The Watchers on the Shore (22 page)

Mummy paints and Daddy writes and keeps pigs.'

'An artistic background.'

'Apart from the pigs. They just make it possible.'

'My father's a miner.'

She smiles. 'Genuine Yorkshire working-class stock. It's money
in the bank for an actor these days.'

'Why's that?'

'Haven't you noticed? Regional accents are in. It's what's being written.'

'About time too.'

'I'm not complaining. I'll have a go at "Eeh, by gum" along
with the anything else.'

'Yes, you would, wouldn't you?' I say. 'You're like everybody else - you think we all walk about in cloth caps looking bloody gormless. Every house with a euphonium in the wardrobe and a whippet in the scullery.'

When I look at her I see she's laughing, her body shaking and
her eyes dancing with amusement. I scowl, feeling embarrassed and wondering if she's taking the mickey.

'I'm sorry,' she says in a minute; 'but that was lovely; it really
was.'

I have to smile to myself. 'Aye, all right. But it is time we had a
few writers.'

'Do you know one called Wilf Cotton?'

'It rings a bell.'

'It should. He's from your part of the world and he's a miner's
son, I believe.'

"That's right. He wrote a novel about the pits.
Day after Day.
I
read it in paperback.'

'What did you think of it?'

'Bang on. That was the real genuine article.'

'We're doing the premiere of a new play of his for our next
production.'

'Why is he having it done here?'

'I suppose somebody must have approached him. I believe he
lives in the south now.'

I smile. 'There was a bird in a pub when I first came down. She
said there'd be nobody left in Bradford before long.'

'Yes ... Have you done any flat- or house-hunting yet?'

'No, not seriously. I have a look in the local rag, see what's
going. Prices are up down here.'

'Oh yes, the drift to the south-east is expensive. I wonder some
times what the attraction is.'

'Well, with me I suppose I'd've stayed at home for the rest of my life; but I had a bit of a setback and when Albert turned up
with the offer of this job I thought it'd be a chance for a change.'

'What about your wife?'

'Tell you the truth, Ingrid would stay in her own backyard for
ever. But she'll be okay when she gets down here.'

'She isn't a foreign girl?'

'No. Her mother was mad on Ingrid Bergman.'

We share a look and a second's amusement at Ma Rothwell's
expense.

'That's really making the grade in the profession,' Donna says.

'Yes, I reckon it is.'

'What about children?'

'No children.'

'That gives you more freedom.'

'Yes ... Anyway, there's no hurry. I'm still feeling my way
around.'

'Do you think you will stay? I mean, do you like it down here?'

'Oh, I like it all right. I like it the more I see of it.'

I feel her steady gaze on me. She's not laughing now and her
eyes fall away as I lift mine to her face.

'They're putting the towels on,' she says, nodding towards the bar.

'Yes... Time's flown.'

'It has. Thanks for asking me. I've enjoyed it. It's a change from
the same old crowd. Even though I seem to have been talking shop
most of the time.'

'Blame me for that. My further education.'

'All right.' She begins to gather her things, pulling the thin
chiffon scarf close round her neck and buttoning her coat.

'When's the next lesson to be?'

'What?'

'I was thinking we might do it again.'

There's just the slightest hesitation before she says, 'Why not?'

Why not indeed? I'm thinking as we thread our way out.
Where's the harm in having a drink with an attractive bird? Freedom, I was thinking about earlier on. At least I've got a bit
of it down here. It'd be difficult if not downright impossible at
home, with your face familiar to lots of people who might be ready
to jump to conclusions and mind somebody else's business. At
least here I can explore this thing, have a bit of pleasure without
outside interference to throw it all out of joint.

So I think in my happy ignorance. What I don't know just then
is that mischief can be made anywhere, if somebody's keen enough
to make it.

12

The journey home is getting to be a bit of a bind. Even in daylight it's no feast of scenic splendour. The country in the middle, round
Peterborough and Grantham, is pleasant but dull, and the bits at
each end, North London and South Yorkshire, are dreary and
depressing. But it's better than doing it in the dark as I mostly am
now: home Friday night, back Sunday night; once a fortnight,
which makes it pricey as well, costing me on average more than
fifty bob a week.

But now I'm ready to do it a while longer,,long enough to try and get myself sorted out. Before, it was a question of getting settled in at the job, then bringing Ingrid down. Or was it ever as clear cut as that? No; I realize I was content to let things drift for a time, anyway; to let the change work on
me
for a while until I was ready to re-establish the
status quo.
Which I should have done readily enough, and probably before much longer, because I like a tidy, settled life. Now ... well, let it go. Don't think too much about it. Fine, if it wasn't impossible to stop asking yourself questions . .. What do you want with Donna? You're on the edge of falling in love with her. Suppose when you know her better you go right overboard? You've got no reason to think she could feel anything like that about you, have you? In fact, you've every cause to believe you're out of her league, that she can meet blokes more attractive and more interesting than you any day of the week. So there's a lot of useless agony. But if she did come back with something, what then? An affair? How could you get away with that once Ingrid got down here? And you don't approve of affairs at the bottom of you, do you? You think that messing around like that is wasteful and sad; because you believe in mar
riage. But it wouldn't be that kind of affair, would it? Not just a chance for a bit on the side. Oh, no. It wouldn't be like that because what you see as marriage is a man and a woman who are everything to each other. Voluntary, with no resentment. And yours isn't like that so maybe you could cheat for a better feeling. And maybe, because your marriage was never like that, you've always left an escape clause there in your mind; at the back, not much thought about, but there all the time. You could leave Ingrid. Who's to stop you? Oh, she loves you; but somebody always gets hurt in situations like this. That's life. And another thing, don't forget you've had this feeling before,
mate. You had it with Ingrid and found it was just the old randy urge hidden under a lot of romantic moonshine. Only you couldn't leave it alone. How do you know this isn't the same? And how are you going to find out without doing damage? You don't know. You only know you've been married for nearly four years and you're still bloody lonely. That's the top and bottom of it. She's a good kid; she loves you and you're fond of her in a way and you have some good times together. But she bores you. You've got a growing sense of the world and riches you might reach out and touch; and she doesn't even know why you've stretched your arm out.

There's a nice surprise waiting for me when I get home: a letter
from Mr Van Huytens' solicitors saying they've wound up his
estate and enclosing a cheque for five hundred pounds, his bequest
to me under his will.

'Ey, Ingrid, look at this! Five hundred wonderful smackeroos.'

She glances at the cheque in my hand. A big pink cheque that
would be just as big and just as pink if it was for thirty-five bob or
thirteen and six.

'I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever get it,' she says.

'Oh, I knew it'd turn up eventually. Lawyers take their time over these things. Pity, in a way, they don't send cash. Five hundred new one-pound notes. You could count them and really feel you'd got something . .. Five hundred quid, though. You'd better see it gets into the bank.'

'They'll be open tomorrow morning; you could put it in
yourself.'

'
Yeh, I suppose I could. In fact, I will. "I'd, er, just like to deposit
this small cheque." Proper distant bastards, some of these bank
clerks. Anybody'd think it was all their own money the way they
turn their noses up.'

'Are you going to open a new account?'

'No, why?'

'I thought you might want to. You've never had so much money before.'

'It can go into the joint, along with the three pound ten we've already got in.'

'A hundred and four, actually.'

'Have we got so much?'

'Well, I try to put a bit in regularly.'

'Six hundred and four quid. Very nice. Very nice indeed.'

'I just wondered. I thought you might want to keep it separate.
I mean, it's not money we've both earned. It was left to you. It's yours.'

'It belongs to both of us, like everything else. And we shall have
to watch we don't start dipping into it. We keep it whole for when
we need it.'

'You mean for a house?'

'Yeh. When we're ready.'

She says nothing to this but walks away from me and into the
kitchen.

You don't live close to somebody for years without being able to
sense their moods, and I'm thinking now that Ingrid has been a
bit odd in her manner ever since I came in. I follow her and
stand in
the kitchen doorway, watching as she puts a pan of milk on the
stove and gets cups and saucers and plates out for supper.

'Are you all right, Ingrid?'

'Yes.'

'There's nothing wrong, is there?'

'No.'

It's funny how my feeling for Donna makes me more tender
towards Ingrid.

'How's your mother?'

Quite well in herself, really. She's a bit scared about going into hospital, though.'

'She'll be all right.'

'It's not a little operation, y'know. It knocks you up.'

'Yeh, I expect it does. Has she heard any more about it?'

'No. She's expecting to hear any day. She spends her time watching for the post. That's what's getting her down.'

She moves about, talking quite naturally, as she does what she
has to do. But she's avoiding looking me in the face. There's
something wrong and my conscience isn't clear enough for me to
press her to tell me what it is. Maybe I've offended her in some way
I don't know about. Women are funny like that. Perhaps she's
seen my mother and they've had a difference of opinion about something. That's very possible. I go back into the living-room
and sit down with the paper, feeling uneasy.