Late Call Read online

  “There’s nothing funny about it, Mrs. Calvert, let me assure you of that. I felt sorry for you at the time but I can see I needn’t have wasted my pity. Let me tell you’ll be very lucky if that dirty old man doesn’t land in the courts. Some young girl, I expect. That was why I made my complaint. Not for myself, but in case some young girl should suffer.”

  Mrs. Amherst stopped, realising with alarm the involuntary revelation to which her anger had driven her; but Sylvia showed no sign of comprehension. Although she would dearly have loved to rub the woman’s face in the filth of her behaviour, the whole subject carried too much humiliation for herself and Arthur; best let it die. “I’ve no doubt at all,” Mrs. Amherst, emboldened by the silence, went on, “that that’s really why you’re going. Ritson Hotels have reached the limit of their patience. He’s been in the public rooms again. I’ve noticed it. High blood pressure indeed! You’re well enough to shout filth at me. You’ve been dismissed. That’s the truth of it, isn’t it?”

  Sylvia’s flushed excitement died away into a leaden despair at the hopelessness of trying to control Arthur. She had made him promise solemnly not to speak of her illness. People only have contempt for sick folk.

  “Who told you I had high blood pressure?” she said.

  “Your precious husband.”

  “Well, I’m afraid Arthur wasn’t telling the truth.”

  There were times when you had to lie outright; and, as for Arthur, he deserved to be made the scapegoat.

  “So I can see. ‘Don’t worry my missus with it’, indeed. A very good way of wriggling out of paying what he owed. Well, I want my twenty pounds back.”

  It was a big sum to repay on the spot, what with the expense of moving and that, but Sylvia pulled out her cheque-book from its pigeon-hole in the desk and wrote out the cheque.

  “I’m surprised you lent your money to a dirty old man,” she said, as she handed it over.

  “Well,” Mrs. Amherst hesitated, “I suppose I felt I owed him . . .” She stopped in mid-sentence, Sylvia looked her straight in the eyes—china blue they were like a silly doll’s, whites speckled with blood.

  “Captain Calvert rose from the ranks,” she said, “and gave his health for his country. We all owe something to men like him.” She felt at once proud as though she were standing on a platform as “God Save the King” was being played, and also ashamed, because these were things not to be boasted of. “And now, come on, get out,” she said. And Mrs. Amherst went.

  Sylvia decided to calm herself by reading through the letters on the desk. It was the Company’s desk and whatever happened she musn’t leave any personal letters behind for the new manageress to find. Not that there would be anything very intimate or that she would see the new manageress again; but if you let strangers meddle with your personal things, you put yourself in their power.

  She could not forbear reading Harold’s letter again, although she had read between the lines so many times now, and anyhow there was nothing to be done about it, they were committed.

  DEAR MOTHER,

  This letter is just to welcome you and Dad to “The Sycamores”. You will find it very different here from 529 Enright Avenue. To a degree both Beth and I were unwilling to move from the old house. It was so much what we had hoped for when we came to; the New Town—a spacious road, a house modern and yet neighbourly. We were also, of course, sorry to leave Craighill. It was, you know, the first district of Carshall to be completed after the Town Centre. And the first to have its own shopping centre and community hall. And we were the first residents. But the world can’t exist on pioneer sentimentality. Especially the England of Mac the Knife (don’t breathe these revolutionary sentiments to Dad); the whole country seems to be dying of a surfeit of nostalgia. But you’ll hear H.C. on that theme when you come to live here: the children blow a whistle now for what they call TFFTST (Time for Father to Stop Talking!) So—you have been warned!

  Anyhow I think you’ll like Melling. It’s on the far side of Carshall away from the trunk road; almost into the country, but, of course, facing towards the town. “The Sycamores” is a good modern house—E. and S. T. Burman White Ltd., the people who did the new kiosks on Brighton front that were illustrated in The Guardian a month or two back—with its own two acres of garden—but, of course, not isolated; it conforms to the Carshall neighbourhood principles. Beth and I were very hesitant about buying a fully-detached house like this (I mean not in a street); it went all against our principles. The last thing Beth wanted was to be taken off her essential work here on committees and on the bench by houseproudery (a Family word —used by the children with great contempt!). But automation solved that problem. And now Death has solved it for us altogether. But about Beth’s death I can’t write; perhaps I may talk about it when you’re living here or again I may not be able to. I’ll only just repeat what I said in my last letter, that one of Beth’s last hopes was that you would move in here sometime. We had no idea of this blood pressure of yours then. So you see, you don’t have to worry about “intrusion” (Quote yours of the 4th December); Beth wanted it.

  The truth is that the house has been a bit big for us from the start. I’ll feel much less conscience with you and Dad here. Then, too, children grow up and out of the Family world; though you’ll find us a closely knit group of individuals (the best sort of society, in my humble opinion). You’ll have your own big bed-sitting-room and your own things. In fact (if you want it that way, but I know you won’t), you can just think of “The Sycamores” as a hotel without the responsibilities.

  Truth to tell it’s a most unsuitably opulent residence for the headmaster of the local secondary modern, as I am sure any wormy snoopers, who don’t know about my textbook income, think. You’re probably laughing and saying what’s he fussing about having a nice house for, anyway; but the New Town and what it stands for were the centre of all Beth and I believed in, and now she’s dead, it’s all I have.

  That sounds a bit harsh about the children. And, of course, they’ve been fine and we have grand times together—it’s a mad house I warn you. But as Ray has just said, “Tell Gran it’s just the first certifying that hurts, after that it’s all over.” Mark’s going through a phase of adolescent rebellion—C.N.D. and so on —I’m glad to say. Judy’s school friends incline towards the “awfully county, don’tchyaknow” which gets me down at times. Having her Gran here will help her a lot, I’m sure.

  About Dad. Don’t worry. I didn’t mean to sound childish. I’ve come to terms with all that years ago. It’s not like when we were kids. Beth taught me. She said if your mother can put up with him, it’s not for you to grumble. Of course, he’s welcome here. I only meant to read the Riot Act in case. I have got a responsible position here and I can’t have him trading on it. But as you say the years have sobered him down. Tell him from me the Cranstons (some very nice friends we’ve made in Melling) hope to have him as a regular fourth at bridge—they’re just a bit scared their bridge won’t be good enough for him. And, of course, it won’t be. Has anybody ever been quite good enough for the old man? But enough of that.

  Sylvia put down the letter with the others, and, gathering them into a bundle, took them to her bedroom to pack in the last-minute suitcase. Then she undressed and got into bed. Harold was so clever. It was difficult to know. She’d never been close to Beth or him for that matter, or the children. And as to Arthur and Harold! Well that was how life went. Of the two subjects on her mind she really preferred to let Mrs. Amherst come to the surface.

  The old bitch had felt ashamed of what she’d done, but you’d need a sensitive measure to tell how much her shame cancelled out her spiteful action. Sylvia had no such measure; she could only think that she need never see the woman again. There was no point in bearing grudges, life was too short. Yet it was lucky that she was on pills, she thought as she took one, for Arthur’s behaviour was enough to bring anything on. Not only to have told the old cow that his wife was ill when he’d promised faithfully ...
no, that wasn’t so blameworthy, after all in doing so he’d thought about sparing her; it showed the doctor’s remarks hadn’t gone completely over his head, it showed he still had some tenderness for her. Sylvia checked her thoughts; she’d been bitten too often not to know how unsafe were any sentimental feelings for Arthur. Anyhow she was disgusted with him, borrowing money from a woman who’s had him turned out of the public rooms. And then she remembered that she couldn’t justify even this charge, because, of course, she’d never let him know that there’d been complaints against him. After forty years of marriage you can’t let you husband be humiliated; she’d simply told him that Ritson’s had made a rule “no staff in the public lounges”, and had kept out of them herself to give the lie colour. And so he’d never been taught his lesson, and no one could blame him for not learning it. She had to laugh again to think what a muddle life could be—you do the right thing or try to, and it only leads to worse. “I don’t know,” she said aloud in the nearest to a Midlands accent she could get, “I really don’t know.” The quotation from her favourite character old Mrs. Harker in her favourite tele show “Down Our Way” made her as usual feel warm and relaxed. It was sad in a way how little you could know in a busy life, but repeating the tag in Mrs. Harker’s comic voice somehow made it seem all right, something everyone felt. You could stretch your legs, scratch where it itched, and go to sleep.

  She was woken from her sleep by his impossible singing at an impossibly late hour. Another wife might have immediately thought—drink; but that, thank God, she never had to fear, with his lungs and heart, smoke and drink had been almost strangers for the last thirty or more years. Just five a day and two half pints or one whisky—that was the complete limit. This enforced abstention always made her feel lenient towards him, for everyone has a right to a good time at least if he can get it. Arthur’s singing, however, had no such excuse; it was just a complete lack of consideration for anyone but himself. She pretended to be asleep. He was singing one of his old favourites, and, angry though she was with him, she wanted to hear it to the end, for it was one of those old songs that came home to you—the words were so true.

  ”It’ll be just the same,

  All the same,

  A hundred years from now.

  No use a-worrying,

  No use a-flurrying,

  No use a-kicking up a row,

  You won’t be here,

  I shan’t be here,

  When the hundred years are done,

  But somebody else will be right in the cart

  And the world will still go on.”

  Well, that was true enough, there was always someone in the cart and there always would be. She ought to have it all out with Arthur here and now, not let him get away with it; but what would be the good? It’ll be all the same a hundred years from now. The same rows leading up the same blind alleys. The doctor had said avoid worry; and Pat Reynolds, “not to worry, Mrs. C”; and the song, “no use a-worrying”. And she was so sleepy and warm.

  And then Arthur farted twice very loudly. He said automatically “Pardon!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Arthur, get into your bed.”

  “I said ‘pardon’, didn’t I?”

  “Pardon! You always say ‘pardon’ and then think everybody’ll forgive and forget what you’ve done. Like a spoilt child.”

  “God Almighty! What’s all this about?”

  “Nothing. Go on, get to bed. We’ve got a tiring journey ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “And a nice one, I can see, if you’re going to use that martyred tone all the way. I go out to the club on a bloody awful wet night because you want to have your little presentation to yourself and this is all the thanks I get. God knows, I try to do everything I can for you . . .”

  “You don’t have to do anything for me, Arthur, except not to deceive me and tell lies. You know you have only to come to me if you want money. That I’ll always do my best to make your pension go further. Goodness knows I scrimp and save as it is. But to go to strangers and tell lies about it ...”

  “What do you mean ‘lies’?”

  “You told Pat Reynolds the money was for me.”

  “Oh, so that ruddy cow’s come mooing to you, has she?! thought she was supposed to be so fond of you. A nice way to show her feeling for an invalid . . ..”

  “Arthur, I will not have you telling people that I’m an invalid. Not when we get to Harold’s. Do you understand that?”

  “Who the hell’s been telling people? Who the hell’s interested for that matter? You’ve got a damned sight too self-centred here, Sylvia—let me tell you that. People at Carshall won’t care whether Mrs. Arthur Calvert has high blood pressure or not. You’d better get that into your head.”

  Sylvia kept her eyes closed as she talked with Arthur. Now she guessed that this was goading him to fury, for he came and stood over her.

  “Are you bloody well listening?” he shouted.

  “Yes, Arthur, I should think the whole hotel could hear you now.” But she didn’t open her eyes; she couldn’t bear to see his face with its familiar distortion of rage.

  “Damn the hotel! We’ve slaved ourselves to the bone for them. We don’t owe them anything!”

  Sylvia burst out into laughter. “You owe Pat twenty pounds and old Martineau fifty and heaven knows what beside that I don’t know of.”

  His tone changed. “Honest to God, Sylvia, that’s all there is. Anyway Martineau’s loan was between two gentlemen. I don’t know how the bleeder has the cheek ...” He sounded aggrieved.

  “Oh, Arthur. I’ve just paid Mrs. Amherst her twenty pounds.”

  “All right, so you know everything. What the hell’s it got to do with you, anyway? They’re my debts and I’ll settle them. I don’t know what you wanted to pay old mother Amherst for. She’s got plenty enough in alimony. She could wait. Anyhow I only borrowed the money so that you wouldn’t be worried with a lot of small bills. All this moving costs more than you think.”

  “Arthur, don’t be childish. You’ve had nothing to do with the moving, as you know. You didn’t even pack your own clothes. Go on to bed. I’m tired.”

  “You’re tired.” His voice was so violent in tone now that she wondered if he had perhaps taken a drink too many. She felt his finger nails tightening into the flesh of her arm. “You ruddy cow, I wish to God I’d never seen you.”

  As always he was obviously ashamed of his sudden brutality, for through half-closed eyes she watched his shadowy form slink away in the dim light to his own divan on the other side of the large room. She remembered a jackal, or a hyaena was it? In some travel thing on tele. How easily Arthur could be hunted, she thought, but instead of feeling protective towards him, the idea of his cowardly slinking away from pursuit filled her with disgust. She snuggled into the mattress to shut out such silly fancies. From the other side of the room she could hear the terrible wheezing and groaning of one of his coughing fits. As she laid her head back on the pillow suddenly the black emptiness before her closed eyes turned red and wheeled round twice. The giddy spells frightened her more at night or when her eyes were closed, for then she was swung helplessly out into a void; whereas by day objects familiar to her, however much they reeled and danced, remained things known.

  A couple of crocks the pair of us, wasting our little bit of breath in stale rows.

  She felt a welcome cosiness when a few minutes later he said in his chatting voice, out of the darkness, “Another accident at Rushman’s corner. Young chap on a cycle thrown off the esplanade in that bloody great gale. Broke his hip, poor blighter.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth in compassionate disgust.

  “The council ought to be ashamed,” her voice found the same chatting level. “Accidents year after year!”

  “Break your bloody neck before they’d spend their precious money. They’re all the same. ‘Write to the Ministry’ old Harry Leighton said to me at last year’s dinner, ‘tell them your colonel says that the country should do bet
ter by the men who fought for her!’ Write to the Ministry! Bloody good that would do. ‘The Minister has instructed me to inform you . . .’ Inform my arse.”

  “I read the other day that they’re going to raise the war pensions.”

  “Ah, you read. If you believe all you read . . .” and his voice subsided into wheezes and groans.

  “Well, I expect if we get a new government they will.”

  “Governments! What do they care about us? We don’t belong to the great future. We’re not teenagers. We only stopped them on the Marne that’s all. We ought to be bloody dead.”

  “The young ones wouldn’t have an England if it hadn’t been for the tommies like you, Arthur.”

  But she wanted to go to sleep, or at any rate sink into the warmth and forget. In the ordinary way she would have worried herself into sleep with the next day’s little frets—telling Concepcion not to put toast on the table until it was asked for, persuading old Birdie to deal with the mess in poor Mrs. Tyler’s room, getting on to young Pablo about that back-door lock, blowing Mayhews up about the tough beef . . . but tonight there was only a past you couldn’t change and a future you couldn’t see into. You needed all the warmth you could get to help you into sleep. It might have been some sort of transference of thought—it does happen, especially with people who are close, and Arthur and herself were close, whatever the bitterness, just through forty years spent together.

  “You’re not to worry, Sylvia. If it doesn’t work out at Harold’s, we can always go elsewhere. We’re not tied.”

  It wasn’t true, of course: they were tied, they couldn’t afford to refuse Harold’s offer. But that was Arthur all over—black could be white as long as it made him feel more comfortable for the moment. He lived for the moment. The warmth of her cheeks gave her warning. I musn’t get worked up and bitter. A man who’s been badly gassed and become a life-long invalid couldn’t do other than live in the moment. All the same she musn’t encourage him to any uppishness at Harold’s, and seventy-three years was a long life to have lived from minute to minute.