Mavis Belfrage (4 page)

“I don't mind washing a few dishes Mavis.”

“I was going to do it later but after a meal I like to relax.”

“Our difference is mibby due to early training,” said Gordon amiably. “You can relax with dirty dishes near you. Not me! I've washed up automatically after meals for the last fourteen years. You cannae expect me to stop just because
you're
here.”

“Good,” said Mavis, glancing briefly at Colin who did not seem to notice. She went on reading. Gordon concentrated on his paper. Once his eyes rose when Mavis flicked ash far beyond the blue china ashtray
close to her hand but there was silence for several minutes

until turning a page he said, “Aye aye. I see old Enoch is shooting his mouth off again.”

“He's a menace,” said Mavis sharply.

“A very clever man.”

“The man's a menace.”

Gordon smiled and laid the paper down with an air of opening an interesting debate.

“Now there I don't agree. You, as an educated woman, have to admit that Britain is overpopulated.”

“The race issue has nothing to do with that. A third of the immigrants into Britain are Irish. A third are whites from Europe and our former colonies. Only a minority are black or brown or yellow.”

“I don't say Powell is right on the race issue; I
do
say he's right on the immigration issue. Keep out the lot, I say – Irish and ruddy Australians included.”

“I wish you two were quieter,” said Bill. “I find it hard to concentrate.”

“You forget that the British have been invading and exploiting the countries of coloured people for well over two centuries,” said Mavis coldly. “We owe them something back, I think.”

“Who
haven't
the British upper classes exploited for well over two centuries? My father was a docker in the thirties, he could have told you about exploitation. It's only since old Clement Attlee started breaking up the ruddy old empire that the British worker has had a decent livelihood and trade unions who can defend him against the bosses. And now you upper-class
socialists lecture
us
on what
we
owe the coloured races!”

“I am NOT upper class!” said Mavis furiously stubbing out her cigarette.

“You've all the traits, Mavis.”

“What traits?” she asked, glaring at him.

“Well the first that springs to mind is the way you smoke. You smoke all the time but never take more than a few puffs from each fag. If you'd known real poverty you'd smoke them to the tip like most folk do.”

“What's the next trait that springs to mind?”

“Dad,” said Colin quietly, “Bill is right. You're making too much noise.”

“What's the next that springs to mind?” said Mavis as if Colin had not spoken.

“Nothing Mavis. I'm sorry,” said Gordon in a low voice. He went on reading. So apparently did Mavis for a moment

then suddenly fired at Gordon with, “Do you know how much money Britain has invested overseas?”

“Sorry! Cannae help you there Mavis,” he murmured, amused.

“Over a thousand million sterling: money bringing us wealth and goods without us giving back a thing to the third-world countries where it's invested. These investments don't just benefit the rich. Our tight little island floats nicely and evenly on a sea of dark-skinned poverty. And when some of the exploited climb aboard we scream that they're swamping us.”

“You a Communist?”

“No.”

“For someone who isnae a Communist you know a hell of a lot about British foreign investments,” said Gordon with a hint of passion.

“Dad,” said Colin. Gordon subsided

and two minutes later said cajolingly, “Mavis.”

She did not look at him until he said, “Shall I tell you why I admire you? I admire you because you've opinions – strong ones – so you and I can have good brisk arguments with no holds barred. See my Colin? You couldnae start an argument with him if your life depended on it. He won't pass an opinion on a single thing.”

Both Gordon and Mavis looked at Colin who carried the tray of turrets to his model city and began clipping them onto the walls. Bill sprang up and knelt on the sofa, watching.

“He used to have opinions,” said Gordon. “He defended pacifism in his school debating society. When he was fourteen he marched to Aldermaston. He was the youngest member of a committee – what was it called? – The Committee of a Hundred. Him and me had some fine old argy-bargies in those days, because though I'm for the Labour Party I'm definitely moderate. Do you remember the arguments we had about that Colin?”

“Yes,” said Colin drily.

“Then he went to university – Cambridge, no less. What did Cambridge do to you, Colin?

“Educated me.”

“Look at him now! He won't voice an opinion. Doesn't
argue. Refuses to vote. And spends his spare time playing with toy bricks.”

“I don't understand why people in this country think their opinions matter,” murmured Colin, working on his city walls. “The Labour Party refuse to fight the stock exchange. The Tories refuse to fight the unions. The radical demonstrators link arms with the police and sing
Auld Lang Syne
. I refuse to feel angry about this. Like most of us I would hate a civil war with starvation, looting and machine-guns fired out of bedroom windows. Our political system is a means of using up energy which might change things. Political opinions are hobbies, like mine –” (he glanced with satisfaction at the towers of Glonda) “– exactly like mine.”

“O!” cried Mavis flinging her book down, “I wish I could shake and shake you till you came
alive
!”

Colin looked at her with an obstinate little smile. Bill said plaintively, “Don't talk like that Mavis, it hurts my head. Colin, precisely when can I attack Glonda?”

“When it's complete.”

“But you keep changing bits! I don't mind preparing an attack if I've a date to work toward but you won't give me one.”

“Right. The fifth of November. Our war will start on the fifth of November. That gives us plenty of time.”

“Don't depend on it Bill,” said Mavis, “we may not be here by then. And now it's your bedtime.”

She went on reading. The three males stared at her, Bill sullen, Gordon quizzical, Colin horrified. Gordon stood up saying, “How about hot chocolate and toast before you go Bill?
I'm
having some.”

“All right,” said Bill in a subdued voice. He gathered
his book and tracings, put them on the tea table and asked if he could leave them there till tomorrow. Neither Mavis nor Colin answered so he followed Gordon to the kitchen.

Colin sat on the sofa facing Mavis who looked brightly back. He said, “What's wrong?”

“I'm leaving, Colin. I came to live in your house – not your father's.”

“Two thirds of it is mine!”

“Only legally.”

“We … must talk about this later.”

“Talk all you like. It won't change me.”

At seven o'clock next morning Gordon, dressed for work, was boiling an egg in the kitchen when Colin, unshaven and morose, entered wearing dressing-gown and slippers. Gordon said, “Get yourself a mug – there's tea in the pot,” and put another egg into simmering water.

“I'm tired,” said Colin, yawning and pouring.

“I'm not surprised. The noise kept
me
awake till two thirty.”

“What did you hear?”

“Nothing distinct – just a man and woman arguing.”

“We'll have to leave, Dad,” said Colin, sighing.

“Who's we?”

“Mavis, me and Bill. You see –”

“Don't explain!” said Gordon quickly. “Nothing needs
explaining. But
you're
not leaving. I can't pay for this house on my own you know.”

“I'd still pay my share of it –”

“What! And the rent for somewhere else? And support a woman like Mavis?”

“I'll manage it,” said Colin with obstinate calm. “Mavis has her Social Security allowance.”

“She won't have it if the pair of you share the same lodgings. And how will I feel living alone in a house this size? All I need is a room and kitchen near the shop, Colin, somewhere with a decent pub round the corner. I've missed the pubs since we came out here.” Gordon performed deft movements which ended with him seated facing his son, a soft-boiled egg in a cup before each of them. Colin was watching him with a mournfulness Gordon seemed to find amusing.

“Stop looking tragic!” he cried. “You arenae driving a poor lonely old soul from hearth and home! I'm not fifty yet. I've more friends than you have. Anyway, I'll be here at weekends if only to weed the garden. I doubt if you or Mavis will do it.”

“You're … a very … decent man,” said Colin, smiling at him lovingly. Gordon grinned with pleasure then frowned and said, “Since I'm leaving I'll be so bold as to ask a question I couldnae have asked otherwise. Mavis. Why don't you boss her a bit? I think she'd be happier if you did.”

“Boss her,” said Colin, staring at his egg. “Taking orders is the thing she most hates. If I bossed her she would leave me.”

“And you're afraid of that?”

“Terrified.”

“Can't help you there son.”

Gordon finished his breakfast and went to work. Colin returned to the curtained bedroom. Without switching on the light he sat on the bed beside Mavis and stroked her hair until she opened her eyes and said, “Mm?”

“I spoke to him.”

“Well?”

“He's leaving.”

She thought for a moment then said, “Won't that be very sad for him?”

“I think so. But he makes light of it.”

“Well,” said Mavis, yawning, “if you can accept it so can I. He isn't
my
father.”

One Saturday Mavis returned to the house in Saint Leonard's Bank and found a cluster of toy balloons against the living-room ceiling. Strings hung from them. Colin and Bill were tying the ends to the turrets of Glonda.

“Hullo!” said Mavis dropping her shopping bag on a chair. “Have you noticed how late I am?”

Both had noticed. Colin had been worried but the sight of her made that irrelevant. He had never seen her so cheerful. He sat down to enjoy the sight, stretching his arms and saying, “It doesn't matter. I gave Bill his tea.”

“I knew you would.”

With dance-like movements she went to the window
and rearranged flowers in a vase saying, “I met Clive Evans in the supermarket. It was nice meeting an old friend. He took me for a meal.”

“Evans the Welshman?” asked Colin, still contemplating her with pleasure.

“Yes. It was fun meeting him by accident like that. He's teaching now. Do I seem drunk?”

“You seem cheerful. He bought you a drink?”

“No, he admired me. I made a tremendous impression on him. Don't
you
feel intoxicated when someone admires you?”

“People don't admire me,” said Colin smiling ruefully.

“Make them! It should be easy. You're full of good qualities. Bill you scruffy little tyke, let me have a look at you.”

Bill was still tying balloon strings to spools on the sides of turrets. She pressed his head forward, peered at the nape of his neck and said, “A bath is what you need, my lad. Upstairs, undress and get into one. Scoot!”

“I had a bath last night, Mavis.”

“You need another. Scoot!”

Bill pulled a face and left. Colin said thoughtfully, “I never liked Evans. Did you?”

“In college? O no. He was pompous and smug. Do you remember how he said ‘I think that sums it up?' whenever he thought he'd been smart? But outside college he's different, very witty and funny. Almost as big a surprise as you.”

“In what way?”

“In college you were suave, aloof, dominating. Outside you were mothered by your daddy and play with toys on the living-room table.”

Colin brooded on this until she sat by him and leant against his side, then he relaxed, sighed and murmured, “Well, you're happy Mavis. That's good.”

In a childish, confiding voice she said, “I want to ask you a favour.”

“Mm?”

“But first you must promise not to be angry.”

“Why should I be angry?”

“I can't possibly tell you until you promise not to be.”

“All right. I promise.”

She held his hand palm upward and stroked the lines on it with her forefinger saying slowly, “Colin, Clive – Clive Evans I mean – would like an affair with me and I would love one with him –”

He pulled his hand away; she cried, “You promised not to be angry!”

He stood, stepped away, turned and saw her lying back in the sofa watching him alertly. He said, “You want to leave me?”

“No, I … I think I love you Colin. You're the decentest man I know, besides being my only friend. But I'll leave if you like.”

“Why? What's wrong with us?”

“Frankly the sex thing isn't the fun it used to be, is it?”

“Isn't it?”

“You know it's not. You're still very sweet and tender of course but you leave all the work to
me
.”

“You said you dislike assertive men.”

“I do but there should be a middle way … Don't look so miserable Colin!”

She rose and came to him saying, “Listen, order me
not to do it. Tell me not to see him and maybe I won't.”

“I can't
order
you to do anything,” he told her grimly. “We aren't married. We've made no promises. You can leave me when you like. I can ask you to leave when I like.”

“Are you asking me to leave?”

“No,” he said and turned away feeling cold, hard and defeated. “I need you.”

“And you're not angry?”