people, some of whom have actually been there, while others have savoured its attractions in imagination only. Pleasure resorts are like film stars and royalty who—or so one hopes—must be embarrassed by the figures they cut in the fantasies of people who have never met them. The history of O—— is fascinating; for this is true of every village. Its location has every advantage, not least that of being so near to the frontier that when finally located on the map it seems to the exuberant holiday-making fancy that one might toss a stone from it into Austria. This is, of course, not the case, since a high wall of mountains forms a natural barrier to any such adventure, besides making it essential that all supplies for O—— and the ten or a dozen villages in the valley above it must come from Germany. This wall of mountains is in fact the reason why O—— is German, and has always been German; although its inhabitants, or so it would seem from the songs and stories they offer the summer and winter visitors on every possible occasion, take comfort from the belief that Austria is at least their spiritual home. And so those holiday-makers who travel there in the hope of finding the attractions of two countries combined are not so far wrong. And there are those who
go there because of the name, which is a homely, simple, gentle name, with none of the associations of, let us say, Berchtesgaden, a place in which one may also take one’s ease, if one feels so inclined. O—— has never been famous; never has the spotlight of history touched it. It has not been one of those places that no one ever heard of until woken into painful memory, like Seoul, or Bikini, or, for that matter, this same Berchtesgaden, although that is quite close enough for discomfort.

Two holiday-makers who had chosen O—— out of the several hundred winter resorts that clamoured for their patronage were standing in one of the upper streets on the evening of their arrival there. The charming little wooden houses weighted with snow, the delightful little streets so narrow and yet so dignified as to make the great glittering cars seem pretentious and out of place, the older inhabitants in their long dark woollen skirts and heavy clogs, even a sleigh drawn by ribboned horses and full of holiday-makers—all this was attractive, and undeniably what they had come for; particularly as slopes suitable for skiing stretched away on every side. Yet there was no denying that something weighed on them; they were uneasy. And what this thing was does not need to be guessed at, since they had not ceased to express it, and very volubly, since their arrival.