Holiday (22 page)

‘She wasn’t keen to talk to me; she didn’t want to see you.’

‘Why should she, then?’ David had annoyed him.

‘We can’t let things go by default. This girl has to be told bluntly. You know that. If your marriage is worth saving, then an effort must be made. And if you won’t, I will.’

‘I see.’

Fisher rang off, Vernon fuming.

As he washed, stood, smart in a brand-new shirt, wide tie, he pondered his reminiscences. He and his wife had grown apart since Donald died; they had quarrelled with petty violence of late, but before that had stretched a period where they had nothing to say to each other, where every conversational urge had disappeared in boredom, where inertia had prevented all contact but the habitual. He had taken her a cup of tea in bed, but often without a word. If they rolled together in sex, it was joyless, masturbatory, a spurt of pleasure for him, a dull reminder of sense to her. So that their more recent quarrels had blown up like a civil war, against the flat place, the indifference, the despicable existence in the same house of himself and this young unknown woman, who had made no demands, or sacrifices, and to whom he owed, he considered, some debt of love she would, could not claim. Her flung plates, her moody outbursts relieved him, because now he knew what she felt, or imagined so, and could direct his behaviour accordingly. He would be polite; no result. Against his volition, he lost his temper, and she raged back. They did not make up. They shouted, fisted the table, kicked furniture in bitterness, frustration, mere tantrum, but they had no profit from it. Today’s quarrel done, where’s tomorrow’s gall?

Meg must have been wearied into agreement; she could argue, but briefly, and without either belief in or desire for a conclusion. He’d see her; they’d look at each other, and he’d tell himself that he scrutinised his wife. Where her thoughts flew, or rising anger, or her boredom he would not fathom; she’d sit through the bit of desultory chat they managed, apparently as puzzled as he, and at the end they’d shake hands or take a drink together and part. He’d admire her, even if her eyes were dark and her hair unkempt, but he would not be shaken by either the fierceness of possession or the passion of belief in one marriage that could make him forsake all, cleave only to her at that minute. He cared for her, would do her good, wished to help if he knew how, but he was incapable of stretching his arms out, begging her to resume wifehood. It was not that he was frightened of a rebuff, or that he feared the cat and dog life they’d resume; the appeal was not worth, no, wrong. His present self had not the energy to make it.

He looked well, in wide-striped shirt, light tweed, hair curling over his forehead, sideburns bushy.

At the gong he took his place.

This evening noise swelled; they bandied sentences, witticisms between the tables, because tomorrow they’d return sunbronzed, and after Sunday’s flatness they’d start work, while new guests blinked at the prospect of expensive idleness. Both Smith boys were in bed, dog-tired. Sandra wore a silver maxi-dress that made her taller, less sturdy. Terry had oiled his hair. Lena Hollies in lemon, had visited the hairdresser, so that her coiffure stood brilliantly from her head, but suiting her, marking the good cheekbones with a new air of subtle defiance. She’d shadowed her eyes in green, hung thick cubic beads and had heavily ringed both hands. Beside this mild brilliance, her husband wore sober blue, and had reshaved, so that he seemed substantial, a man of, not wealth, but integrity, community interest, widely respected. His shouted banalities belied the appearance, while his wife, for all her sartorial sparkle, said little, acted politely. Beyond them the other guests at the two tables by the bow-windows acted hilariously batting a balloon up, and donning, then passing on, a red paper helmet.

The landlady, the girls splashed smiles as they served. One of them, Lisa, had a date with an Italian boy and received advice all through the meal from Hollies and paterfamilias by the radiator.

‘These Mediterranean types . . .’

‘They’re passionate . . . Ooough!’

‘You take my advice and stand by the fire extinguisher if you can; he’ll need it.’

‘So will she, as you ask me. Every time she puts a jelly on my plate, the steam comes out of her ears.’

‘Oh, our dad. Behave yourself.’

‘’s not me. ’s ’er. Look at her now.’

The girl juggled with dishes, red, but not put out. Tips would make up.

‘I’d give her a kiss myself if there was nobody else about.’

‘Go on, Mr Hollies.’

‘Would you kiss us, love? I’ve dabbled me after-shave behind my ears.’

‘She daren’t, you see. Give him one, Lisa. Get a bit of practice in.’

In the end Hollies rose, took her into his arms, kissed her in cheers, as the landlady acted out suicide by carving knife.

‘How’s that?’ Hollies shouted. ‘How about you and me tonight, then?’

‘What about old Eyetie?’

‘What will Mrs Hollies say, ne’er mind him?’ the landlady asked. Mrs Hollies said nothing, but eyed Fisher under the confection of her hair.

‘How about this girl?’ the other men shouted. ‘Our Sally.’ She was sallow, perhaps fifteen, wearing glasses, daughter of the house. ‘She’ll be a one, won’t you, my lass?’

The child smiled, only just, mouth thin.

‘Who’s she meeting tonight, then?’

‘The washing-up machine,’ Sally answered.

‘Ay,’ said father. ‘That’s what my wife calls me.’

Noise swelled; grown men acted like children, and children watched, cautiously, the antics of those who tomorrow would be handing out smacks and threats. Fisher enjoyed himself, remembering, without embarrassment, his own father. There’d have been no sexual innuendo with Arthur, but he’d have matched these in coarse noise, in neighing laughter. And yet he’d not be jovial as a rule at his own table; his sociability he expended in public, at the shop, on passers-by, in holiday parlours. Fisher fingered the buff envelope containing his bill, and upstairs wrote the cheque immediately. Money well spent. Nobody to confide in. On the corridor downstairs he could hear continued merriment, the almost fierce chatter of voices, the roars, the explanatory material that always followed a well-received joke. At that he smiled; who was he to be anybody? What claims had he to put himself above these? He did not envy; he did nothing. The guests trooped upwards, breathless with laughing, paused on his landing to extend time of fellowship. In the clatter of talk, of voice-slinging, Fisher caught one sentence which seemed to come from the father of the family by the window, Hollies’s rival in bawdry. He must have been close by the door, and his words pitched through, deep, in clarity.

‘Lovely piece of mahogany, that. Beautiful.’ He commended the banister. Full of pleasure of the hour, he extended his joy to an inanimate object. No answer was given; doors banged; people climbed higher. God bless Meg.

He packed his case, cleaned this evening’s shoes and the pair he’d wear tomorrow before he settled to a book. He did not enjoy himself, glanced out of the window but the street was noiseless, deserted, as if on this last night the visitors made long, special efforts of clearing and cleaning before the last round.

Knocked door.

He looked up in surprise, called an invitation to enter. Mr and Mrs Hollies edged in, wife first, were asked to sit down. Lena murmured words on the size and lightness of the room. Her husband hummed, made an awkward little excursion into politeness saying how much they had enjoyed Fisher’s company. Touched, Fisher returned the expected clichés. Hollies enlarged on his views, still not altogether at ease, but determined, bursting through words like brushwood. Man of parts, some sense in observations, not arguments without backing, pleasure to be had in hearing the language put to that sort of use, not often had the opportunity, the privilege. Mrs Hollies seemed brighter-faced as if this effusion from her husband suited her, expressed her opinion; it in no way embarrassed her, as it did Fisher.

Hollies, paused, hoisted his trouser-legs, waited, self-satisfied.

Fisher nodded, cheesed. No gracious lady could better that.

Well, then. Hollies started. He was, he’d make no bones, going down to the pub now. There followed a long, lucid explanation why he could not drink long hours at home and why this was such a treat, a necessity. Made the holiday. Lena didn’t want it. She enjoyed a drink, but in moderation. He did not blame her. This was the crux; would Mr Fisher like to walk along a little later, and perhaps Lena could accompany him. The young Smiths weren’t coming. Bed early for them; they’d need to start early. Hollies dropped no sexual hint; the broad tongue of the dining room he’d discarded for a politer approach. Didn’t take his drink too well, Terry Smith. Thinking too often what his wife would say. This statement showed no mark of malice; truth must be spoken. But he’d be glad if Mr Fisher agreed, would walk along with Lena, join them in a last pot, because he, for one, would not forget this acquaintanceship.

The man could use words. And about him was solidity; he was strong, would frighten if one crossed him, wasn’t without intelligence. If Fisher’s father had gone round to the next bedroom with a similar invitation, not that he would have visited a public house, his son would have squirmed at the pretension. Delivered in his father’s squeaky counter-genteel the identical sentiments would have stood condemned; in this deep voice, from this square frame, they flattered, became acceptable.

Fisher said yes to the proposal, if Mrs Hollies were agreeable.

Mutual beckings concluded the agreement, so that Hollies rose, announced that he did not want to waste good drinking time and that it would be very near eight before he supped his first mouthful, armed his wife out.

Pleased beyond reason, Fisher settled again to his book.

Once, returning from work, he’d gone out of his way to call in at a little shop where the man baked his own bread. Back at home, he found that Meg had been out all afternoon and that the roundsman had not called. He produced his offering swathed in tissue-paper.

Meg had kissed him, at once, and the bread had tasted delicious, crusty. They chewed and praised, delighted with each other. In the evening, they’d taken a walk round the streets, arm in arm, a man and woman in love, saying so, showing it. Meg had never seemed so uncomplicated, and he’d attributed the day’s victory to his lucky call in a shop which he remembered as smelling delicious. At about that time Donald had been conceived.

Now he felt something of the same simplicity of triumph.

These people wanted his company, came to ask for it. He lay on the bed, watching the light on the ceiling, hearing the purposeful steps or voices from the street. Half an hour later, he’d changed his shoes, washed again, and in his shirt sleeves was filing his nails when Mrs Hollies tapped.

‘Are you ready?’ he asked.

‘I’m in no hurry.’

He invited her to sit down. She seemed small, and the lemon frock, well cut, with a wide hem, brightened her. Ten years back she would have been pretty, with a pertness, a vivacity of expression that was only part obliterated now. As she sat, hands in lap, she promised more than modesty, or diffidence; it was not a flaunting, but more of a statement, an affirmation that she was a character, a lively woman who for her own purposes hid her light. He wondered, amused, what that light was.

‘I see no sense in mere swilling,’ she said.

‘No.’

He had not yet donned his jacket.

‘This is the best room in the house,’ she stated.

‘I’m lucky. I just phoned three days before I arrived.’

‘There’d be a cancellation.’

That conclusion pleased.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a drink here. Before we walk down the road.’ He undid his portmanteau, pulled out his half-bottle of gin, and a couple of bottles of tonic water. He poured into plastic mugs.

‘Your health,’ he said.

She stood, looked comically round, stiff as a toy soldier; held the glass aloft, took a hefty sip.

‘I like gin,’ she said.

‘Why do you?’

‘Relaxes me.’ She tasted again, with all the zest of her husband.

‘Damn braces, bless relaxes,’ he said.

‘And the same to you.’

He grinned, closed the book lying open, sipped with his back to her, though he watched her plain features through the mirror. Head lowered, she did not move, like a child in disgrace, until she straightened suddenly, shying mare, snatched at her gin, drank.

‘Happy?’ he asked.

She caught his eye, reflected, waved her glass round, downed more.

‘I like this,’ she said. He poured again. ‘You’ll have me drunk before I start.’

He described his visit to Lincoln, and she the round of shopping for presents. These bargains moved her; earning a reduction here, a better buy there she delighted herself. On Sunday afternoon next she’d be at the eldest daughter’s distributing largesse, while Jack, replete, dozed in or bawled from an armchair. She talked about her husband for a time, not without affection, but sharply, knowing his weaknesses. He had a good job at a colour printers, looked after her, but needed to be told when to change his shirt or socks. ‘I pick his clothes for him; he don’t care. He’d go out dressed like a scare-crow if I didn’t get on at him. And yet he’s as neat as a pin. When he’s finished at ‘The Plough’ tonight, he’ll be tipsy, but there’ll be not one drop of beer spilt down his suit. You see.’

‘He’s a good husband, then,’ Fisher said.

‘Yes. He is.’ She hesitated.

‘Here’s to him, then.’ Fisher picked the mug from the dressing table. ‘And his lady wife.’ That delighted her, but he recognised the stilted phraseology of his father. She stood to acknowledge the toast, took a step or two, claimed she was dizzy, sat on his bed.

‘What will you think of me, Mr Fisher?’

‘You’re on holiday.’

‘That’s one thing about Jack. I don’t have to go down to the pub if I don’t want to.’ She looked small, pathetic on the counterpane, moistening her lips. ‘Did you wife drink gin, Mr Fisher?’ He noted the tense.

‘Now and then.’

‘I’ll drink her health.’ She stood, drank, waved, plumped down. Tight already. ‘What was she like?’