A Kind of Loving (25 page)

I'm brooding about it all the way across the park and through
the streets to her house. I'll just have to let it die a natural death,
I'm thinking, let it cool off gradually. I reckon she's a right to something better than this, but I know I'll never be able to tell
her and explain to her face.

' When shall I see you again?' she says at their gate.

'Tomorrow.'

'I mean outside work, silly.'

' Well, not this week-end, I'm afraid. An old pal of mine's coming
over this week-end. I haven't seen him for years. Anyway,
I'll always see you at work. We can fix something up any time.'

I reckon she can't help but notice I'm not interested, even if
she does know I'm lying about this mate. I bet she doesn't know
how interested I really am, though. How can she?

'All right,' she says, and I'm glad she doesn't make anything
of it.

She waits. We don't say anything. She doesn't lift her face and
she doesn't even look at me but I know she's waiting to be kissed.
And why not, after tonight? I only hesitate a second, then I put
my hand under her chin and lift her face up. I kiss her on the
mouth, but not for all the gold in the Bank of England can I
put any feeling in it. She must know now, I think on the way
home, even if she didn't before.

II

I manage to steer clear of it for a few days by keeping away from
Ingrid herself, but then she Sends me a note by young Laisterdyke.
I read it in the river caves and wonder what I'm going to
reply.
The easiest way is to just ignore it, act as if I've never got it.
But that's not fair, I think. I can't just brush her off like that...
I think about it for a bit, then I conie up with a reply that doesn't
say anything straight out but has a lot between the lines. 'Dear
Ingrid, I can't see you tonight because I've somewhere else to
go. I've started Tech again now and I'm sitting for the National
this time and I'll have to work on other nights beside class nights if I want to get through. So I shan't be able to get out much and
I
don't think it's fair to tie you down when I don't know when I'll
have a free night, Vic.'

When I read it through I'm a bit ashamed of it but I can't
bring myself to be more blunt So I give the note to young Colin and slip him a tanner at the same time. 'Here, give her this - and
keep your mouth shut.'

'A pleasure,' he says, pocketing the tanner. 'Special deliveries
a
_;
bob.'

'A bob on your earhole if you don't watch out.'

There's a reply next morning. 'Dear Vic, I was surprised to
read your letter. I don't see how you going to night school makes
any difference to us. I know you won't have much free time but that doesn't matter if you really want to see me. I thought something was wrong the other night, and now I'm sure. If it's something I've done I wish you'd tell me what it is. Ingrid.'

I'm feeling pretty low when I read this. She's wondering what's
up and feeling miserable herself and I'm sorry about it. It's disappointing all round. But you can't help the way you feel, can
you? Anyway, that just about winds it up. She'll be too proud to
write another note if I don't answer this one; and I don't intend to do that.

Part Two

CHAPTER 1

I

Next
week it's the Staff Party.

Every year about this time Whittaker's take over the Town
Hail and invite the Staff to this do. If you're married you can take
your other half with you, and if you're single a boy friend or a
bird. There's whist and dancing and a stand-up supper and a bar, and it's all free for nothing except the booze, and you pay for that
out of your own pocket.

Mr Matthew makes a little speech and tells the Staff how well
they've done this last year and how much better he's sure they'll
do next. Nearly always the same speech, it is; and then if there's
any old coves saying good-bye to it all the gold watches are dished out and there's a lot of shaking hands and clapping. I mean, you're forced to give a clap when some old keff what
started in 1907 totters across the floor for his present, because you
get kind of awe-struck when you think he was working thirty
years before you were born, and you start to wonder if some lad
born thirty years from now will stand here thinking the same
thing when you hobble up for your watch or whatever it is they'll be presenting in fifty years' time. Somehow I can't see it for me.
To begin with, I can't imagine myself at that age with all my troubles behind me and nothing left but pottering in the garden till the
end.

Anyway, that's what happens at these dos, and there's nearly always a presentation to somebody because Whittaker's is the
kind of firm blokes stay with for life.

There's enough booze put away at one of these dos to float
all the battleships
'm
Portsmouth Harbour and the bosses and the men get real friendly together. You know what I mean: lots of joking and back-slapping and introducing wives and thinking that old so-an-so isn't such a bad bastard after all. Course, they're all back on two sides of the fence again next morning but it's nice while it lasts, I suppose.

The women look forward to it more than anybody. All you can get out of them the minute Christmas is over is the Party.
They parade their new frocks and their husbands or boy friends,
not missing what the others have got, and saving it all up for after.
I sometimes wonder which they like best, the Party itself or the
tittle-tattle in the cloakroom after. Birds are queer. You can
get two blokes who don't think much to one another and on a
night like this they'll be like old pals. But get two women like
that and a party only seems to make it worse.

Anyway, it's a real good do, a grand night out.

Well, things being different I'd have taken Ingrid but now I get there on my own about eight. I have a couple of glasses of bottled beer that blows you up and a dance or two and a natter with any of the lads I run into. Going up to ten I'm standing on the edge of the floor when Conroy pushes past me. I can see he has a bit of a load on and I watch him go down to the bandstand and have a word with the leader between sets. This bod, name of Oscar Winthrop, a tailor's dummy type with patent-leather hair and a pencil-thin moustache, looks a bit doubtful at Conroy and gives a little smile. I see Conroy throwing his head about and pulling a face as if to say, 'Come on, don't be a nig-nog, and in a minute Winthrop seems to give way and Conroy climbs up on to the stand and shakes hands with all the blokes in the front row of the band. They're grinning at Conroy and one another, but Conroy's face never slips. Tom Evans, the construction shop foreman, who's always M.C. at these dos because he's a real keen dancer and looks good in tails, moseys over to see what's up. He has a word with Winthrop and Conroy, who takes next to no notice of him, then walks away again as though he's washing his hands of the affair whatever it is.

Jimmy Slade comes up behind me. 'What's Conroy up to?'

'Dunno; just wonderin' meself.'

The leader puts his stick up and the band blow a chord.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' this bod says, 'we have had a request from one of your own Staff members to sing a number with the
band. Never let it be said that Oscar Winthrop failed to en
courage new talent. I give you, ladies and gentlemen, the singing
sensation of Dawson Whittaker and Sons - Al Conroy!'

There's a bit of a laugh at this and one or two people clap. Conroy steps up to the mike, his face all red and serious, and bows all round. The leader gives the downbeat and Conroy buckles at the knees, throws his arms out and bawls into the
mike:

Babe-e!

Who were you with last night?

A-huggffl' an' a-kissin' in the bright moonlight.

O-hoh,

I won't have nobody flirtin' with my baby,

I tell you this, oh baby, an' I don't mean maybe.

If you wanna keep me lovin',

A-huggin' an' a-snuggin'

Then save your lovin' kisses just for me.

When he's finished his chorus and the band's having a turn
Conroy starts to prance about the stage, twisting and shaking
himself as though he's got half a dozen scorpions up his vest. By this time the audience is going mad and the Drawing Office lads
are sending up cheers over the noise of the band.

A voice right behind me says. 'Isn't that one of your staff, Hassop?' I sneak a quick look round and see it's Matthew
Whittaker, the big boss himself.

Hassop sort of clears
his
throat and I bet he's wishing he could
disown Conroy.'Hmmm, er um, er yes, it is.'

'Good worker, is he?'

'Quite a clever young man,' Hassop says. 'A little too headstrong and irresponsible for his own good, though, I'm afraid'

I'm all ears waiting to see what Mr Matthew will .say to this,
but Mrs Whittaker, a dark woman, quite nice-looking to say
she's past her first youth, says with a laugh,' He doesn't sound as
if he'd starve if he ever gave up draughtsmanship.'

They all laugh, and when I hear a noise like water trying to get
out of a stopped-up drain I realize Hassop's joining in.

They move off as Conroy finishes his number with a chorus of
scat singing that's a proper marvel the way he gets his tongue
round It; and at the end he stops his capering about so sudden he
nearly throws himself off the stage into the potted ferns. He
gets a terrific hand. I'm clapping like mad and so is everybody
else I can see, including the band. Oscar Winthrop slaps him on
the back as he comes down the steps.

Conroy makes his way across the floor and people are laughing and saying things to all the way. He comes up to me.

'Seen Jeff Lewis?'

'Not lately.'

'He owes me a quid.'

"Mr Matthew and old Hassop have just been talking about
you,' I tell him.

'Nothing complimentary, I hope,' he says, getting on his toes and looking all round for Lewis.

'Hassop said you were a clever young man.'

'You're a lying swine, young Browny.'

'Honest. He said you were headstrong an' all, and too irrespon
sible for your own good.'

"That's more like it,' Conroy says. 'I can believe he said that.'

I tell him what Mrs Whittaker said as well but he's got his mind
on something else. Lewis, I think.

'I'm more interested in my quid,' he says. 'Come and help rne
find Lewis and I'll buy you a pint out
of it.'

'Okay.'

We split up and work through the crowd and into the passage
that leads to the bar. I haven't gone far when I come on Lewis
from behind. He's standing in a group of four or five, chewing
the fat and looking real keen, I have to admit. He's one of the
few blokes apart from the bosses who's wearing a dinner jacket.
Everybody else is wearing the suit they keep for weddings,
funerals, and boozing on a Sunday dinner-time.