The Watchers on the Shore (20 page)

'You're looking sombre.' This from Donna, who perches with
her thigh on the arm of the sofa near my shoulder. A long, tender, compassionate thigh that I feel a sudden soft urge to rest my head
against. 'Deep and complex thoughts?'

'Dreary and woolly thoughts,' I tell her, answering her smile and covering up with, 'I must suddenly have gone tired.'

'The party's nearly over.'

'They look good for hours yet.'

Oh, they'll pack up quite suddenly. Except for a few stragglers who'll want to sit about till morning drinking coffee and talking about the meaning of life.'

'I'd better find Albert.'

"I'm not pushing you out.'

'No, love. But he was getting very friendly with Fleur the last
time I saw him. If I'm walking home I want to know in good time.'

'I can set your mind at rest about that. Fleur's sleeping here
tonight.'

I've got to laugh. I get up.

'Early call tomorrow?'

She shakes her head, smiling. 'Nothing till the show tomorrow night. That's the best of Christmas productions; they go on a nice
long time.'

'Well, I'm on at nine o'clock sharp.'

'Sharp?'

'I'm always punctual.'

'Would you like some coffee before you go?'

'You don't want to start that now or you'll be making it for
everybody.'

'Oh, I think I could do it discreetly.'

She stands up.' I'll come with you, anyway. See what Albert and
Fleur are doing.'

We find Albert on his own in the kitchen, standing with his glass
topped-up again and one hand scraping about in the bottom of a big potato-crisp packet.

'Donna was asking if we'd like some coffee before we go.'

'Oh, are we going?'

'I don't know, Albert. I'm ready when you are.'

'I thought Fleur was in here with you,' Donna says.

'She was. But she went off looking green and saying she didn't feel well.'

Donna says, 'Oh, dear. I don't know why you men can't...'
Her voice is a touch peevish and colour's come into her face as
Conroy chips in:

'Look, don't blame me. I've just been keeping her off it.'

'That's right,' I say, realizing now that he could have given her a
drink if he'd wanted to.

'Everybody knows she can't drink, yet they go on giving it to
her,' Donna says, as though she hasn't heard him.

'
They
might,' Albert says. '
I
prefer 'em sober then they know what they're doing.'

'Look, I wasn't saying anything about - '

'I don't know what you were saying,' Conroy says. 'I'm just
telling you where I stand.'

A sudden sharp little exchange, and me wondering what can have brought it on; the obvious answer being that Fleur's given Albert the brush-off and he's feeling narky about it.

Oh, I'd better go and see if she's all right,' Donna says and stalks out. She's a fiery little piece, I'm thinking, when she's got her dander up. Plenty of spirit under that calm, gentle outside.

'Are you ready for off?' Albert says to me.

'Any time, Albert. But don't let me drag you away.'

'No, I've had enough.'

He looks at his glass then takes a good swig followed by a rousing
belch which he apologizes for, patting his belly.

'Only way to sup bottled beer. Let the gas come out ...'

He takes another drink that empties his glass, then we go to find our coats. They're in the bedroom and I'm a bit cautious in opening
the door in case Fleur's retreated in there. The room's in darkness
and Conroy reaches up past me and flicks on the light. It's a small
room with cream-painted walls and just enough space for the
single bed, wardrobe and the dressing-table, which shows the
feminine touch in the frilled skirt round its legs. We get our over
coats out of the duffels, donkey jackets and macs piled on the bed.

'Best two bloody coats here,' Conroy says.

'I suppose we're earning the most money.'

'Aye.' He pulls his coat on. "There's times when I can't stand bloody actors,' he says, the sourness coming through again.

As we leave the bedroom he says suddenly, 'Hang on a minute.'
He goes off into the living-room and I wander after him as far as
the doorway. The party's thinned out a bit by now but there's still enough people sprawling about or else hanging on to one another
to the noise of the record-player in the dim light and the smoke.

Conroy comes out of the kitchen, stuffing a pint bottle of beer into each overcoat pocket and shoving one at me.

'Here, take that.'

'What for?'

'Because it's ours. We're not leaving it for this scrounging
shower.'

As I slip the bottle into my pocket Donna comes out of the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind her.

'She's been sick. She'll be all right now.'

'Get her to bed,' Conroy says. 'That's the best thing.'

'I can't till everybody's gone home.'

'Dump their coats out here in the passage.'

'No, she'll be all right. She's swilling her face with cold water. She goes off quickly and comes round the same way.'

Conroy opens the door. 'Well, we'll be seeing you.'

'Yes.'

'Thanks for having us,' I say, thinking of the neck of the bottle
sticking out of my pocket and how mean it must look if she sees it.

We go down the stairs and out into the cold clear night. I'm
feeling just a bit out of sorts with Albert as we walk round the corner and across the thin hard snow of the car park. It's not just
that he's spoilt the end of the party, but that I might be associated
with his peevishness in Donna's mind.

'Freezing hard,' he says as we approach the car. I say nothing, waiting for him to get in and reach over to unlock my door. The silence gets over to him as he runs the car out on to the road.

'You're not saying much.'

'I've nowt to say, Albert.'

'You mean you don't like saying it.'

'I just thought you were a bit short with Donna, that's all.'

'Did I start it? Am I responsible if Fleur gets too much to drink? I'm not her bloody keeper.'

'It just struck me that the fatal Conroy charm had let you down and you were feeling peevish about it.'

He grunts. 'If you ask me she's as bent as a fiddler's elbow.'

'Eh?'

'I'm not saying she couldn't enjoy it with a man, but she'd as
soon have a woman.'

'You
what!'

'That's what I think.'

'Gerraway!'

'You've heard about it, haven't you?'

'Well, of course I have, but -'

'But you've never come across it in a woman?'

'Oh, I can't-'

'How many men queers were there at the party?'

'None, as far as I know.'

'There were two at least.'

'Well I never saw them.'

'You saw 'em but you didn't spot 'em because they didn't act like pansies. They don't all, y'know.'

'I think your imagination's running riot, mate.'

'The theatre's a gathering ground for 'em, Vic. It goes with artistic leanings, so they say.'

'And what about Fleur?'

'I think she's got a crush on Donna. She's staying the night.'

'Oh, come on, now. You're not trying to say that Donna's bent as well.'

'Probably not. But I've a good idea about Fleur.'

'How do you know?'

'Oh, one or two things she said about Donna and herself.'

'You know, I don't see that a woman has to be queer just
because she doesn't want it with you.'

He takes that without rising. 'No, there's more to it than that. I'm sure there is.'

'Oh Christ!'

'What's it matter to you if the whole crowd of 'em's bent,
anyway?'

'I just hate talk like this.'

'Does the thought of it revolt you?'

'Look, live and let live; but there was nothing queer about the way Donna kissed me tonight.'

'Ah ha!'

'Ah ha what?'

'It upsets you, doesn't it? You like to think you might have a
chance.'

'I don't know what you're talking about... Look, take it easy. There's ice on the roads.'

'It's all right. It clings like a limpet.'

'I felt the back end slide just then.'

'Imagination.'

'Aye, like you with Fleur.'

'All right, Vic, let's drop the subject. But watch it, old lad, just
watch it.'

'Again, I don't know what you mean.'

'I know you. I know you better than you think I do. You've got a lot to learn.'

'So it seems.'

Conroy opens the front door with his key and we go up through
the dark house - quietly, though the sound of the car being parked
in the driveway and the slamming of the doors must have waked
anybody ready to be disturbed - and say good night on the first
landing outside Conroy's room. Up in my own room
I
undress and
brush my teeth and get into bed without lighting the fire. I wind my
alarm clock, check that it's set for eight, then lie with my feet
pulled up behind my thighs, waiting for the sheets to get warm,
and thinking about what Albert said, and earlier, when Donna
wished me a happy new year and I kissed her. That odd fleeting
look in her eyes that, if I'm any judge, was an instant of accurate
womanly intuition about me. An intuition about a feeling that
comes over me again now; foolish, hopeless, with the seeds of all
kinds of trouble in it, but with a glimmer at the heart of it, persistent
and unmistakable, of something I can only call joy.

11

All I know is that I've got to see her again, and quick. Beyond this
is a country of complications where my mind won't travel;
probably because the passport to it is a return of feeling by her
that I can't imagine either, though it's naturally what I shall come to hope for more and more. It's hard to remember that I once felt
this way about Ingrid, watching her walk along an office corridor
or sitting on the crowded bottom deck of a bus, without either hope
or hopelessness at first, but just curiously happy in the beauty of
the feeling itself. But without guilt, either. And that's an ingredient
that'll be part of this too soon, whatever happens from now on. I
come from a kind of people who see a positive virtue in never having
felt temptation.

Well, one advantage to me of her being an actress is that I can
see her nearly any time, except that watching her on the stage isn't like actually meeting her, and I can't go so many times to the same
show or somebody's going to catch on pretty quick. And there's
Conroy.. Living on top of each other, like we do, means it's a bit
tricky for me to do things on my own without him knowing about
it. I've made no friends in the town apart from the theatre crowd
and if I say to Albert that I'm off somewhere on my own he's bound
to think it a bit funny. It wouldn't matter if I was prepared to be open about it with him, but he's guessed too much already and if I'm going to act like a moonstruck kid I don't want to parade the part for his amusement. Not yet, anyway.