The Likes of Us (11 page)

‘But my dear Effie,' said a stocky young man in a tweed jacket and yellow shirt, ‘you're a genius. You really are. Where on earth did you find him?' And Albert stood there feeling very uncomfortable while everybody looked at him as though he were an antique which Mrs Bostock had uncovered in an obscure shop and was now presenting for their admiration.

‘Mr Royston is the assistant manager in Moorend Grocery,' Mrs Bostock told them. ‘I took one look at him and knew he was our man.'

To Albert's relief attention turned from him and he was able for a time to sit in his corner and watch what went on without being called upon to do or say anything. But not for long. A first group-reading of the play was started upon and Albert followed the action in his copy, amazed at the way the actors let themselves go in their parts, delivering the most embarrassing lines without the least sign of self-consciousness. ‘You know I love you,' the young man in the yellow shirt said to a pretty dark girl sitting next to Albert. ‘Do you love me?' she replied. ‘Or is it just that you want to go to bed with me?' Albert blushed.

At the entrance of the policeman a silence fell upon the room and Mrs Bostock, still directing operations from the hearthrug, said, ‘Now, Mr Royston, this is where you come in.'

Oh, it was terrible. His heart thumped sickeningly. He found his place, put his forefinger under the line, swallowed thickly, and said in a faint voice:

‘Is one of you gentlemen the owner of that car standing outside?'

‘Weak,' Mrs Bostock said. ‘Come now, Mr Royston, a little more authority. Can't you imagine the impact of your entrance?...'

‘Just imagine it, Alice,' Albert said, getting up out of his chair with the book in his hand. ‘Here's this rotter of a bloke, who's had one too many an' been drivin' like mad an' hit somebody an' left 'em in the road. He's scared out of his wits an' now he's telling his brother an' pleadin' with him to help him, when the maid comes in and says there's a policeman come – and I walk in.

‘“Is one of you gentlemen the owner of that car standing outside?” An' this 'ere young chap nearly passes out with fright, thinkin' they're on to him. And really, y'see, all I'm doin' is pinchin' him for parking without lights. Just imagine it. It's... it's one of the dramatic climaxes of the play.'

‘It's ever so thrilling, Albert,' Alice said. ‘Did you say it like that tonight?'

‘What?'

‘Is one of you gentlemen the owner of that car outside?'

‘Well, happen not quite like that. It's not so bad when there's only you listening to me, but it sort o' puts you off with all them la-di-da fellers there. You're scared to death you'll drop an aitch or say a word wrong... It'll be easier when I'm a bit more used to it.'

‘You're really taking it on, then?'

‘Well,' Albert said, scratching his head, ‘I don't seem to have much option, somehow. She's a very persuasive woman, that Mrs Bostock. Besides,' he went on, ‘it sort of gets you, you know. If you know what I mean.'

Alice smiled. ‘I know what you mean. You do it, Albert. You show them.'

Albert looked at her and in a moment a slow grin spread across his face. ‘I think I will, Alice,' he said. ‘I think I will.'

 

Once committed, Albert sank himself heart and soul into the perfecting of his part. Attendance at Mrs Bostock's house on Monday evenings opened up a new vista of life to him. It was his first contact with the artistic temperament varied in inverse ratio to the amount of talent. He was fascinated.

‘You've never met anybody like 'em, he said to Alice one night.' They shake hands to feel how long the claws are an' put their arms round one another so's it's easier to slip the knife in.'

‘Oh, surely, Albert,' said Alice, a person of sweetness and light, ‘they're not as bad as all that.'

‘No,' he admitted; ‘some of 'em's all right; but there's one or two proper devils.' He shook his head. ‘They're certainly not sort o' folk I've been used to. Three-quarters of 'em don't even work for t'Co-op.'

‘How is it coming along?' Alice asked.

‘Pretty fair. We're trying it out on the stage next week, with all the actions an' everything.'

On the night of the dress rehearsal Alice answered a knock on the door to find a policeman on the step.

‘Does Albert Royston live here?' a gruff official voice asked.

Alice was startled. ‘Well, he does,' she said, ‘but he's not in just now.'

She opened the door a little wider and the light fell across the man's face. Her husband stepped towards her, laughing.

‘You silly fool, Albert,' Alice said indulgently. ‘You gave me a shock.'

Albert was still chuckling as he walked through into the living-room. ‘Well, how do I look?'

‘You look marvellous,' Alice said. ‘But you've never come through the streets like that, have you? You could get into trouble.'

‘It's all right,' Albert told her. ‘I had me mac on over the uniform and the helmet in a bag. I just had to give you a preview like. An' Mrs Bostock says could you put a little tuck in the tunic: summat they can take out before it goes back. It's a bit on the roomy side.'

‘It must have been made for a giant,' Alice said as she fussed about behind him, examining the tunic. ‘Ooh, Albert, but isn't it getting exciting! I can't wait for the night.'

‘Well, like it or lump it,' Albert said, ‘there's only another week now.'

 

He was at the hall early on the night of the play and made up and dressed in the police constable's uniform by the end of the first act. As the second act began he found himself alone in the dressing-room. He looked into the mirror and squared the helmet on his head. He certainly looked the part all right. It would be a bit of a lark to go out in the street and pinch somebody for speeding or something. He narrowed his eyes, looking fiercely at himself, and spoke his opening line in a guttural undertone.

Well, this was it. No good looking in the book. If he didn't know the part now he never would. Out there the second act was under way, the players doing their very best, revelling in a hobby they loved, giving entertainment to all those people; and in return the audience was thrilling to every twist and climax of the plot, and not letting one witty phrase, one humorous exchange go by without a laugh. A good audience, Mrs Bostock had said: the sort of audience all actors, professional or amateur, loved: at one with the players, receptive, responsive, appreciative. And soon its eyes would be on him.

He was suddenly seized by an appalling attack of stage fright. His stomach was empty, a hollow void of fear. He put his head in his hands. He couldn't do it. How could he ever have imagined he could? He couldn't face all those people. His mouth was dry and when he tried to bring his lines to memory he found nothing but a blank.

A knock on the door made him look up. He felt panic grip him now. Had he missed his entrance? Had he ruined the performance for everybody by cringing here like a frightened child? The knock was repeated and Mrs Bostock's voice said from outside, ‘Are you there, Mr Royston?'

Albert took his script in his hand and opened the door. She smiled brightly up at him. ‘Everything all right?' She gave him an appraising look. ‘You look wonderful. You're not on for a little while yet but I should come and stand in the wings and get the feel of the action. You look a bit pale about the gills. What's wrong – stage fright?'

‘It's all a bit new to me,' Albert said feebly.

‘Of course it is. But you know your lines perfectly and once you're out there you'll forget your nervousness. Just remember the audience is on your side.'

They went up the narrow steps to the level of the stage. The voices of the actors became more distinct.

He caught the tail-end of a line he recognised. There already? Recurrent fear gripped his stomach.

He looked out on to the brightly lit stage, at the actors moving about, talking, and across to where the girl who was acting as prompter sat with an open script on her knee. ‘Shirley hasn't had a thing to do so far,' Mrs Bostock murmured. ‘The whole thing's gone like a dream. She took the script from Albert's hands and found the place for him. ‘Here we are. Now you just follow the action in there and relax; take it easy. You'll be on and off so quick you'll hardly know you've left the wings.'

‘I'm all right now,' Albert told her.

He realised to his own surprise that he was; and he became increasingly so as the action of the play absorbed him, so that he begin to feel himself part of it and no longer a frightened amateur shivering in the wings.

Two pages to go. The younger son was telling his brother about the accident. The row was just beginning and at the very height of it he would make his entrance. He began to feel excited. What was it Mrs Bostock had said? ‘From the second you step on you dominate the stage. Your entrance is like a thunder-clap.' By shots! He realised vaguely that Mrs Bostock had left his side, but he didn't care now. He felt a supreme confidence. He was ready. He'd show them. By shots he would!

One page. ‘You've been rotten all your life, Paul,' the elder brother was saying. ‘I've never cherished any illusions about you, but this, this is more than even I dreamed you were capable of.'

‘I know you hate me, Tom. I've always known it. But if only for father's sake, you must help me now. You know what it will do to him if he finds out. He couldn't stand it in his condition.'

‘You swine. You utter swine…'

The girl who was the maid appeared at his side. She gave him a quick smile. No nerves about her. She'd been on and off the stage all evening, living the part. Albert stared out, fascinated. Not until this moment had he known the true thrill of acting, of submerging one's own personality in that of another.

‘Where are you going?'

‘I'm going to find that man you knocked down and get him to a hospital. And you're coming with me.'

‘But it's too late, Tom. It was hours ago. Someone's sure to have found him by now. Perhaps the police…'

Any minute now. They were working up to his entrance. Like a thunder-clap. Albert braced his shoulders and touched his helmet. He glanced down at the script and quickly turned a page. He had lost his place. Panic smote him like a blow. They were still talking, though, so he must be all right. And anyway the maid gave him his cue and she was still by his side. Then suddenly she was no longer at his side. She had gone. He fumbled with his script. Surely... not so far...

He felt Mrs Bostock at his elbow. He turned to her in stupid surprise.

‘But,' he said, ‘they've... they've –'

She nodded. ‘Yes. They've skipped three pages. They've missed your part right out.'

 

He was already at home when Alice returned.

‘Whatever happened, Albert?' she said anxiously. ‘You weren't ill, were you?'

He told her. ‘I went and got changed straight away,' he said, ‘and came home.'

‘Well, isn't that a shame!'

‘Oh, they just got carried away,' Albert said. ‘One of 'em lost his place and skipped and the other lad had to follow him. They did it so quick nobody could do owt about it.' He smiled as he began to take off his shoes. ‘Looks as though I'll never know whether I'd 've stood up to it or not,' he said.

He never did anything of the kind again.

A long time after he was able to face with equanimity his wife's request, in the presence of acquaintances, that he should tell them about his ‘acting career', and say, ‘No, you tell 'em, Alice. You tell it best.' And the genuine smile on his honest face during the recounting of the story of the unspoken lines, which never failed to provoke shouts of laughter, always deceived the listeners. So that never for one moment did they guess just how cruel, how grievous a disappointment it had been to him at the time.

The Fury

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There were times when Mrs Fletcher was sure her husband thought more of his rabbits than anything else in the world: more than meat and drink, more than tobacco and comfort, more than her – or the other woman. And this was one of those times; this Saturday morning, as she looked out from the kitchen where she was preparing the dinner to where she could see Fletcher working absorbedly, cleaning out the hutches, feeding the animals, and grooming his two favourite Angoras for the afternoon's show in Cressley.

She was a passionate woman who clung single-mindedly to what was hers, and was prepared to defend her rights with vigour. While courting Fletcher she had drawn blood on an erstwhile rival who had threatened to reassert her claims. Since then she had had worse things to contend with. Always, it seemed to her, there was something between her and her rightful possession of Fletcher. At the moment it was the rabbits. The big shed had been full of hutches at one time, but now Fletcher concentrated his attention on a handful of animals in which he had a steady faith. But there were still too many for Mrs Fletcher, who resented sharing him with anything or anybody, and the sight of his absorption now stirred feelings which brought unnecessary force to bear on the sharp knife with which she sliced potatoes for the pan.

‘Got a special class for Angoras today,' Fletcher said later, at the table. He was in a hurry to be off and he shovelled loaded spoons of jam sponge pudding into his mouth between the short sentences. ‘Might do summat for a change. Time I hid a bit o' luck.' He was washed and clean now, his square, ruddily handsome face close-shaven, the railway porter's uniform discarded for his best grey worsted. The carrying-case with the rabbits in it stood by the door.

Mrs Fletcher gave no sign of interest. She said, ‘D'you think you'll be back in time for t'pictures?'

Fletcher gulped water. He had a way of drinking which showed his fine teeth. ‘Should be,' he answered between swallows. ‘Anyway, if you're so keen to go why don't you fix up with Mrs Sykes?'

‘I should be able to go out with you, Saturday nights,' Mrs Fletcher said. ‘Mrs Sykes has a husband of her own to keep her company.'

‘Fat lot o' company he is Saturday night,' Fletcher said dryly. ‘Or Sunday, for that matter... Anyway, I'll try me best. Can't say fairer than that, can I?'

‘Not as long as you get back in time.'

Fletcher pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I don't see why not. It shouldn't be a long job today. It isn't a big show. I should be back by half-past seven at latest.'

‘Well, just see
'
at you are,' she said.

She stood by the window and watched him go down the road in the pale sunshine, the carrying-case, slung from one shoulder, prevented from jogging by a careful hand. He cut a handsome, well-set-up figure when he was dressed up, she thought. Often too handsome, too well-set-up for her peace of mind.

By half-past seven she was washed, dressed, and lightly made-up ready for the evening out. But Fletcher had not returned. And when the clock on the mantelshelf chimed eight there was still no sign of him. It was after ten when he came. She was sitting by the fire, the wireless blaring unheard, her knitting needles flashing with silent fury.

‘What time d'you call this?' she said, giving him no chance to speak. ‘Saturday night an' me sittin' here like a doo-lal while you gallivant up an' down as you please.'

He was obviously uneasy, expecting trouble. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I meant to get back. I thought I should, but there were more there than I expected. It took a long time...' He avoided her eyes as he went into the passage to hang up his overcoat. ‘Didn't win owt, either,' he muttered, half to himself.' Not a blinkin' sausage.'

‘You knew I specially wanted to see that picture, didn't you?' Mrs Fletcher said, her voice rising. ‘I've been telling you all week, but that makes no difference, does it? What does your wife matter once you get off with your blasted rabbits, eh?'

As though he had not heard her Fletcher opened the case and lifted out one of the rabbits and held it up to him, stroking the long soft fur. ‘You just wasn't good enough, was you, eh?' The rabbit blinked its pink eyes in the bright electric light. ‘Nivver mind: you're a beauty all t'same.'

His ignoring of maddened Mrs Fletcher was almost more than she could bear. ‘I'm talking to you!' she stormed.

‘I heard you; an' I said I'm sorry. What more do you
want?'

‘Oh, you're sorry, and that's the end of it, I suppose. That's all my Saturday night's worth, is it?'

‘I couldn't help it,' Fletcher said. ‘I said I couldn't help it.' He put the rabbit back in the case and sat down to unlace his shoes. She watched him, eyes glittering, mouth a thin trap of temper.

‘Aye, you said so. You said you'd be home at half-past seven an' all, and we've seen what that was worth. How do I know what you've been up to while I've been sitting here by myself?'

He looked quickly up at her, his usual full colour deepening and spreading ‘What're you gettin' at now?'

‘You know what I'm getting at.' Her head nodded grimly.

Fletcher threw down his shoes. ‘I told you,' he said with throaty anger, ‘'at that's all over. It's been finished with a long time. Why can't you let it rest,
'
stead o' keep harping on about it?'

He stood up, and taking the carrying-case, walked out in his slippers to the shed, leaving her to talk to the empty room. He always got away from her like that. She grabbed the poker and stabbed savagely at the fire.

 

On Sunday morning she was shaking a mat in the yard when her next-door neighbour spoke to her over the fence.

‘Did you get to the Palace this week, then, Mrs Fletcher?' Mrs Sykes asked her. ‘Oh, but you did miss a treat. All about the early Christians and the cloak
'
at Jesus wore on the Cross. Lovely, it was, and ever so sad.'

‘I wanted to see it,' Mrs Fletcher said, ‘but Jim didn't get back from Cressley till late. His rabbits y'know.' She felt a strong desire to abuse him in her talk, but pride held her tongue. It was bad enough his being as he was without the shame of everyone knowing it.

‘Oh, aye, they had a show, didn't they?' Mrs Sykes said. ‘Aye, I saw him in the bus station afterwards. He was talking to a woman I took to be your sister.'

Mrs Fletcher shot the other woman a look. What was she up to? She knew very well that her sister had lived down south these last twelve months. Her cheeks flamed suddenly and she turned her back on her neighbour and went into the house.

Fletcher was lounging, unshaven and in shirt sleeves, his feet propped up on the fireplace, reading the Sunday papers. She went for him as soon as she had put the thickness of the door between them and Mrs Sykes, who still lingered in the yard.

‘You must think I'm stupid!'

‘Eh?' Fletcher said, looking up. ‘What's up now?'

‘What's up? What's up? How can you find the face to sit there with your feet up and ask me that? You must think I'm daft altogether: but it's you
'
at's daft, if you did but know it. Did you think you could get away with it? Did you really think so? You might ha' known somebody
'
ud see you. And you had to do it in the bus station at that – a public place!'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' Fletcher said, but his eyes gave him away.

‘You'll brazen it out to the very end, won't you?' she said. ‘You liar you. “Oh, I've made a mistake”, he says. “I'll never see her again”, he says. And what do you do but go running back to her the minute you think you can get away with it!'

Fletcher got up, throwing the newspaper to one side. ‘I tell you I don't –' Then he stopped, the bluster draining out of him. ‘All right,' he said quietly. ‘If you'll calm down a minute I'll tell you.'

‘You'll tell me!' Mrs Fletcher said. ‘You'll tell me nothing any more. It's all lies, lies, lies every time you open your mouth. Well, I've finished. Bad enough your rabbits, but I draw the line at fancy women. You promised me faithful you wouldn't see her again. You said it sitting in that very chair. And what was it worth, eh? Not a row o' buttons. What d'you think I feel like when me own neighbours tell me they've seen you carryin' on?'

‘If you wouldn't listen so much to what t'neighbours say an' take notice o' what I have to tell you –' Fletcher began.

‘I've done listening to you,' she said. ‘Now I'm having my say.

‘Well, you'll say it to yourself, and t'rest o' t'street mebbe, but not to me.' He strode across the room and dragged down his coat. ‘I'll go somewhere where I can talk to somebody
'
at's not next-door to a ravin' lunatic.'

‘And stop there when you get there,' she told him. ‘Go to her. Tell her I sent you. Tell her I've had enough of you. See if she'll sit at home while you traipse about t'countryside with a boxful o' mucky vermin.'

He was at the door, pulling on his coat.

‘And take your things,' she said. ‘Might as well make a clean sweep while you're about it.'

‘I'm goin' to our Tom's,' he said. ‘I'll send for 'em tomorrow.'

‘I'll have 'em ready,' she said.

When the door had closed behind him she stood for a moment, eyes glittering, nostrils dilated, her entire body stiff and quivering with rage. Then suddenly she plucked a vase from the mantelshelf and dashed it to pieces in the hearth. She clenched and unclenched her hands at her sides, her eyes seeking wildly as the fury roared impotently in her.

At half-past ten she was in the kitchen making her supper when she heard the front door open. She went through into the passage and her hands tightened involuntarily about the milk bottle she was holding as she saw Fletcher there.

‘Well?' she said. ‘Have you come for your things?' Her voice was tight and unnatural and Fletcher took it as a sign of her lingering anger.

He closed the door and stood sheepishly behind it, his eyes avoiding hers. ‘I just thought I'd come an' see if you'd calmed down,' he said.

‘I thought we'd heard the last of that this morning?' Her eyes were fixed, bright and unmoving, on his face, and Fletcher caught them with his own for an instant and looked away again.

‘We were both a bit worked up like,' he said. ‘I know how it is when you get mad. You do an' say a lot o' things you don't really mean. Things you regret after.'

There was silence for a second before she said, the same tight, strained note in her voice, ‘What things?'

‘I mean like me walkin' out,' Fletcher said. ‘All it needed was a bit o' quiet talkin' an' it wouldn't ha' come to that. It'd ha' been all right if only you'd listened to me.'

‘I never expected you to come back,' she said, and moved almost trance-like across the room to the fire, still watching him intently, almost disbelievingly, as though she had expected that with his slamming of the door this morning he would walk off the edge of the world, never to be seen again.

He came over to the hearth to stand beside her. He started to put his hand on her shoulder, but as she moved away slightly he dropped his arm again and looked past her into the fire.

‘What I said before, I meant,' he said, speaking quietly, earnestly, with the awkwardness of a man not used to expressing the finer feelings. ‘I could ha' told you about it last night, only I didn't see any point. It was all forgotten as far as I was concerned. Finished. But she was waiting for me when I came out o' the show. I told her I didn't want to see her again. There was never owt much between us anyway. But I couldn't get rid of her. She hung on like mad. An' when I looked at her, all painted an' powdered up, I found meself thinkin' what a great fool I'd been ever to risk losing all that mattered for a brazen baggage like her. It took me a couple of hours to get rid of her. She got proper nasty towards the end. Started shoutin' and swearin', right in the street. It was awful.' Fletcher sighed and shook his head and a shudder seemed to run through Mrs Fletcher. ‘I had to jump on a bus in the end and just leave her standing there. There was nowt else I could do bar give her a clout or summat...'

As he finished talking something seemed to snap inside Mrs Fletcher and she began to cry softly. He put his arm round her shoulders, tentatively at first, then, when she offered no resistance, with pressure, drawing her to him.

‘Now, lass. Now then. Cryin' won't do any good. We've had our little bust-up, an' now it's all over in' done with.'

‘Oh, why didn't I listen?' she sobbed. ‘None of this would have happened then.'

He drew her down into an armchair and held her to him. ‘Never mind now, lass. No harm done. Don't cry any more.'

After a time, he said, ‘I'll just nip out an' see to the rabbits, then we can get off up to bed.'

She held him to her. ‘No, leave 'em. Come to bed now.'

He smiled quietly, indulgently. ‘Still a bit jealous, eh? Well, I reckon they'll manage till morning.'

Later still, in the dark secret warmth of the bed, she clung to him again. ‘Did you mean it?' she said. ‘When you said you loved nobody but me?'

‘I did,' he said.

‘Say it, then,' she said, holding him hard.

‘I love you, lass,' he said. ‘Nobody but you. It'll be better in future. You'll see.'