The Likes of Us (29 page)

He has not spoken for half an hour, nor even drawn attention to himself by lighting a cigarette, when Marjorie says suddenly, ‘What a lovely frock you've got on, Miss Fairchild. I've been admiring it ever since I came in.'

Miss Fairchild's soft mouth purses with pleasure. ‘Oh, do you really like it?'

‘It shows off your figure lovely,' Gladys says. ‘I reckon he'll like it for that, eh?'

Miss Fairchild turns a delicate pink. ‘As a matter of fact,' she says, ‘he chose it.'

‘O-hoh!' Gladys says, while Holroyd gives a startled glance from his eye corners. ‘And paid for it, I'll bet!'

‘Well' – Miss Fairchild stifles a little giggle – ‘he's very generous, you know.'

‘Oh, aye, he always was free with his money,' Mrs Holroyd says, adding as though in casual afterthought, ‘outside the house.'

Again Holroyd seems to shrink in his chair, as though wishing to hide inside his clothes. Still he says nothing.

‘Course, I couldn't wear a frock like that,' Marjorie says frankly. I'm too fat. But I bet our Gladys 'ud look well in it.'

‘D'you think so?' Gladys says.

‘Aye, I do.'

‘I wonder, Miss Fairchild,' Gladys says eagerly, ‘would you let me try it on? Such a lovely frock.'

‘Well, I...'

‘We can pop into the bedroom. It'll only take a minute.'

Miss Fairchild looks at Holroyd as though for guidance, but he is gazing fixedly into the fire and will not meet her glance. She stands up, her hands fluttering uncertainly at the waist of the frock, and Gladys and Marjorie take her out of the room and up the stairs. Now Holroyd lights a cigarette and draws on it deeply. Mrs Holroyd pours herself another cup of tea. They sit without looking at each other.

Upstairs in the front bedroom Gladys is pulling the dress down over her head and shoulders while Miss Fairchild shivers in her slip.

‘Mmm,' Gladys says, turning one way then the other in front of the wardrobe mirror and smoothing the frock over her hips. ‘Not bad.'

‘A bit on the long side, though, isn't it?' Marjorie says, standing back and examining her sister.

‘Ye-es. It'd need a couple of inches off the hem for me.'

‘Well, that's easy.' Marjorie opens a drawer of the dressing-table and takes out a pair of scissors. Before the horrified eyes of its owner she bends and sticks the blades through the hem of the dress.

‘Stop it!' Miss Fairchild shrieks.

She starts towards them but is abruptly stopped short when Marjorie turns and straightens up, giving her in the same movement a slap that sends her backwards on to the bed.

Marjorie sprawls across her with her full weight, turning a corner of the eiderdown over Miss Fairchild's head to muffle her cries.

‘All right. I can hold her.'

Gladys takes off the dress, slips into her own jumper and skirt, and picks up the scissors.

Holroyd turns his eyes to the ceiling. ‘What's going on up there?'

‘They're havin' a woman to woman talk,' his wife says. She reaches for the poker and balances it in her hand as though deciding whether or not to stir the fire.

It is the sight of Miss Fairchild as she bursts into the room uttering little shrieks of near-hysterical anger, the remnants of her dress clutched in her hands, that brings Holroyd to his feet, his mouth agape.

‘What's up?' Mrs Holroyd says. ‘Don't tell me you've never seen her in her underwear afore.'

‘My dress,' Miss Fairchild cries. ‘Oh, look what they've done to my lovely dress!'

‘What you done?' Holroyd demands as his daughters come into the room. ‘What you been up to?'

Miss Fairchild is sobbing noisily now as she looks at the frock. ‘It's ruined,' she says, ‘completely ruined.' She turns a distorted face on Holroyd. ‘This would never have happened if you hadn't brought me here.'

‘Get him to buy you another,' Gladys says, ‘if he's gormless enough.' She has Miss Fairchild's coat now and she thrusts it into the woman's arms. ‘Now hoppit!'

She and Marjorie push her through the kitchen, open the door and propel her into the darkness of the yard, and at the same time Mrs Holroyd places her hand squarely in the middle of her husband's chest and pushes him back into his chair. The girls return to the room and Holroyd cowers away as he sees the expression in the three pairs of eyes levelled at him.

‘Now for you,' Marjorie says.

Five minutes later, kicked, scratched and bruised, he is on his hands and knees in the backyard. The door slams behind him and the bolt shoots home.

There is no sign of Miss Fairchild. Holroyd himself does not come home for three days. But Mrs Holroyd does not mind. She spends a very interesting time discussing with her daughters new ways of making his life miserable when he does return.

A Casual Acquaintance

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was twenty that autumn. It was quite simple the way it happened. I noticed her for the first time on the bus on the journey home from the office one Friday afternoon and fell in love with her on the spot. I pointed her out with studied casualness to my friends Larry and Peter, but neither of them knew her.

I thought about her all weekend and looked out for her every afternoon of the following week. But it wasn't until Friday that I saw her again; for although this was the only afternoon my office closed at five, she evidently travelled at the same time every day. So I watched for her on the one day only and a Friday without my seeing her left me downcast for days, my spirits rising only when the weekend was well behind and another Friday approaching fast.

For weeks I was content just to look at her: to get onto the bus, my heart racing with excitement at the possibility of seeing her and, if it was a lucky Friday, taking a seat from which I could observe without being noticed and gazing at her all the way into town. In the bus station, where we both alighted, I'd stand and watch her cross to her connection, small, straightbacked, with a poise that singled her out from her contemporaries, and a slight haughtiness in the set of her head and the cool glance of brown eyes in a heart-shaped face that chilled in me any notion of a brash approach, a high-handed sweeping aside of the formalities that stood between us.

One Friday afternoon she was talking to another girl as I boarded the bus and brushed past her. I heard her addressed as Joyce. It excited me to have a name by which to think of her. It identified her and made me determined to find out still more about her.

That same afternoon I followed her across the bus station and got onto the same bus. It took us out to the other side of town. An acute fear of appearing conspicuous stopped me from following her to her door, but I watched where she alighted, and at the next stop I jumped off myself and caught a bus back into town. Now I knew her first name and roughly where she lived, and as I rode home I thought that with this increase in my knowledge of her the time was surely approaching when we should meet and really know each other. As it was now, I thought with sudden gloom, she was probably not even aware of my existence, let alone my feeling for her.

As the weeks passed by with no progress made I began, on the evenings when I could leave my studies, to take long walks into the district where she lived. I'd get off the bus and stroll up the road which wound away over the hill and into the next valley. On the brow of the hill I'd stop for a while, leaning on the wall and looking out over the dark forest of chimneys at the lights of the town.

Away in the distance, on my left, I could see the lighted windows of a huge mill working the night shift. It seemed to me like a great ship floating on a sea of night; full of souls, hundreds of people, whom I would never see and never know. I thought then of the wonderful chance that had singled Joyce out for me; and it seemed to me in some way preordained that that same chance would eventually bring us together. I was sure of it.

From the top of the hill I wandered back through side-streets and looked at the curtained windows of strange houses and wondered if she was inside, living her life. On all these rambles through the lamplit streets, which though strange at first soon became familiar to me, I cherished vague dreams of suddenly coming face to face with her and having the right words to say. But I didn't see her once. I went on, living in a kind of suspense, loving her from a distance, waiting for the miracle that would bring us together. Until Christmas was only a fortnight away. And then it happened.

 

On that Saturday, two weeks before Christmas, I was in town, pressing through the throngs of shoppers to choose presents for my family. I was looking at socks in a department store when she turned her head and showed me her dear face, three counters away. I forgot my own errands at once and made my way towards her. I had no idea of accosting her but as she moved on, absorbed in her own shopping, I followed behind. She was by herself.

I kept her in sight all round the store until, at last, with her shopping bag and basket both filled, she made for the door. Alarmed then at the thought of losing her on the busy street, I pushed forward until I was immediately behind her.

I was so close I could have reached out and touched her at the moment the handle of her bag broke and half the contents spilled out on to the floor. She gave an exclamation of annoyance, and before I realised it I was down on my hands and knees picking up packages and putting them back in the bag.

‘There.' We looked at each other as I straightened up, and I was chilled by the lack of recognition in her eyes and in a curious way astounded that she couldn't tell simply by looking at me that I'd been yearning for her all those months.

She thanked me and held out her hand for the bag, which I was holding under my arm.

‘Please let me carry it for you.' I motioned to her basket. ‘You can't manage them both; this handle's useless now.'

‘It's very kind of you.' Her voice was doubtful, and I said, ‘I can see you don't know me. But I know you. I've seen you nearly every Friday on the bus into town.'

Was it politeness or a genuine glimmer of recognition in her eyes now, as she said. ‘I thought there was something familiar about your face.'

It was enough for me for the moment. We moved by common consent out of the store and onto the teeming pavement. There I looked at her. ‘Which way?' I asked, and she smiled at my persistence.

‘I've finished my shopping, so if you wouldn't mind walking to the bus station...'

‘I was going that way myself,' I lied.

‘I'm not taking you out of your way, then.' She gave me another of those smiles which seemed to turn my heart right over. ‘But it really is very good of you.'

We walked along in comparative silence. I had the reputation among my friends of being something of a wit; but now I was almost tongue-tied and could think of only the most commonplace remarks. And soon we'd be in the bus station and it would all be over.

‘This is really lucky for me,' I said all at once.

She glanced up at me. ‘Oh?'

‘Yes. I've seen you quite a lot these past few months and I've wanted an excuse to speak to you.'

‘Oh?' she said again.

‘I couldn't simply walk up to you and start talking, could I? You know with some girls you could, but not you.'

We had stopped on a corner now and she was gazing at me with hazel eyes full of bland sophistication that made me feel fourteen years old. I felt that I was on the verge of a blush; but I was determined to see it through. I might never have another chance. She glanced at her watch and I blurted out, ‘Well, you see, the idea was that I should ask you to come out with me some evening.'

‘But I don't know you,' she said.

‘That's the trouble,' I said, feeling smaller and more foolish with every second she went on gazing up at me.
‘But how else can we get to know each other?'

‘No,' she said, freeing me from her direct gaze at last. ‘I see your point. But I'm afraid I couldn't. My boy friend wouldn't like it, you see.'

‘Oh! Your boy friend.' What a fool I was! Seeing her always alone, I'd never considered the most obvious point – that someone else might have a prior claim on her.

She went on, blasting all my hopes and driving me deeper into confusion. ‘He doesn't live round here and we only see each other at weekends; but he wouldn't like me to go out with anybody else during the week.'

‘No,' I babbled. ‘No, of course not.' All I could think of now was what a fool I must look to her. I gave her back her shopping bag. ‘I'm sorry I said anything.'

Going home, I thought that these things worked only in books or on the films; in real life you were just made to look silly. And it was pride that was really uppermost in my mind now. So long as she didn't turn the incident into a joke to tell to her friends, it mightn't be too bad. I'd told nobody about her; not even Larry and Peter; and I was even less inclined to take them into my confidence now.

But when that confusion had left me I realised that the setback had not changed my feelings about her. I abandoned my evening walks but still watched for her on Friday afternoons. And now the ice was broken; we could greet each other as acquaintances, and she did at least acknowledge my existence by letting me ride with her into town and talking with me while we waited for our connections. Sometimes Peter, who lived out in my direction, would be with us, but more often we were alone. All the rest of the winter my mind was full of her, and the idea that, if only I were patient, she might one day turn to me. This became the great impossible dream of my life. My feeling for her deepened steadily, strengthened by the very absence of encouragement, until it seemed to me that all the wonder and delight of Woman was contained in her sweet and gentle self. And, sustained by my dream, I went on wooing her passively by my presence on those short homeward journeys on the one afternoon in the week.

 

On an afternoon in March, with the days lengthening into spring, we stood together chatting idly in the bus station. I was talking about a film I'd seen at the weekend. She mentioned then that she'd spent the weekend indoors and, wondering at this, I mentioned my unknown rival for the first time.

‘He's neglected you for once, then?' I said, trying to keep my voice light.

‘For always,' she said. ‘It's over. It has been for weeks.'

My heart gave a tremendous leap of joy. Over! Then there was nothing to stop her going out with me.

‘Are you still thinking about that?'

‘Of course.' Oh, God, wasn't it all I'd been able to think about since I first saw her!

‘But why?' she said, and it seemed to me that there was a great weariness in her voice. ‘We're friends, aren't we? Isn't that enough for you?'

‘It can never be enough.'

‘But why?' she said again.

‘Because... because I like you too much.' No, it wasn't good enough. I had to say it, even here in broad daylight, among streams of people. I must say it. ‘Because I love you.'

She shook her head. ‘It's no use. I'm sorry, Clive, but it could only lead to disappointment. People never live up to expectation, you know.'

It needed only one word from her to make my world a place of life and joy and laughter; and I was shocked by the disillusionment in her voice. ‘Why
…
that's defeatism! Look, maybe you are a bit cut up just now, but you can't look at life in general like that.'

‘It's the way things are,' she said with quiet finality. ‘It's the way it goes.'

I could only think she had loved him very much, and envy him for that. Whatever had happened between them had hurt her badly. Frantically, I searched for something else to say, then gave it up as I realised that it was no good. I knew with miserable certainty that it never had been.

I saw her several times more before summer came, bringing with it the end of my deferment and a summons to serve a postponed period of National Service.

I took a job in Wales when I came out of the army and it was only on infrequent weekends that I went home to see my family. As time went by I lost touch with Larry and Peter and I saw neither of them for several years until I ran into Larry quite accidentally while on a visit home. It was lunchtime and we went into a pub to talk over a glass of beer. Larry had been working away too – in London – but he'd married now and returned to settle in his home town.

‘And Peter,' I said when we'd gossiped for a while. ‘What's he doing nowadays?'

‘He's in the Merchant Navy. Third Engineer. Or is it Fourth? I forget now.'

‘I seem to remember hearing he'd got married too.'

‘Lord, yes!' Larry's ugly mobile face screwed itself into a grimace of disgust. ‘Bought himself a real packet there. He signed on to get away from it all.'

‘As bad as that, eh? Who did he marry? A local girl?'

‘Called Joyce Henryson. Used to work up the road from us. That's how he met her. On the bus.'

‘Joyce Henryson?' Could it be? I tried to analyse the feeling the name evoked in me. How long since she'd been in my thoughts? I could almost feel myself blushing now at my past folly. But trouble?

‘That's right,' Larry said. ‘You knew her. You used to ride down into town with her, didn't you? I remember thinking at one time that you'd a fancy for her yourself.'

‘And you say old Peter went to sea to get away from her?'

‘He certainly did, mate. What a so-and-so she turned out to be! He always knew she liked a good time, mind. He was mad about her, but after they were married he just couldn't keep up with her. He wrote to me and I got him a job with my firm in London. The money was better but she wouldn't move and he was no better off, trying to keep both ends going and seeing her only once every few weeks.'

I drank from my glass, listening to him.

‘A sorry tale, Clive. Then... well, he eventually found out that she was carrying on with a bloke she'd known years back. A married man. Seemed she'd had an unhappy affair with him then, and now he'd left his wife and there was nothing standing between them but poor old Peter. She seemed to blame him for that. I tell you, she got him so he didn't know what he was doing. And you know what a steady lad he always was.'

I nodded. ‘It'll be divorce, then?'

‘The sooner he gets rid, the better.'

We drank in silence for some minutes.

‘No signs of you getting hitched, then, Clive?'

‘No... I haven't found the right one, I suppose.'