England's Lane (39 page)

We were on Primrose Hill when Amanda said it to me.

“Paul … there's something, and I don't know if I should tell you. God, you know—I'm absolutely
freezing
 …! Shall we move, do you think? Walk a bit?”

“Yes, if you like. We can go down the other side and then round the long way, if you want. So what were you saying about …?”

“Well I was saying I don't know if I should tell you or not.”

“Tell me what?”

“Oh honestly, Paul! That's what I don't know whether I should or not. Tell you. Haven't you been listening?”

“Yes I was. Have been. I have been listening. I just don't know what you're on about, that's all. Do you want another sherbet lemon? I've got just two left.”

“Okay—let's walk, then. Feet are like ice. Well it's just that I saw your auntie. That's all. Thought you might want to know.”

“My auntie? You saw her? What do you mean?”

“With my daddy, I mean. In his office.”

“His office. I didn't know he had an office. But I suppose everybody does. In the Lane. Have some sort of an office, don't they? Uncle Jim's is like a dustbin. Did you say you didn't want a sherbet lemon …?”

“No I don't. I don't really like them, actually. Haven't you got anything else?”

“Afraid not. I've got a Black Jack but the paper's half come off and it's gone a bit yucky. Don't think you'd like it. I did have some liquorice comfits, but they're all gone now. What was Auntie Milly doing in your dad's office, then? Paying for something, or something?”

“No—they were having a very nice time, it looked like. It's a jolly shame you haven't actually got any of those liquorice comfits left, Paul, because I really do like them, liquorice comfits. One of my favorites.”

“I can maybe get some more tomorrow. Not sure I want to go to Mr. Miller's now though, what with Anthony the way he is. Oh and they're shut tomorrow anyway. Sunday.”

“Do you want to know about your auntie or not? I feel a bit better now we're moving. I was turning into a statue up there. Not literally, obviously. The branches of the trees … they look really lovely, don't they? All bare and black and wintry. I did them like that once in Art with charcoal.”

“Yes I do want to know. Course I do. What were they doing, then?”

“Well … laughing, and things. Having a drink of something.”

“Oh really? That's nice. I didn't actually know that they knew one another. I mean—apart from Auntie Milly buying our chops and chicken and things, obviously. But it's good they do, isn't it? That they know each other. Don't you think? Because we do, don't we? Know each other. So it's good that they do too, I think. Don't you?”

“Let's go under the trees, shall we? So beautiful. Yes and then they kissed. It was all very romantic. Like in those ancient films Mommy watches on Sunday afternoons. And her books. She reads
all these books, and they've always got a man and a woman on the cover, holding each other and wearing really lovely clothes. Did you hear me, Paul? I said they kissed.”

“I … yes, I heard you. I just don't know quite what you mean …”

“What do you mean you don't know what I mean! I mean they kissed! They kissed! They gave each other a kiss. Do you know what that is …? It's like … well look—close your eyes …”

“What …?”

“Close your eyes, Paul …”

“What …? Close my eyes? What for …?”

“Close them.”

“But why should I close them, Amanda? You're not going to play some beastly trick on me, are you?”

“Oh God just close your eyes, can't you Paul …! Right. At last. There, now … There. Did you like that, Paul? Did you …? I did …”

“I … oh my gosh. You kissed me! You actually kissed me, Amanda …! Oh thank you. Yes I did. I liked it a lot. Really did. Really did. Yes I really did … I'm really sorry I didn't close my eyes when you told me to, Amanda—it's just that you see I didn't know what on earth you were talking about …”

“Wanted to for ages … except that they weren't kissing like that. My Daddy and your Auntie.”

“They weren't?”

“No. They did it with mouths.”

“Oh right. Well what did you just use, then …?”

“No—no, stupid. I mean mouths. Both their mouths. They did it on the mouth.”

“Mouth? Really? Are you sure? Because I don't think that's actually allowed, is it? Because they're not married. Well—they
are
, obviously, but not to … um …”

“Right on the mouth. With lips. Like this, Paul … like this … like this … yes, just like that. Are you all right? Are you? Give me your hand, Paul. Are you all right …? Give me your hand …”

“I am. I am all right, thank you for asking. Are you all right, Amanda …?”

“Give me your hand, Paul.”

“Why? I mean—right you are, then. Here it is …”

“Oh God, Paul—take your glove off …!”

“It's really freezing …”

“I'll make it warm. Come here, Paul. I'll make it warm. Promise.”

And she jolly well did—keep her promise, Amanda. She opened up her coat and I said but oh look you'll get cold Amanda, and she put my hand on her leg just under her frock and then she started sliding it—right up to her knickers, actually, which she said were her best and special ones—and I said oh my gosh, Amanda—someone might see us! Someone could be watching! And she said no, shh, no one's watching, nobody can see anything and so what if they can … and then she touched me at my front and I felt really sick inside, and that was just so great. Really really great—can't explain. And I've been thinking about it all. Well obviously. Haven't been thinking about anything else. And what I've decided is that it's really nice if Amanda and me are kissing, and her father and Auntie Milly are kissing—I think it's really nice. A bit like a Keats poem or something which we're doing in English. I asked her though, Amanda, what would her mother think about it, how she might feel, because she's married to Mr. Barton, and she said that she already knows because she always does, which I don't know quite what she meant. And then she said that everybody in the whole of the Lane knows—that everyone does. So that must mean then that Uncle Jim, he must know too. Well I don't suppose anybody minds what he's feeling. Don't suppose he ever feels anything. Maybe Mr. Barton
will biff him on the nose and take him by the scruff of his neck and chuck him down the stairs and then dust off his hands afterward: maybe now, me and Auntie Milly, we can get rid of him. He deserves it. Doesn't he? Of course he does. Because look—if he's so disgusting, why shouldn't my Auntie Milly go and kiss somebody who isn't? I don't know why it makes her cry, though. If that's what it is that makes her cry. Don't understand. Because when Amanda kissed me … and when I touched her like that … and then when she touched me … I didn't want to cry. It was such a freezing afternoon and I was so red and hot, and all I wanted was to laugh and laugh and laugh. And I had a secret now. A really proper grown-up secret. Everybody knows about Mr. Barton and Auntie Milly, but nobody knows about Amanda and me. And I like that. Except I had to tell Anthony, obviously. I told him all of it. Knickers and everything. I did just because I wanted to, and there was nobody else I could tell. And he looked at me—just looked at me at first. And then he started crying. It was in the middle of break in the changing room, and he cried and cried and cried. I couldn't say anything to stop him. I tried to say that if anyone came in they'd laugh and say what a baby he is and maybe cuff him round the head and give him a Chinese burn and pinch one of his crutches and then go and tell everybody about it, but that didn't work. Nothing did. So I just left him, in the end.

“Stan …? Stan …? Hello …? Are you there, Stan …? Oh God … Look, I'm trying not to make much noise, because of Anthony. Yes …? It's Milly, Stan. Where are you …? Oh do come on, Stan—I can't go on whispering like this—I can't be any louder. And the light—the light on the landing, Stan. It isn't working …”

Oh Lord in heaven—this really is just too too typical of the man. He's on the telephone to me like some sort of a stuttering lunatic
simply beseeching me to visit, and then when I—all right, yes, with quite some considerable reluctance, finally agree to it, does he then just decently thank me and politely replace the receiver? Oh no. He's pressing me then for a time: now, Milly? Can you come right now? Right this minute, yes? That would be prime. No? You can't? You really can't? Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Well when, then? Soon, yes? You will come really soon, won't you Milly? Oh Christ Alive, Milly—please God come soon …! Yes well: I'm here now, Stan, aren't I? I've been blundering about downstairs in this awful perpetual twilight they do seem to so much enjoy here, I can't for the life of me think why. But now that I've somehow groped and clambered my way up to the top of this deathtrap staircase, it's pretty much pitch. So that single remaining and dimly miserable lightbulb in one of the cockeyed wall sconces must finally have surrendered, thus marking the end, then, of all illumination within the Miller ménage from now until quite possibly the whole of eternity.

“Milly …? Milly …? Is that you …?”

“Oh—at last! A chink of light amid the gloom! Well of course it's me, Stan—who do you think it is? For heaven's sake! Who else might you have been expecting at this time of the evening? Cliff Richard and The Shadows? Honestly, Stan. Open the door a bit wider, won't you … then at least I'll be able to see where I'm going …”

“Sorry, Milly. Christ Alive, though—I'm that pleased to see you. And I'm sorry about the light. It went. It went pop, just like that, while I was down in the hall, telephoning you. I know I've got another one somewhere, lightbulb, but I can't seem to put my hand to it, just for the moment. Have you been here long? I'm so sorry, Milly. Come in, come in. Now listen … I do hope you won't be too, well … I just think you ought to prepare yourself, that's all.
That's all I'm saying. No no—that's all I'm saying. See for yourself, soon enough. Can't think why I didn't hear you earlier, though. I don't think I dozed off. No—fairly sure I didn't doze off, but I've been thinking a bit, you see. About this and that. In my mind, you know. Yes … I think it's fair to say that my mind, you see Milly … my mind, yes … well, it's been elsewhere.”

Yes: fair to say that. Because I've been up here with my Janey, just sitting here quietly, since the time I closed the shop. Even shut a bit early, which I'm hardly given to doing. Only just pulled down the blind on the door—about five-ish it was, I suppose, not too much later—and I'm hearing someone rapping away on the glass. Well I didn't open up again—ignored it, which fair amazed me. Ducked right down so they couldn't see me through the window—felt like a fugitive. Noticed a couple of crushed-up boxes of Jelly Babies while I was down there: that'd be Sally from Lindy's, then: Hippo. Yes so heaven knows which of my customers it was I offended, annoyed like that, but it just had to be done, you see. I'd had enough. I'd had enough, is the truth of it. Because up till then, I'd been keeping things fairly normal. Got Anthony up and off to school with a bowl of Shreddies inside him—was waiting for him to moan at me because it wasn't Corn Flakes with the bloody submarines inside, but he never did. He did seem a bit funny all round, little lad, but I don't think it was because he was, I don't know—sensing something, sort of style: I don't think it was anything of that order. And Paul too, when he turned up to fetch him, he didn't seem … well, what do I mean …? He was happy enough in himself all right, but he wasn't so bright with Anthony as usual. Barely said a word to one another, the two of them, and in the normal way of things they're gossiping away nineteen to the dozen like a pair of old biddies over the garden fence. Offered Paul a couple of little bits off the penny tray and he says to me “No thank you very much, Mr. Miller
—not sure Anthony would like it.” Ever so politely—but that was a funny thing to say to me, wasn't it? I thought it was. Looked over to Anthony, but he never spoke. So it all seemed strange, of course it did, but me—I had other things to think about, didn't I? I should say so. And my head …! Christ Alive …! I felt like I'd been hit by a truck. Little bit better after a quick nip of Scotch. And trying, I was—all the time trying to piece together bits of the evening, bits of the night. I remembered the scene in here all right. In this room. Then the Washington. Some of that, I can remember. Bloody Jim, and that friend of his—though I can't recall his name for love nor money. Lost in the mists, that is. Then we went down to Adelaide Road … and that's a bit sketchy as well. Except that she was a lovely girl, that Aggie. And yes I do remember her name, of course I do. Fine young woman. Very understanding. And she did me a very choice cup of Cadbury's Drinking Chocolate, which helped me out a bit. Don't ask me how much money I tore through: pretty much everything I'd had in the till, and it's not as if I can afford it, or anything.

And today … well I just sat in the shop, like I always do. It's automatic. Did what I do every day. The only thing different, apart from early closing, is that I didn't take Janey up her morning cup of tea. Didn't leave it on the bedside table, with a bit of toast. No. I didn't bother with that. Otherwise—like I say, just another day, really. Don't recall who came in, not all of them anyway. I slid the packets of cigarettes across the counter—always selling quite a few boxes of fifty and a hundred, this time of year; Player's, Wills, de Reszke, State Express—even Woodbines, they're all putting these festive sort of sleeves on them with robins and holly and all the rest of the palaver, and people do seem to like them. And I shook out of the rattling jars how many quarter pounds of every sort of sweet and bonbon and toffee—twisted them up into the little paper bags.
Credited the housewives with their twopence on the empty against another bottle of lemonade, cream soda, Tizer, cherry cola. Delved into the fridge for a Wall's Family Brick, and then later on a Neapolitan. A rep came in from Rowntree's about some new line they're aiming to launch in a year or so, he was telling me—name of After Eight or something, I think. I couldn't really see it, if I'm honest—not with Clarnico Mint Chocs, Keiller's, Bendicks, Elizabeth Shaw all so very well established in the market. And I told him—they want to do something about that name, for starters: not catchy—people won't have it. So yes … just another day, really. Except it wasn't, of course. Because this was the day, wasn't it? The day for all these years I'd been waiting for. Dreading. Always knew it would come—just didn't know when, that's all. Nor its nature—only that it would be bad. And here it was. Now it was here. And when Anthony came home—hobbling a bit, he was: not looking so strong as he has been just lately, he maybe wants some cod liver oil or more of those iron tablets—I gave him all of these comics I'd got for him in Lawrence's when I nipped out for five minutes at dinner time to go to Victoria Wine for a bottle of Black & White: got a couple in the end, because I'm telling you—they just go nowhere. Yes and so I'd got him these comics because I wanted him well out of the way, didn't I? I would have tried to get him out of the house altogether, but I don't know anyone who'd have him. Except Milly, of course—but it was Milly, you see, I was needing to get over here, so that was no good. Yes—it was Milly, of course it was Milly I had to see—because who else could I talk to? No one. Don't know a soul. And she'd know what to do, Milly would. More than me, anyway—I haven't got a bloody clue. But Milly—she'll sort it all out, bound to. Capable woman, Milly is—and by God, do you need that. Yes so I gave him a Crunchie, Anthony, two tubes of Smarties, handful of flying saucers … and that was
on top of his tea. And I said to him, now listen: you stay in your room like a good little lad, eh Anthony? Yes? Because your dad, he's got one or two things to see to. Yes? All right? Are you all right, Anthony? Yes? You are? Good. Good boy.