Читать книгу Household Ghosts: A James Kennaway Omnibus - James Kennaway - Страница 17

NINE

THERE WAS A smile on the face of both tigers. But then there was nearly always a smile on Mary Titterington’s face. Anyhow, it was for her a little triumph that Jock should decide to call again after all that time. She bowed her head low, she swept back the door, and she followed him into the living-room. Then she went to the cupboard and brought out the bottle of whisky. It was cold after lunch; the sun had gone in and the clouds were gathering for snow again. Mary had only just been out to get some shillings for the meter, and the room was not yet warm. Jock looked at her closely, and reckoned she was looking well. It was Jock who first said that rude thing about her which best described the expression on her face: that curious smile. He said that she always looked as though she’d just had it. And Charlie said he was probably right.

Mary must have been over thirty. She came from Belfast, and she had failed to make a success of the London stage. In spite of the chiselled face, and the rather alluring expression, she had only been in one film. She had a figure that could be photographed from every angle, and had been from most, but – after all that – she came north to a repertory company. On the occasions when she had had a good night’s sleep she was still capable of a first-class performance. But her soul was not so much in her face, any more: there was only this smile. And with the soul from her face, the Irish had gone from her voice. Once in a bottle, maybe, and usually near the end of it, both would suddenly return. But it was a good thing they reappeared so seldom, because Jock had little time for them: time neither for the soul, nor the Irish.

She lived in flat number 3 in a big house overlooking the park, and Jock had taken the stairs a little too quickly. He was very red, and out of breath.

‘Hullo,’ he said, with a roving eye, and she looked at him closely.

‘Have you been drinking for long?’

‘No, lass. I’ve not been drinking for long.’

After a struggle Jock was free of his greatcoat and he threw it over a chair in the corner. The room had been severely modernised. The tiled fireplace had been boarded in; there was wallpaper on the ceiling and on two of the walls. It was all very surprising, for the North.

‘You’ve just been drinking all today.’

‘I have not.’

‘You’ve had a few.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Your eyes.’

‘That’s very romantic,’ Jock said, sitting down on the sofa. ‘And what the hell’s wrong with my eyes?’

‘They’re pink.’

‘You’re bloody rude.’

When she had poured out their drinks she put the cork back in the bottle and tucked her feet up on the sofa. She was small enough to fold into a neat parcel and she had very good legs. Jock was sitting as if he had had a very large lunch, and his stomach was full.

He said, ‘You’re rude. That’s what you are.’

She brushed some ash from her pleated skirt and the bracelets on her arms clinked together as she tipped back her glass. Jock continued.

‘Are you surprised to see me?’

She did not look in the least surprised, but she said, ‘Mm.’

Jock said, ‘You’re looking very well.’

‘I just got up.’

‘You’re bloody idle.’

She did not think so. ‘I did two shows yesterday.’

Jock stared at her. ‘What show’s this?’

‘My Sister Eileen.’

‘You’ve done that before, haven’t you?’

‘Mm. It’s a repertory company.’

‘So they say. And you’re Eileen?’

‘No. I’m the other one. Ruth.’

Jock took a gulp of whisky. He watched her face closely all the time he talked, and he was rather enjoying himself. He was surprising himself, and it seemed a very long time since he had seen her.

‘Are you not sore you’re not Eileen?’

‘I’m too old for Eileen.’

‘How old is Eileen?’

‘She’s twenty: or something like that.’

Jock gave a grin: then he chuckled and she looked quite angry.

‘I said I was too old for Eileen.’

‘But you said you weren’t sore.’

‘I’m not, for heaven’s sake. Jock Sinclair, you haven’t changed much … Ruth’s a better part. If you’d seen the play you’d understand. You ought to come and see it.’

‘Aye, maybe.’ Jock poured himself out another drink, and he sniffed, because he had forgotten his handkerchief. ‘Tell me, Mary. In Belfast, on a Sunday afternoon, do ladies often sit drinking whisky?’

‘What the hell are you up to?’

‘I asked you a civil question. Do they, now?’

‘Sometimes, if it’s cold and wet, I suppose.’

‘It’s always wet in Belfast, lassie.’

‘This is just as bad. This is the end of the world.’

‘It’s not that. It’s a very fine city.’

‘Och, but the people …’

Jock watched her lips when she replied. Now he jerked his head to one side.

‘Mary; I’ll go next door and sleep if you come too. It’ll save you whisky. Eh?’

She stabbed her cigarette out firmly.

‘I don’t do it that way. I’m not something in a fair.’

‘You’re just contrary. You know fine you’d …’

‘Take a whisky with you instead.’

‘Just for old times’ sake.’

‘To hell with old times’ sake. I don’t mind you calling, Jock Sinclair. But you’re going to behave yourself, or it’s home you go. For heaven’s sake, Jock.’ She looked at him kindly.

‘Aye,’ Jock said, leaning back again, with a sigh. ‘Maybe.’ He pushed his tumbler forward again and she poured more whisky into it, and lit another cigarette. When she inhaled the first breath of a cigarette she would tip her head back and exhale it out of nose and mouth together. Jock liked the way she smoked.

‘I hear you’ve got a new colonel up the road,’ she said.

‘Yes, yes.’

She smiled again. ‘Are you sore about it?’ and he looked at her, then he smiled too. ‘I’ll put you over my knee, and not just to spank you.’

Mary was always telling Jock he was coarse. She clicked her teeth and put her shoe back on her foot. Jock looked at the foot and the stocking, then he turned his eyes to hers again.

‘Who’s been giving you your news?’

She stood up and walked across the room to fetch an ashtray.

‘Och, it’s common knowledge. They say you had your knuckles rapped last night.’

Jock’s colour rose at that. ‘Aye, well they’re bloody wrong. That’s what they are.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘I don’t know who the hell’s been telling you this but you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. It was me that said that, about rapping over the knuckles, or near enough. Who’s been speaking to you, eh?’

‘A friend.’

‘Aye, well he’s a liar too. The wee man got badly fussed and I said it; I said it kind of ironic-like – och, you wouldn’t understand it.’

‘Why shouldn’t I understand?’

‘Because you’re bloody ignorant.’

‘Listen to you.’

‘Well what does ironic mean then, eh? D’you know?’

She did not reply to him, and after a moment he went on in a quieter voice.

‘He lost his head altogether. That’s what he did. He gets in an awful rage, you know; Barrow does. Aye, and he’s to see me in the morning.’ Jock paused again, but it was obvious that he wanted to say more on the subject. Mary could tell that from the way he washed the whisky round and round his tumbler, and watched it as it whirled. Mary had listened to a good many men’s stories before this: and for a while Jock had been in the habit of telling her everything, when he went round for his evening chat.

He ran his tongue over his lips, which were cracked by the weather and all the cigarettes he had been smoking lately.

‘He was cool enough this morning. I went to see him this morning. He’s usually very cool you see. He’s springy enough, aye, but he keeps well away from you. Nobody gets very near the Barrow Boy. That’s one of the rules.’

Mary nodded sympathetically and she pulled her feet up on the sofa again so her shoe just hung on her toe. She smoked cigarettes all the time.

‘On parade’s on parade. But the way I dance is nothing to do with him.’

‘I’ve never seen him.’

‘Och, he’s – he’s a spry wee man. In the usual run I mean, but he’s got a temper. He’s always been famous for that. His wife couldn’t cope with it, no. And it’s worse ’an it used to be. But I tell you this; it’ll no be of any use to him by the time I’ve finished tomorrow … I’ve got friends in the War Office, just the same as him; aye, but that’s not the point.’

Jock was speaking very fast now, and he spoke right into Mary’s face. He nodded and tossed his head to emphasise his independence. ‘I’ll tell you. I’ve fallen over myself to be fair. I don’t know who’s been speaking to you, but they’ll tell you: everybody’ll tell you I’ve been very reasonable. I’ve no questioned his command.’ He gave a violent shake of his head. ‘I haven’t. But I could have, Mary. I’m no bragging when I say that. Anyone’ll tell you who’d be in command of the Battalion if we went into battle tomorrow. Aye. And he knows that bloody well. “Oh yes, Sinclair,” he said, “tomorrow, I think. Not a good idea today: not on a Sunday,” and away he blew. He’s in a funk, Mary. He’s windy. He is. And, by God, I’ll let him know that the morn. He’s bloody good reason to be in a funk. I’m telling you.’

Jock was sweating now and he wiped his brow with his sleeve. He gave a sigh and asked politely:

‘Have you got a hanky?’

‘Only a small one.’

‘That’ll give me a thrill.’

She clicked her teeth again, and he smiled.

‘No. No. Honestly, Mary. It will. I’m a very simple man.’

She dug into her handbag, holding it in the softness of her lap and Jock forgot about the Colonel’s interview. He was still not satisfied that he had said all that was to be said, but he was a little happier. She gave him a handkerchief and he mopped his neck with it.

‘I guess he’s in a wee bit of a panic. But he’s asked for it,’ he said. She nodded, and he came back to her. Then he leant forward to fill his glass.

‘I’ll pay you for this whisky.’

‘Of course you won’t.’

‘Aye, I will.’

‘I wouldn’t let you.’

‘You used to let me.’

‘That seems a long time ago.’ She turned to put a record on the gramophone on the table by the side of the sofa.

‘Och, we don’t want that thing.’

‘I’ve got some new records,’ she replied, ‘if you’re wanting to be amused.’ She placed the needle on the record and as she did this he leant forward and put a hand on her knee, just under her skirt. She did not turn round to push him away. She was trying to close the lid of the machine and she just said, ‘Definitely no.’

‘Och, Mary.’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t used to say no. D’you remember that? Or have you conveniently’ – Jock took long words very slowly – ‘have you conveniently forgotten?’

‘You didn’t used to be a stranger.’

‘Mary, I’m back.’

‘And stinking,’ she said patiently. ‘You left stinking and you’ve come back stinking. You can’t turn the clock back, Jock.’

‘You can begin again. Come on.’

‘If you’re not going to sleep I think you’d better take yourself a walk round the town.’

Jock smiled suddenly.

‘I could make you if I wanted to,’ he said gently. And she was immediately angry.

‘Jock Sinclair, you’re the most conceited man I’ve ever met. You’re not all that great shakes. And there’s lots that know that, I can assure you.’ She added the last sentence quietly, and the noise of the record drowned it.

‘What d’you say?’ Jock asked and he shook his fingers at the gramophone. ‘For Christ’s sake put that thing off.’

‘No.’

‘You put it off, you besom.’ He leant across her and tried to open the lid of the gramophone.

‘No!’ she said again and she tried to push him back but he was already drunk enough to be determined and he lunged forward. Clumsily he pushed the machine and it slipped off the coffee-table on which it rested, and fell to the floor. The needle made a loud noise as it scored the record. Then there was silence. Mary said nothing. She brought her lips closely together and leant back ashe sat up again. He left one hand on her thigh and he gave an uncertain half smile.

‘That’s mucked it.’

She took him by the wrist, and pushed his hand away, then stood up to try and repair the damage.

‘I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with you,’ she said as they put the gramophone back on the table.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘This Colonel’s really touched you.’

‘What you say? Eh? That’s a bloody lie. I’ve never felt better.’

‘All right, all right,’ she said, patient again, but Jock was not so easily appeased. He was standing up and he pulled his stomach up into his chest. He braced his shoulders.

‘I’ve had a drink maybe. But there’s nothing the matter. I’ve never been better. Christ, but you’re a bloody woman.’ He was inarticulate with irritation. He fidgeted, and clenched his fists. Then he drank half a tumbler of whisky in a gulp and he walked about the room. It was a moment or two before he spoke again, in a pleading tone.

‘Och, Mary, I didn’t come round to have a row. You know bloody well what the matter with us is … Why don’t we get on with it?’

‘Jock, you couldn’t even manage now.’

‘I could.’

She sighed, and shook her head.

‘Och, anyway we could just sleep and that would be something,’ he said.

‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

‘And I’ll tell you what.’ As the plan formed in his mind he took another gulp of his whisky. More in self-defence than anything else, she pushed the bottle towards him and he sat down again. ‘We’ll away out tonight, just like the old days. We’ll be the bona fide travellers. That’s how it’ll be. It’ll be the Highlander and the Red Lion, the Glasgow Bar and the Station.’

Mary was not the one to see a bottle of whisky go down someone else’s throat, but she looked none the worse for wear herself. As she put the bottle down she said, ‘It would be cheaper at your house.’

Jock turned away. ‘I don’t drink there.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Morag, of course. You know fine. Stop getting at me. I’m no the man to drink in front of my daughter.’ He waved his hand. ‘We’ll go round the publics … Look, you’ll let me pay for this bottle?’ He reached in his wallet.

‘You can put your money away.’

‘No.’

‘I’m all right for money.’

Jock hesitated. ‘You’re sure, lassie?’

‘Sure and I’m sure.’

‘And that dress suits you too.’

But soon after that Jock put his finger in his ear and shook his head. He was tiring a little.

‘I’m sorry you weren’t there this morning. You should have seen his face. And the other night. You know he was near greetin’.’

Not very long after, she saw that it would be impossible for him to leave. The excitement had worn off his cheeks and he grew drowsier and more apologetic.

At last she told him, when he seemed determined to go, that he should stay.

‘You can’t go. Not in your uniform: for heaven’s sake. Away you go next door and sleep it off.’

Jock smiled meekly. ‘You’ll come too.’

‘I’ll pull the quilt over you.’

‘You’re a good girl.’

‘There’s no use fumbling, Jock,’ she said patiently. ‘Please.’

‘Oh, Christ! Och Mary, I shouldn’t have come. That’s the truth of it. I thought you’d be pleased to see me. I shouldn’t have come.’

‘It’s no matter. Come on now laddie, and we’ll cover you up.’

‘You’re my bloody cherry-cake,’ he said.

‘Come away now: come on.’