Pure as the Lily (17 page)

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Fifteen minutes later he entered the tall house in Haven Terrace that had been turned into four flats. As he went into the hall a door on the right opened quickly and he looked at Mrs. Jessie Briggs. She was as he had described her, big, blonde, with prominent bust and buttocks. She was no more than twenty-five; her skin was pale and her eyes were big and blue and arched with dark brows that contrasted strongly with her very fair hair.

“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Walton; I thought it was Albert. How are you?”

“All right, Mrs. Briggs, thank you Cold, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, it’s very cold.”

She came from the doorway and took a step into the hall. *I heard something about you today, Mr.

Walton. “

“Did you, Mrs. Briggs?”

“Aye.”

He waited while she smiled broadly at him and he noticed that an odour came from her. It wasn’t scent and it wasn’t body sweat, it was something about her, and whatever it was it was an attractive smell.

“I was talking to Mrs. Wright in the fish-shop, and she got on about her boy—he’s in your class at school and mind, this is true’ she pushed her head towards him ‘she said the boys think the world of you, and she said you had written a book. Yes, she did; a book of poetry.” He felt himself turning scarlet, like any second-former being brought up before the Head for some misdemeanour, a personal sexual misdemeanour.

“Oh, that’s not right, Mrs. BBriggs.” He was even stammering.

“Oh, but she said it was. A book of poetry that’s what she said.” Oh my God! He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Oh. Oh, that was a long time ago before the war, Mrs. Briggs. I ... I used to dabble in it. Everybody does you know before they’re twenty; it’s something that comes with spots.” They were both laughing now and she said, “Oh Mr.

Walton, something that comes with spots! Poetry! Oh Mr. Walton! You know something, Mr.

Walton? I like poetry; I read poetry, there’s bits by Ella Wheeler Wilcox in the paper and I read them.

Oh, I do like a bit of poetry. “

“I’m glad to hear that, Mrs. Briggs, I... I....* At this point he was thrust forward by the door being opened, and there entered Betty. She stopped and stared from one to the other.

As if addressing a friend, Mrs. Briggs said on a high note, “Oh hello, Mrs. Walton,” but Betty, turning on the big blonde woman a look that was meant to floor her, passed by her husband, took out her key from her bag and opened the door . and left it open. And now Jimmy, as if he had as many legs as an octopus, found difficulty in turning round and away from Mrs. Briggs; but as he did so he gave her a weak smile and a nod, and she returned his salutation with a broad smile and a nod.

sven. “

Yes, well! Now what can you make of it? “ He forced himself to smile.

“Caught red-handed in the hall with a blonde!”

Don’t be facetious. Why do you speak to her? Common, low slut of a woman! “

“How do you know she’s a common, low slut?”

“Anyone who can use their eyes can see that. But of course you couldn’t.” Jimmy stared at his wife as she tore off her outdoor things. He had known her three years and he had been married to her for two, but at times he felt he had known her from the beginning of his first memory, and that memory took him back to the day when he was three years old and was struggling to get out of his mother’s arms and down on to the floor, and she wouldn’t let him but held on to him and kept kissing him. Why hadn’t he seen his mother in her? There was a psychological thing here. It was explained in Freud;

put in a nutshell it was, that, although he had resented his mother and had always wanted to get away from her, she

Al

had emphasized the tie between them so much that he couldn’t loosen it. In choosing Betty or in Betty choosing him he realized now, although with her skittish ways he had imagined her as being the antithesis of his mother, that somewhere in the mysterious depths of him he had been willingly marrying his mother.

It was like an act of self—abnegation, a voluntary giving up of liberty.

“Standing gossiping to her and not a cup of tea ready and on six and you being finished since four!

Where’ve you been?”

“Trying to get drunk.”

“Stop being so childish. Do you know’—she turned her small tight slim body towards him and gazed up at him with open disdain as she continued ‘you’re utterly childish, immature. God only knows how you teach.”

He had the desire to take his hand and with one swipe knock her flying. That would settle it; once he hit her that would settle it.

But he couldn’t do that, no. No, he wasn’t going to start being another Briggs.

He watched her prance into the kitchen. He heard the kettle being banged on the stove, and her voice came at him, saying, “If it’s not too much trouble, set the table.... Coming home after a day on me feet and not a bite ready!”

As he set the table he thought that cordite actually poisoned some people, they just couldn’t stomach it.

She packed cordite all day, and it never seemed to do her any harm. Oh he jerked his head at himself the quicker he got drunk the better. Friday night, he was generally lucky at the Ellison for a drop of hard; it would soften his attitude to the whole world.

As she came into die living-room with the teapot she said, “I saw Mam as I was getting off the tram.

She’ll be around about half past six.”

“I’ll be gone by then, I’m on fire watch at seven.”

‘you know something? “ She stared at him.

“You’re the most ungrateful sod I’ve ever met in me life.” It was funny about her and swearing. She was so small, so refined looking, until she opened her mouth.

Her swearing grated on him. He could stand men using language that would raise the roots of his hair, and he had heard some women that were good second-bests, but their swearing, even their obscenities, didn’t affect him as when he heard her swear. She had a way of saying ‘sod’ that caused his stomach muscles to contract.

^Your mother’s worked for you all your life and you haven’t really got a good word for her. Where would you be without her, I ask you? You and your sister are tarred with the same brush. The things your mother’s had to put up with from you two! An’ then your da. “ He looked down at her, his face stretching slightly, his eyes widening. It was odd, oh more than odd, really strange, mystifying, but she liked his mother. She was about the only person he knew who liked his mother. And his mother liked her. After threatening what she was going to do to him if he married, as soon as she saw Betty they were like that—in his mind he entwined his fingers. It was said that people who were really alike didn’t get on, but under the skin there wasn’t a pin to choose between his mother and Betty, and they got on so well they had almost become one; when he saw and heard one, he saw and heard the other. It was uncanny. Why had this happened to him?

Now if he had only married someone like Mary, or—he gave a hie of a laugh inside himself Mrs.

Briggs! Now Mrs. Briggs wouldn’t have nagged from morning till night; she might have spent all his money.

But didn’t Betty? What did he get out of his pay? She grabbed his cheque as soon as he got it, and from the first she had seen to the finances. She allowed him three pounds a month, and that was for bus fares, cigarettes and . beer. She arranged their financial life like any first-class accountant. There was a box for everything in the house from coal to candles. Yes, candles; they had to have a store of them in for when the lights failed. He had been daft to put up with it; he had been daft from the start. Was it too late to change? Aw, what was the use?

He’d go and have a drink, do his fire-watching stint and, if there was time, have another. That would see him over tonight; tomorrow he’d be in a better frame of mind. And he had enough money left over from the sweep to keep him going. Good job he had the sense to keep that to himself. He was lucky at sweeps. Three this year he had won, forty-five quid in all.

“Mam’s coming here to live.”

‘what! “

“You heard.”

“Oh, by God, she’s not.”

“I say she is.”

“Well, let me tell you: if she comes here there’ll still only be two, for when she comes in permanent I go out. Now, have it your own way.”

“Where you going?”

“To get drunk. To get bloody well drunk. I needed a drink before, but now I’m gasping for one.”

“Sit down and get your tea, and don’t act so stupid, like a kid!” Her voice was full of disdain.

“Don’t call me stupid ... or a kid, Betty.” He took a step towards her, and although she didn’t back from him she pressed herself against the table, and again he said, Don’t you call me stupid! There was only one time when I was ever stupid and I’ll give you a guess as to when that was. “ And on this he turned round, grabbed up his coat and hat and went out.

Before he went on fire-duty he managed to get a pint and a double whisky; and after, just on closing time, another two pints and two doubles. He was on his way home, warm inside and happy, when, just after leaving Ellison Street, he met Mrs. Briggs coming out of the fish-shop.

“Aw, Mr. Walton, is that you?” She peered at him. The moon had come out from behind a group of scudding clouds and for a moment the street was illuminated and everything was softened and mellow.

Doffing his hat, he said, “It is, Mrs.

Briggs, it is. “ And at this they both laughed and turned and walked up the street together.

“I’ve been lucky, I got some fish and chips, Mr. Walton.”

“And I’ve been lucky, I’ve got slightly tight, Mrs. Briggs.” He bent right over her, and again they laughed, they even leant against each other for the fraction of a second.

“Oh, you are funny, Mr. Walton.”

T)o you think so, Mrs. Briggs? “

“Aye, but nicely funny. You know what I mean? No offence?”

‘you couldn’t offend me, Mrs. Briggs. You know something, Mrs.

Briggs? “ He stopped and swayed gently like a tree above her as he said solemnly, “ I like you, I think you are a very nice person, Mrs.

Briggs. “

“Eeh! Mr. Walton, thanks. An’ I like you an’, all. An’ do you know what I think you are?”

“No. Tell me, Mrs. Briggs.”

The clouds were still scudding across the moon, sending dark patterns over their faces. She seemed to be floating before him, Just a little off the ground, and her voice came to him softly, saying, “Well, I think you are a gentleman, Mr. Walton.”

The clouds obliterated the moon now and he couldn’t see her face. He put out his hand and found her arm, and felt the warmth coming through the paper of the fish and chips.

When the moon showed him her face again it was no longer smiling, nor was his when he answered,

‘you are a very nice woman, Mrs. Briggs.

You’re very kind, and. and you are the very first person who has called me a gentleman. I shall not forget it, tight as I am. “ He now dropped his chin on to his chest.

“And I know I’m tight, but I shall not forget it, Mrs. Briggs. You know what I’ll do? I’ll write a poem about you. Yes, I will.”

“Oh! Mr. Walton.”

“Yes, I will. The very next time I’m on fire-duty I’ll write a poem to you. I, I wrote one tonight I, I wrote it ‘cos I’m inadequate. Yes, yes, I’m inadequate. An’ not only in one way, for I cannot write real poetry. Poetry, you know, Mrs. Briggs, is not just rhymes. Oh no. That’s where people, ignorant people, make the mistake; they call rhymes poetry. “ He was flapping his finger at her face now, which he could just see faintly, and he went on, “ Real poetry is made up of metrical com . composition, you know, and so many, many more things. Oh, yes. “

“Really, Mr. Walton?”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Briggs. Real poetry, real poetry is composed of prosody an’ stanza, an’ feet. Now a foot, let me explain, Mrs. Briggs, is what they Crcall... a metrical unit. Aw, Mrs. Briggs, there’s a lot more in p-poetry than da-de-da, you know; for example, Mrs. Briggs, you know that little piece that goes:

Tiger, tiger burning bright In the forests of the night.

Well, did you know that this is a very, very good piece of poetry?

It’s composed of tetra meters You know what a tetra meter is, Mrs.

Briggs? Of course you don’t, Mrs. Briggs, so don’t be ashamed, Mrs.

Briggs, ‘cos so few people know about tetra meters Well now, pay heed. “ He now laid one hand on her shoulder.

“It’s the lifting and falling of the voice like, you know, the inflection short, and long, or long and short: Tiger Get it? Long-short. Tiger tiger burning, long-short, bright.... Oh, Mrs. Briggs, I’m boring you to death.” His face was now close to hers; the smell of his whisky-laden breath was mixing with the fumes of the fish and chips, and she laughed gently and said, “No, Mr. Walton, I love listenin’ to you. Mind you, I ... I’ve to confess I don’t understand about it, but I like listenin’ to it.” He straightened up now and began to walk along the street again, and after a moment he said solemnly,

“You are very, very kind, Mrs.

Briggs,” and to this she answered, “ Not at all, Mr. Walton. “ They were in darkness when she said, “Eeh! you can’t see a stime.” He stopped and stood swaying and, looking up towards the sky, cried, “Come out! come out, you mad orb!” and when the moon came from behind the clouds she burst out laughing and held on to his arm, saying, “Oh!

Mr. Walton. Oh! Mr. Walton, that was funny. “

“Ah, Mrs. Briggs, when I’m in me cups I can command the heavens. I’m a god when I’m in me cups.” He stopped again and, gazing at her in the bright moonlight, he said solemnly, “When I’m in me cups I forget about everything: people, war, children, everything; except one thing, Mrs. Briggs; one thing I never forget, an’ that is I want to write poetry, real poetry, you know. Not that I want to use great. long bewildering stanzas, no Rubaiyat with its decasyllabic rhyming, no, I don’t want to do anything in a big way. I just want to write poetry that the ordinary man or woman c . can understand.

Would, would you like to hear what I wrote tonight, Mrs. Briggs? “ Ves, Mr. Walton. Oh yes, I would Well then, you shall. “ He now drew from his pocket a piece of paper; then looking up at the sky again, he cried, “Keep shining,” before he unfolded the paper, and in deep and sonorous tones read: From areas of longing That fill my life with strife To stretch my intellect To those I read, And express my thought In high flowing screed That would bewilder all, In turn, as I am By minds That bum To impress, Thus transgressing i37