When I Was Otherwise (27 page)

Another few seconds went by.

“Was that the man who picked you up in Cullens?”

“What?”

“Or the man, perhaps, that
you
picked up in Cullen's.” But she couldn't remember what he was referring to. Peter was somebody she had sat next to at the cinema one time. Afterwards they had recognized one another in Lyons; Eunice had had to dash off and Marsha had been buying rollmops. Marsha had smiled; Peter had asked if she'd enjoyed the film. They had gone upstairs to share a pot of tea and a plate of buttered toast. Andrew believed her—but what difference did that make? The Coventry Street Corner House over the toast or Cullen's over the biscuit tins? There had probably been a succession of such philanderers. All with black hair on the backs of their hands.

“
Have
there been others?”

“No, of course not!”

One of her tears must suddenly have dropped onto her son's head because he instantly stopped his own crying and gazed up at her, showing vast surprise and patent interest.

“You're practically naked,” said Andrew at last, in a tone of deep distaste.

She didn't answer. She tried to pull her negligee closer about her.

“And do you realize that you haven't even washed your hands?” The violent shudder he gave was no mere piece of theatre. “You slut! Why, just looking at you makes me feel I just can't wait to wash my own!”

And then, quite abruptly, he left…but not for his ablutions. He walked straight down the stairs and—though now without his hat or his umbrella—straight out of the front door. Whose slam provided yet another point of interest for his young son.

And some forty-one-and-a-half years later, when his Aunt Daisy had communicated to him (and to the world in general) her complete lack of surprise at his father having left his mother, he could have replied—had he remembered this fact—that he'd been present at the dress rehearsal.

38

He strode blindly forward: with resolution, yes, but almost without thought: couldn't have cared less what time it was when he arrived back on the road where Daisy lived.

In fact it was about eleven-thirty; he had stopped briefly at a pub to down two double whiskies and to eat a pork pie.

He pressed his thumb against her bell and kept it there.

Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty.

He then stepped back to the front gate and waited for a light to show. He had forgotten that behind drawn curtains a light quite often didn't.

“Come on, come on, come
on
!” he cried impatiently. He had forgotten, too, that Daisy was unwell.

But one thing he had not forgotten.

The landlord.

However, let Mr Queechy give him one hint of trouble—just one
hint
of trouble, mind—and Andrew would knock him down without a moment's hesitation; would undoubtedly derive great pleasure from doing so. Indeed, with the Bell's now coursing through his veins he very much regretted not having struck Peter Makins: Makins, who had deserved to be castrated, let alone struck, but who had been allowed to slink away without the slightest touch of physical chastisement. Andrew had meant to have revenge; had been deflected, or deflated. Now he needed to wreak revenge on someone—it hardly mattered whom. He
needed
to use his fists.

At last a window was thrown up.

“Who is it? What do you want?”

“Daisy, it's me. It's
me
! I love you!”

“What?”

He repeated it—but this time with opening wide his arms. “Daisy,” he said. “I love you!”

He felt like Romeo. He had never seen the play—although Marsha had half wanted him to take her to the film: she'd had a crush on Leslie Howard. But he still knew about that balcony scene. It was amazing all the bits of rubbish you picked up over the course of the years.

Or he felt like some hot-blooded South American suitor serenading his sweetheart with a guitar. He thought that Daisy ought to have a rose between her teeth, or else behind her ear. She ought to be shaking a pair of castanets or clapping her hands or stamping her feet while swaying to the rhythm of a—what was it now?—flamingo. She had such pretty little feet.

He recognized, even through his whisky, that she wasn't quite the type just to stand there listening patiently, a demure and blushing Juliet, enrapt, hands adoringly clasped to breast—stand there for however long a worthwhile serenade should take. But he knew that in spite of this she could always be relied upon to throw herself into the essential spirit of things. Uniquely responsive and rambunctious; any little spot of fun would do! “Oh, every giddy goat must have its day!” she had once declared. “And I hope it knows it can depend on
me
to unscrumple my bonnet from my handbag and hurl it high over the windmill. Myself along with it, I shouldn't wonder!”

“What's the matter?” she asked.

“Matter?”

“Yes, what's got into you? Why this of all nights to decide to play Grimaldi? Don't you know how
late
it is?”

“All I know is, thank God, it isn't
too
late!”

“Are you drunk?”

“No!”

“Well, anyway, I was extremely sick when I got home.
Extremely
sick! Three times. Thank God, at least I made it to the loo.”

She stated this with relish but—having milked from it whatever resonance she could—quietly withdrew her head.

“Daisy, you mustn't go! We have to talk! There's been a crisis!”

The head poked out again. There seemed something a little snail-like about its emergence—
and
about its earlier retraction.

“Then ring tomorrow,” she said. “Not before twelve, though: you can see I won't be fit for work!”

“But it's a crisis and it just can't wait!”

“It will have to. Right now I feel at death's door.”

“Oh, so do I,” he replied. “Oh, so do I. I feel at death's door, too.”

And at that moment, as if on cue, as if between them they had found the proper incantation and unharnessed the age-old secret magic, the door actually did open. But not death's door; just another door along the way.

“For Pete's sake! Holy shit! What the devil is going on here?”

“Oh, drat it all! The kraken wakes!” announced Daisy, supposedly sotto voce. “
Nothing
is going on here: anyway, nothing that need concern
you
, dear Mr Queechy!” She had raised her voice again. “But thank you for your kind enquiry. This gentleman is just leaving.”

She added: “So sorry if you think you've been disturbed. It isn't all that late, however.”

“No, it isn't,” said Andrew. “It isn't all that late at all.” So this was the dreaded Mr Queechy, was it? “And, what's more, it isn't
too
late. No, it isn't. Not at all.”

And suddenly Romeo and the serenading Latin lover had both removed themselves. Their predecessor the vengeful pugilist had skipped forward in their place.

With clenched fists and squared shoulders.

And flexed biceps.

He even performed a little fancy footwork.

“Added to which, I'll tell you something else,” he now informed the landlord. “This gentleman is not just leaving. No, not at all! Not one bit of it! This gentleman, Daisy, is coming straight up to tell you something else.” He had a feeling he might have said some of that already; thought he might be experiencing some kind of
déjà vu
. The night seemed full of echoes.

But just then the landlord stepped out of the shadows of the dimly lit hall to stand beside him on the path.

And Andrew had a shock. He immediately forgot such things as
déjà vu
or irritating echoes.

For although Daisy had often spoken of the man as being a fat idiot Andrew had always assumed she was speaking figuratively. He was unprepared for the great dressing-gowned lump—representing at least twenty stone's worth of fat idiot—that now stood next to him.

And from whom he had to back away hastily, to avoid feeling hemmed in and stalk-like and short of air.

He unclenched his fists. He felt sick. He had to terminate his fancy footwork.

“Clear off!” said the man, succinctly. Basso profundo. “Skedaddle!”

It seemed the ultimate humiliation: not only of Andrew's evening but even his entire existence.

And abjectly he retreated;
further
retreated.

Yet even as he did so something inside him bade him pause. Perhaps it was the alcohol; perhaps it was the largely dormant quality that would later get him mentioned in dispatches—would get him decorated, too. Whatever it was it provided a brand of defiance which balked hotly at defeat.

And which made him cunning, too.

Cunning. Reckless. Nimble. He dodged around the landlord. Ran into the hallway. Slammed the door. Had even shot the bolts before his enemy could realize what was happening.

And not simply his enemy.

“Where did he go, please?” enquired Daisy—standing on tiptoe and leaning out as far as she was able, to peer earnestly in both directions. The road was neither long nor wide.

Nor was it poorly lit.

“Extraordinary! Surely he can't just have vanished into thin air! Now you see him, now you don't.”

She gazed pensively upon her landlord's balding crown. She sought elucidation.

“Is he in heaven, is he in hell, that demmed elusive pimpernel?”

In a very few seconds, though, she found out—and not merely by means of Mr Queechy's imprecations. There was a knocking at her own door to counterpoint the battering on the one downstairs. All the bells in the house rang in hideous orchestration. “I'm going to call the police!” the landlord shouted. “I'm going to call the police!”

“Good idea,” said Daisy.

“
You've
got a telephone!” he cried. “
You
damned well call the police!”

She nodded at him acquiescently; then lowered her window.

His refrain wasn't silenced on account of this. It still rose, basso profundo, above the rest of the cacophony.

But despite everything—Daisy laughed.

Lights all over the neighbourhood were being switched on, or curtains drawn back. Windows opened everywhere.

“By God,
now
you've done it!” she exclaimed—though in a voice that wasn't wholly disapproving. This was after she'd unlocked her door.

“I don't care,” said Andrew. “I don't care!” He was only a little out of breath. “Daisy, I'm leaving Marsha. It's you I love!”

As he said this he felt the return of all his ardour. It had been dampened by the events of recent minutes but right now he was back below her balcony.

“And I want to marry you!”

“Then there's only one explanation,” she said. “You must be off your chump.”

Yet her tone was humorous, even affectionate, and for several seconds she added nothing further; just stood there in the doorway looking at him.

Andrew noticed she hadn't wiped her makeup off before she'd gone to bed. It was faded and smeary and reminded him of Marsha's the last time he had seen it. But there was far more excuse for Daisy—obviously. She was wearing striped pyjamas and seemed less sturdy than she usually did, more in need of his protection. Even the sight of her bare feet was somehow rather touching.

“Well, either I'm batty or you are!” she said, finally. “But I suppose you'd better come in.”

The door opened straight into her over-furnished sitting room, every surface cluttered with photographs and bric-a-brac. He realized, with a certain degree of shock, that this was also the room in which she slept. His eye had travelled immediately to her divan, its tossed-back covers rising like a snowy hillside or a peaked meringue.

At the foot of the bed her clothes were thrown carelessly across a chair. He saw—before he quickly looked away—that her brassiere and bloomers were right on top of the pile; that one of her stockings had fallen to the floor.

It wasn't quite the romantic setting he had visualized. It wasn't quite the romantic setting of his first proposal.

She had closed the door but hadn't moved a long way back from it. He still stood practically on the threshold. It didn't feel as though she'd actually invited him in.

“Now then,” she said, “what is all this nonsense?”

“It isn't nonsense. I'm leaving Marsha.”

“Why?”

“We don't get on.”

She paused; placed her head on one side, consideringly.

“And the crisis you spoke of?”

He was aware he might not have chosen the word that was in all respects the most precise.

“I meant I'd finally come to a decision. I've been thinking about it for weeks of course. For weeks? No, months!”

“So for this you woke me up in the middle of the night; woke up the whole of Belsize Park as well—the bit that might have gone to bed? For something you say you've been considering for months?”

He frowned, as though he found some difficulty in following the complexities of her argument.

“And this decision?” she went on. “Has it anything to do with me?”

“Well, naturally it has! Daisy, it has everything to do with you! Didn't you
hear
me? I love you.”

Up until this point most of her words had been brisk, even businesslike, delivered against the unceasing staccato of hammerings and rings. But then she hesitated again. Looked pleased. Despite her previously unsmiling face—a face which in truth still wasn't smiling—he had now seen a definite air of satisfaction.

And this was all he'd needed to be sure of. The rest could easily wait until morning. He'd had his answer and the answer was the one he'd known it would be—well,
almost
known it would be.

So then…the future would clearly be wonderful. And, in that case, what did it matter about tonight? But even so…? “The couple who live upstairs,” he said. “Are they at home?”