THE CINDER PATH (17 page)

It wasn't until he had finished a large

shive of the pie and was wiping his mouth by the simple procedure of flicking a finger against one corner and

then the other that he said, "Everything goin' all right with you, Charlie?"

Charlie reached out and took a slice of bread,

then a piece of cheese from the wooden platter, and

finally he cut off a pat of butter and put it on

to the side of his plate; then he stared down at the

food before he said, "You wouldn't have had to ask that question if you had visited us over the past year or so."

"Sorry."

"Oh, don't be sorry for me, Arthur; I

got what I asked for. Young fools should be made

to pay for their foolishness; the only hope for them is that they don't grow into old fools."

"What's the trouble? The missis... I mean your

mother?"

"Yes and no. But even without her there would still have been trouble. We're the trouble, Vicky and I,

we're a trouble to each other. It should never have

happened. I'm a lazy fellow, Arthur."

"dis . . Lazy? Not you! You can do a day's work

with the rest of "em."

"Yes, physically I suppose I can, but in

my mind . . . well, I never use it, Arthur,

I let other people use it for me. I follow where

others lead."

An embarrassed silence enveloped them both now

until Arthur, in a high jocular tone, said,

"Did you ever think of jo*" up, Charlie?"

"No, never, Arthur. Can you imagine me with a

bayonet."

"Well, you never can tell. They say snakes

are harmless until you stand on "em. No offence

meant, but you know what I mean. And did you see that

advert in the paper yesterday?"

"What advert?"

"Why, they're advertising for officers; going round beating the drum didn't do much good, so there's this

advert in all the

big papers for officers. Why don't you have a shot?

You wouldn't have to use a bayonet; by all accounts the top brass stay well behind the lines."

"Thanks, Arthur, but I'm a good distance behind the lines now and that's where I intend to stay."

"Aye, well, I suppose you're wise."

"How's . . . how's Polly? You haven't

mentioned her."

"Well, that's 'cos I know so little about her now.

I can't go there an" see her, can I? I only

hear of her through me ma; she's up the flue again."

"Up the ... ?"

"Aw"-Arthur tossed his head to the side"...gona have another bairn. I don't think of her much, at

least I try not to; the very thought of her with him nearly drives me mad. An' she's putting up with it

all because of us ... aw"- he lowered his head and wagged it-"I mean me."

"Where is she living?"

"Somewhere in Hebburn, me ma says, she

doesn't tell me exactly. Just as

well I suppose. Two bairns in two years!

She'll have a squad afore she's thirty, an'

she'll be old an' worn out by then. You know something?"

He

again wiped his mouth, but on the back of his hand this time.

"You should have married her, Charlie."

"That would have been impossible, Arthur. You know it."

"It might have been then, back on the farm, but not now, this war's turned everybody and everything

topsy-turvy. There was a lass in our canteen

over at Durham, she's just got herself married to a

second-lieutenant."

Charlie gave a small laugh. "He might have

been a waiter before the war."

"Aw no, not second-lieutenants, not the

officers. No, they're all educated fellows.

Some of them now are comin' straight from the

universities, all lah-di-dah. . . . You were

gone on our Polly, weren't you, Charlie?"

"Yes, I suppose you could say I was,

Arthur." Charlie smiled wanly. "But we were young then, children really. Things have changed as you said, times have changed."

And how they had changed. How old was he

now? Twenty-three. Was that all he was,

twenty-three? And had he been married only two

years, not twenty? It was hard to believe that the

hysterical scenes, the physical body struggling,

and his introduction into the

emotions of rage, frenzy and desire had all

taken place in less than two years, less than

a year, in less than six months.

"What did you say, Arthur?"

"I said I enjoyed that, Charlie, a good

home-made pie. But now . .. well, I'm

afraid I'll have to be off."

"Oh yes; your friends will be waiting."

"Oh, it doesn't matter about them, we'll

meet up at the bus, it goes at four. Fancy

having to go back to camp on a Saturday night.

Any other night in the week I wouldn't mind, but a

Saturday! No, the reason for me hurry is

I... I want to look in on me ma. She's

mostly on her own now, she's only got Flo at

home. She's sixteen now an* a handful; working in

munitions she is; me ma can't get her in at

nights. Mick and Peter are in the Navy. Peter

gave a wrong age. Isn't it funny how we've

all left the land; except you of course."

"There's still time, Arthur."

"Aye, by the looks of it, this bloody war could go on for the next ten years. It would be funny, wouldn't

it, Charlie, if you an' me met up over there. .

. . Colonel Charles MacFell, top

brass." He again struck a pose, of a bullying

sergeant this time. "Spit on those boots! I

want them to dazzle me eyes. And Brasso your

buttons, "cos you know who weVe got comin" the day? Colonel Charles MacFell."

This time Charlie wasn't amused, but he patted

Arthur on the shoulder, saying quietly, "After this business is over you must go on the stage; you'd do

well, you know."

"There's truer things been said in a joke,

Charlie. They had me in a concert party last

Christmas. I did a fresh farm lad milking a

cow; I had "em rollin"."

"I bet you did."

They were at the door now. "Well, goodbye,

Charlie."

"Good-bye, Arthur."

"Here! there's no call for that." Arthur opened his palm and exposed the crumpled notes.

"Go on; you'll do more good with them than I

will."

"Thanks, Charlie, thanks. It's good of you;

I'llbethinkin'ofyou."

"And me of you, Arthur."

They looked at each other for a moment longer, their

hands gripping; then Arthur went hurriedly down the

drive. Charlie didn't wait to see him go through the

gate but he turned and closed the door abruptly

behind him, then stood rigidly still, staring in front of him. He had a longing to be with Arthur, and to be going

. . . over there, in fact anywhere that would take him

away from the owner of this house, and from his mother and sister.

. . . But it was because of his mother that he was here.

He walked slowly across the hall and up the

stairs. The landing was square, with six doors going

off from it. He went to the second one on his left and

thrust it open. He didn't enter. It was as he

always remembered it, the bed unmade, the clothes

strewn about the room, the whole seeming in a way

to represent his wife. It had her body spread

all over it, her mad, thrashing, ravenous body, that

was governed by seemingly superhuman urges that were a

torment to herself for they could never be satisfied.

He was about to close the door when his eye was

attracted to the dressing-table mirror. It

lay to the left of him. He paused a moment, then

crossed the room and, bending down, peered at the

mirror. Three words were written across the bottom

corner of it in lipstick. They read "That's me

girl!"

He straightened his back, stared at the writing for a

moment longer, then walked out

of the room and down the stairs again and into a small

room at the end of the hall. This room was lined with

bookcases and the only pieces of furniture in it

were two easy chairs and a small round table. He

sat down and, resting his elbows on the table, lowered his head into his hands.

Well, he knew, didn't he? Why should he

feel so surprised, so ashamed, so humiliated?

That's me girl! He could see her prancing naked

about the room like a demented witch; but the man who

wrote "That's me girl!" wouldn't, as he himself had done, have rushed from the room as if from a witch. No, the one who had written those words would have applauded and said "That's me girl!"

He had never ceased to be amazed at the fires that

burned in Victoria, weird, primeval

fires. To live at all, he knew one must wear

a fa@lade for there were depths in all

human beings that were better not probed, that is if you wanted to live what was termed a normal life; and

he also knew that the wedding ceremony was a licence which allowed some of the lava to erupt from the murky depths where the sediment of human nature lay. And he had

conformed, he had gone along with it. Natural sex

had its place in life, and at its

best, he felt, could be a beautiful experience. But

what had happened? She had behaved like a stallion

at stud, any time of the day or night, the hour

didn't seem to matter . . . and without love;

yes, that was the worst part of it, without love. He had once said to her, "You don't act like a woman,

you're more like a wild beast," and she had come back with,

"And you're no man, you're a runt, and you know what they do with runts on the farm!"

He rose from the chair and walked to the window and

looked out on the back garden. It was a nice

garden; it was a lovely house; in ordinary

circumstances they could have been so happy here. He

would have gladly left the farm to Betty and his mother and got a job in the town.

And there were books here, hundreds of them. Her

aunt had been a cultured woman; if only she

had taken after her in some way; and if only

her aunt hadn't died and left her this house and enough money to live on, for then she would have had to stay on the farm. But would she? And would life have been any

better? No, no; a thousand times worse, for his mother

and Betty hated her as much as she hated them.

And now he had come here to ask her to return to the

farm, at least for a short while until his mother was on her feet again ... or died. He must have been mad

even to think she would comply. But what was he going to do?

Things couldn't go on back there as they were.

As he turned from the window he heard the front

door open, and when he entered the hall he saw her

standing in front of the mirror about to take her hat

off.

She turned towards him, her arms upraised, her

face stretched in surprise, but no trace of fear

or shame on it, he noted.

"Well! Well! What wind's blown you in?"

She turned to the mirror again and, withdrawing the pins from her hat, she placed them on the hall table; then

lifting the hat carefully upwards from her high piled

hair, she placed it on top of the pins. Bending

towards the mirror, she pursed her lips, then

stroked them at each corner with her middle finger. It

reminded him of the action a man might make

in smoothing his moustache, and it linked with previous thoughts that she was a man under her female skin; yet

not enough of a man to want a woman. How much easier

things would have been if the balance had swung in that way.

She walked before him now into the drawing-room. She

looked big, full-blown was the word to describe

her, yet she was handsome, like one of those

seventeenthcentury Rembrandt women. Her dress

was of a blue material and straight, with an

overskirt that was parted in the middle. The belt of the dress was loose about her waist, the collar was of a

self material-she never wore lace trimmings.

He watched her go to the side table and, opening a

silver box, take out a cigarette. When she had

lit it and drawn deep on it she looked at him

over her shoulder and said, "Have you lost another of your faculties? Have you gone dumb?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, then said,

"I've come to ask you something."

"No! No!" She turned with an exaggerated

flounce now. "You're going to beg me to go to bed with you? Oh5 Charlie!" When she dropped her head

coyly to the side he had the conflicting desire

to turn and flee from her while at the same

time some part of him sprang across the room and gripped her by the throat.

He walked to the empty fireplace and stared down

into the bare iron basket as he said, "Mother is very ill, young Sarah has left, Arnold has hurt

his back and is of no use any more. Betty . . .

Betty can't manage on her own."

"Well! Well!" The words dribbled out of her

mouth on a laugh, and she put her head back and

drew again on her cigarette before continuing, "You know, Charlie, you're funny. You are, you're the

funniest fellow in the world. You're a weak-kneed

gutless sod, but you're still funny because you're so

naive, so gullible, so ..." She tossed her head

as she tried to find further words with which to express her opinion of him; then her manner suddenly changing,

she stubbed the cigarette out on the first thing that came to her hand, which was an old beautifully painted

Worcester plate, and as she ground the ash over the