England's Lane (32 page)

“Look. It wasn't … much. Well it wasn't! Not really! It was only the once, just that one time, you know that Janey. Don't know what came over me. Still can't understand it. Some sort of brainstorm, or something. And anyway—I don't want to talk about it now. Why are you doing this to me, Janey? Hey? I mean—we haven't talked … you've hardly spoken in years. And now you're doing all of this …”

“Does it seem cruel? I don't particularly intend it to be—though nor do I mind if indeed you are suffering. The reason, I suppose, I have decided to speak is that after Mrs. Stammer and I had our ridiculous little chat, I saw then that all sorts of unsavory things would be bound to emerge. And they are, aren't they? Emerging in rather a rush. My source for much of this, in case you were wondering, is someone who is probably unknown to you. Young Doreen …? Do you know …? No—well hardly surprising, really. She is the junior in Amy's. You wouldn't have encountered her. She comes
across to see me every day. Oh—you are shocked. Good good. Oh yes—every single day. Dear dear—you don't seem to think things through, do you Stanley? She does my hair. That's how it started, anyway. Have you not noticed how it is always neat? My hair? Always clean?”

“Your hair … no … I never really paid it any mind …”

“No well. And not eating—why wasn't I dead? You just don't think, do you? Well I owe my continued existence, such as it is, to little Doreen, really. She soon started bringing me a selection of rather tasty delicacies from Bona. And it recently transpires that she is really a very fair little cook, for one so young. Oh yes—I do eat, Stanley. And rather well. I have to pay her, of course. Just as well I still have a little bit of Daddy's money left, isn't it really? It would be awful if I had to depend upon you. She spends it all on clothes, as youngsters will. Mrs. Stammer does this too, although she is no—what do they say?—spring chicken. And nor does she have the money to do it, but there is yet another tale of coming woe, patiently waiting in the wings. Just lately though, little Doreen has become a veritable mine of information. Mr. Barton I happen to know about because the silly little thing was foolish enough to have her head turned. Flattery, gifts and blandishments. A sophisticated gentleman, by all accounts—I really wouldn't know—who takes his pleasures where he may. And one afternoon just weeks ago—who should she see with him, arm in arm …? Well—none other than your beloved Mrs. Stammer. Doreen was left in no doubt as to the depth of the relationship: it was, she said, all in the eyes. Well well. And rather acute for a virtual child, don't you think? Anyway, the Lane is alive with it, apparently. The real joke—and I do confess to finding this rather intensely amusing—is that she, Mrs. Stammer, while remaining clueless about the transparency of her actual infidelity, remains under the wildly idiotic impression that Mrs. Goodrich is spreading her
usual malicious rumors about herself and another. You, actually, Stanley. Does that, I wonder, make you feel most terribly manly? Does it, Stanley? Is that what you are, then? Terribly, terribly manly? And all this nonsense has stemmed from the fact that you were so very gauche and foolhardy as to kiss her, I gather. Our heroine, Mrs. Stammer. Downstairs. In the shop. But of course no one in their right mind could possibly believe that a woman such as that, whom even I can perceive as to be not wholly without certain qualities—certainly she would appear to be capable—that she might entertain even the remotest interest in one such as yourself. Well obviously. Laughable, no? And this she would have in common, I imagine, with every other woman on God's green earth. Because this is not an area, is it Stanley, in which you particularly excel …? So there, I am rather afraid, we have it. Mrs. Stammer might even as we speak be contemplating abandoning Mr. Stammer in order to pursue the course of true love. Oh bless. How terribly torrid. Though she really needn't bother, you know—because gentlemen who rove, such as Mr. Barton … they will always return to the nest. For Mrs. Barton, I am told, is quite the cultured beauty. And wise. Oh yes—very evidently wise. So how will the carnival end, I wonder …? Where shall we all find ourselves, once the carousel has ceased its turning …? Well let's see … if Mrs. Stammer does indeed continue on her horribly misguided and really very wanton course, well then it clearly seems as if poor Mr. Stammer might be finding himself at something of a loose end. Doesn't it, really? Though he is, I hear, not over-discerning … so I'm just really wondering aloud, I suppose, but possibly there might be, shall we say, some sort of opening for you there, Stanley …? Maybe the two of you—who knows?—could find yourselves very happy together …? Ah! Ah! Finally, you contemptible donkey—finally you rise to it! At last you are up on your feet. Any other man would have struck me long ago. That's
right—come at me—that's right. Look at your eyes—there's hatred in your eyes now, Stanley, and that's how it should be. Can't you see it? And your hands—they're flexing, aren't they? Bunching up into fists. Are you intending to do me harm? I so much yearn for it. Do you boil with rage, with murderous desire? I see that you do. Well what are you waiting for …? Show some gumption! Do it! Do it!
Kill
me, Stanley …! Why don't you? Why are you waiting? Why don't you just kill me now …? Do it! Do it! No—don't go …! Don't you dare go and leave me like this, Stanley …! Come back! Come back right this minute, you miserable imitation of a man, you! Come back! Come back now, you damn bloody bastard, and
kill
me …! Please … oh please. Just come back now … and kill me. Please … oh please … Do this for me, Stanley … Please. Oh please … I am begging you for help … can you not see it? Please just do this one last thing for me … That's it—that's right. Come back. That's it—and now a little bit closer, Stanley, so that you can just reach down and finish me. That's it, that's it—good, Stanley: good. Ah … you have come back to me. Thank you, Stanley. Now and at last, you can truly be a man. A real man, Stanley—don't you long for it as much as I do? And now … and now … just this one last thing that together we both can achieve. Do it! Do it! Do it, Stanley—if not out of hatred, then as a pure and final act of devotion. Come on, Stanley. Be … gigantic …! Kill me. Kill me. God's sake kill me
now
 …!”

Even as he fell out of the back door of his shop, Stan was thinking quite feverishly: the boy, the boy—I can't, I shouldn't, I can't just be leaving the boy! Have to, though—got to get out of there now. Such a scene …! Christ Alive—what an unholy scene that now I've just got to run away from. My face … the whole of my face is stuck with sweat, and yet when I go to wipe it, I'm feeling so
cold. Shivering, I think—but it could be still just the tremble in my hands. I'm holding them both out in front of me now as I'm scuttling down the Lane—my heels on the pavement, it's sounding like pistols—and useless, they're looking: plain useless, they are, the both of my hands. And the night—couldn't tell you if it's an icy one: got no coat on and I'm boiling inside of me. Even hotter now that I'm barging my way to the bar of the Washington. Haven't been in here for just so many years, and already now I'm remembering why. The beery hot breath of it, that gets you in the neck. This sweltering crush of men in their big gray belted gaberdines with an
Evening Standard
poking out of the pockets—folded to the racing, folded to the pools. The clatter and the stink of it. Smoke gets in your eyes. Doesn't matter, though—it's the drink I'm wanting. Once I get a couple of Scotches inside of me, I'll maybe be calming down a bit.

“Mr. Miller, isn't it? Sweetshop, yeh?”

“Yeh. Whisky please. Scotch. Large one.”

“Don't see you in here very much, do we?”

“No. Whisky, yes? Large one?”

“Quite a stranger.”

“Mm.”

“Haig all right?”

“Black & White …?”

“Don't do Black & White, mate. White Horse? Vat 69? Bell's, we got.”

“Fine. Doesn't matter. Haig. Fine.”

“Oh so now you do want Haig. You want to make your mind up.”

“Haig. Large one. Now.”

“Yeh all right—you just hold your horses, will you? Some people. Want soda? Water with it? Something else?”

“No. Just. That. Christ
Alive
 …!”

And it's so bloody small even once you manage to get hold of it. And I'm ordering another from this red-faced man with his big raw hands who is eyeing me now with this open contempt which I've seen on people's faces before—I don't know why that's all I ever seem to get from anyone. And now I've got that one down me as well—so I'll get in just the one more, and then I've got to pull myself together, haven't I? Work out what it is I'm going to do next. Be a man about it. Show some gumption. There's nowhere to sit, though … couple of benches over the far side with a few old biddies sprawling all over them—cackling like witches, they are. Knocking back the port and lemon, gray little curls falling out of the hairpins: what an example to set, I ask you. What sort of mothers can they be? You just hope their children never get to see it. Yes so anyway … I suppose I'll just stay standing where I am, then. Might as well. No real point in moving. Jammed all over. Handy by the bar anyway, for when I'm needing another.

“Well blimey—this is a right bleeding turn-up and no mistake …! What you doing in here then, Stan? Ay? Ain't never clapped eyes on you in here before, have I? Ay? No, not never. Here, Charlie—knows old Stan, does you?”

“Yeh—wotcha, Stan. Gets my fags off of you, don't I? Forty Capstan, regular as clockwork.”

“Yeh—me and all. That's how he affording the Scotches, ay? Nice for some. Look at us, Stan—two poor miserable bleeding bastards, ay? Both of us only got the leavings of a pint of Bass.”

“Hello … Jim.”

“Yeh. So what's up with you then, Stan? Letting rip, is you? Having a bit of a night out? Bit of a knees-up? Painting the town wossname, is you? That's the sort of style, is it?”

“No I … not really. Just, you know—fancied a drink, that's all.
Think I'll maybe have another one, actually. Lot on my mind. Oh, um—can I get you a, um …?”

“Very handsome of you, Stan. That's dead handsome of him, ain't it Charlie? Ta very much—don't mind if I do, you twisting my arm. Well we'll join you on the Scotches then, ay? Keep you company. Funny old world, really—I were only just saying to Charlie, weren't I Charlie? How it always the same old faces what you get in here. Weren't I just saying that to you, Charlie?”

“You was, Jim. You was. He were, Stan.”

“Yeh and then who go and pop up but good old Stan here. Funny old world, ay? Ooh—lovely, that is. Liquid gold. Keep the chill out, ay Charlie? Just what the doctor ordered. Better than any hot-water bottle, that is. Here Stan—Charlie and me, we just been thinking we might sort of, er—go on some place else, kind of thing. Bit later on. Ay, Charlie?”

“Yeh, Jim. Some place else. One way of putting it …”

“Just wondering whether my dear old mate Stan here might quite like the idea … What you reckon, Stan? Up for a bit of that, might you be?”

“Um … sorry, Jim—I don't quite, um … what are you talking about? I don't know what you're saying. I feel a bit, um … I want to buy one more of these, if I can just get that man's attention …”

“Here, Reg! Hoi! Reg! Over here, mate! Good lad. This is Reg, Stan. You met? Yeh? Reg—Stan. There we go. Who would like three more Scotches off of you—and maybe one for Reg and all, ay Stan? What you say? Yeh? That's the style. You're a real good bloke, you are. Diamond. Ain't he, Charlie? Don't you reckon? Yeh—see? That's what Charlie think and all. Diamond. Now see, Stan … about that other thing. I mean. I don't know how you fixed, like. At home, sort of style … Missus, and that. But from what I heard, well …”

“What? What have you heard?”

“Here here—keep your hair on, Stan …! What wrong with you?”

“You can't possibly have heard. What have you heard? Unless it was Milly. But she wouldn't. Not Milly. She wouldn't ever. Was it Milly? Was it? Has Milly been talking to you, Jim? She hasn't been talking to you, has she?”

“Mill? Nah. Don't know what you saying. And she don't much, if I'm honest. Talk to me. Not much. Nor do nothing else, if you gets my drift. Not for me, any road. Nah—not for me. Something I got to look into, matter of fact. Yeh well—never mind all that. But it's all that what I'm sort of like … kind of on about, see? Not to beat about the wossname. See what it is, Stan—there's these two gels. That right, Charlie?”

“Yeh. Lovely, they is. Aggie—that's the one for me. Do anything for you, Aggie will. And ever so pleasant with it.”

“Yeh. Reckon she'd suit our Stan here right down to the ground, Aggie would. What you say, Charlie? Here—don't mind, does you?”

“Nah. Can't get down there tonight anyway. Skint, aren't I? Cheers, Stan—your very good health, sah! Scholar and a gentleman. Ooh yeh lovely—hit the spot, that do.”

“What … you mean—women who …?”

“Yeh. You got it. Ain't he, Charlie? He twigged now, ain't he? Women what does. Nutshell. And I ain't talking charring neither. Think about it. All right? Take you down there, you fancy it. And they better than a hot-water bottle, and all—tell you that. Put hairs on your chest. Have a couple more, maybe, and then we's can have ourselves a little wander down there, you like the idea. Ever so near. Adelaide Road. Just over from the bus stop, there. Telling you, Stan—make a man of you, Aggie will.”

“Let's go. Let's do it. Let's go now. Show some gumption. Do it!
Do it! What are we waiting for? Let's just do it now …!”