Getting It Right (20 page)

Mrs Lamb cast a lightning glance at Gavin, and blowing out her smoke – she never inhaled – said: ‘Is that Muriel Sutton? Your friend? Still working in that office, is she? The
one who was bridesmaid at your wedding? The one who lives in New Barnet? The one whose mother had that nasty accident?’ No check could have been more thorough, Gavin thought gloomily, and of
course she knew all the time.

‘That’s right, Mum. Stephen! Have you washed your hands?’

‘I couldn’t. Judy’s in the bathroom. She’s crying. She won’t come out . . .’

‘Use the downstairs one.’

‘Can’t. Dad’s in it.’

‘Gavin! That reminds me. I’ve left that B-E-A-R in the car.’

‘I’ll get it.’

As he left the room, Stephen said: ‘You got a bear in your car?’

‘You’re so sharp you’ll prick yourself,’ said Mrs Lamb adoringly.

‘I don’t mind Judy having a bear. She’s only a girl.’

Needless to say, Gavin had just levered the purple-clad bear from the car and was trudging up the crazy paving with it in his arms when he heard Muriel behind him.

‘Yoo hoo!’ she said. It was a greeting on a par with musical chimes at the front door, Gavin thought: utterly maddening and in this case unanswerable.

‘Hullo,’ he said. He had to turn round to say it. Muriel was dressed in electric blue with fuchsia trim and high heels.

‘Aren’t you the wonderful uncle? What a lovely teddy!’

‘It’s my mother’s present for Judy.’

‘Well – I didn’t think it was for
you
. You’re just a little bit old for teddies, aren’t you? I hope I’m not late. I couldn’t catch the first
bus that came along for reasons which I’ll unfold later. Oh dear!’ She gave an operatic shiver, but Gavin was close enough to her now to see that she was actually much too hot. ‘I
got some chockies for her,’ she said. Gavin was close enough to her now to realize that she smelled partly of Evening in Paris.

‘After you.’

‘Thanks.’ She tripped ahead of him, reiterating her version of a Red Indian, or was it a cowboy? Fortunately, Ken emerged from the Gents off the hall and, while she was greeting him,
Gavin was able to escape ahead of her to the lounge to deposit the bear. This meant, however, that, as self-imposed barman, he was bound to offer Muriel a drink (Ken had mysteriously not come into
the lounge – what on earth could he be
doing
?). Anyway . . .

‘What would you like to drink?’ he said to Muriel, not looking at her which didn’t help, because she teetered across the Afghan rug until she was not shoulder to shoulder
exactly, more bosom to shoulder blade.

‘Let me see,’ she said. The others, Gavin heard, had begun to talk about gardening, and although he knew it was
paranoid
of him there seemed to be something conspiratorial
about that: as though they were throwing him and Muriel together.

‘You can have sherry, or gin, or red Cinzano,’ he began tonelessly; ‘or any combination of those that you feel like.’

‘I’d like a tiny little gin and tonic, Gavin, please!’

And, while he was pouring it out wondering irritably what she meant by tiny, she said – and now
she
was being conspiratorial: ‘I can’t wait for you to tell me about
the party.’

‘What party?’

‘
The
party. The one you went to last night. The one that was the reason why you couldn’t come to dinner.’

‘Oh,
that
. It was okay. Nothing much.’ Two pictures – one of Spiro astride Winthrop in Joan’s bathroom, and one of Minnie sitting up naked in Joan’s bed
– shot on to his mind’s screen, and he blinked them out as he added: ‘It went on rather late.’

She gave a knowing laugh. ‘Got a bit of a hangover, have you? I thought you looked a mite peaky.’

Then he was saved by Ken who helped himself to a glass of cider: he played games and never drank spirits. Muriel went over to Mrs Lamb who was levering the bear’s joints in an attempt to
get him to sit upright instead of lolling which had always been his wont. She kissed Marge, who was so anxious about her size and single state that she responded – for her – with undue
warmth, and said ‘Good morning’ to Mr Lamb who took his pipe out of his mouth to say ‘Pleased to meet you’ although he did not look it. Stephen came in and said:

‘Mum, it’s in the goldfish tank and she can’t get it out.’

‘Why can’t she?’

‘She’s afraid of the catfish. She’s only a girl,’ he explained to his mother.

‘Well –
you
get it out for her and tell her to come on down for lunch, if she wants any. And, Stephen! I’ve had enough of this “only a girl” business. And
wash your
hands
! Little male chauvinist!’ she exclaimed after he had left the room.

‘It’s only a phase,’ said Mrs Lamb. She did not know in the least what Marge meant, but felt bound to defend her beloved grandson. ‘He
is
a boy, after
all,’ she reminded her daughter.

‘Men are all the same,’ declared Muriel. She looked challengingly round the room for opposition to this remark and Marge instantly said: ‘Ken isn’t like that, are you,
Ken? You believe in equality between the sexes, don’t you? You don’t think women are inferior to men, do you? I mean, you think that we should do jobs just like men, and men should do
their share of domestic chores?’

‘That’s right,’ said Ken stoutly, but he looked bored, or rather, Gavin thought, he looked as though he was afraid he might be going to be bored . . .

‘That’s all right then. I’ll go and dish up.’

There was a silence after she left the room, but Mr Lamb’s mind was almost audibly ticking over, and eventually he said:

‘You don’t get many women bricklayers.’

‘Of course you don’t,’ exclaimed Muriel soothingly. ‘The idea!’

‘And you don’t get many masons, either.’

‘We know that!’ said Mrs Lamb sharply, she wasn’t quite sure which way the conversation was going now, but she’d had great practice at putting Mr Lamb in his place.

‘And, between you and me, I’d be surprised if I met a woman plasterer.’

‘I should – jolly – well – think you – would,’ said Muriel almost as though she was humouring a mad child.

‘That’s not the point, though, is it really? I mean women haven’t had a chance to do those jobs – up to now. In the Soviet Union they do. In the Soviet Union they do all
the same jobs as men.’

‘They don’t get to be President, do they?’ said Mrs Lamb with unexpected acumen. ‘They don’t get a chance at the top jobs – oh dear me, no, I don’t
suppose there are many Russian women Admirals or Bishops or . . . or Heads of Firms. Name me a Russian woman Admiral!’ she demanded. Mr Lamb was not deflected.

‘And joiners now. You don’t get many women joiners, I wouldn’t say.’

‘Lunch is ready!’ called Marge.

They went into the dining room for lunch.

They had finished the pork, and were demolishing damson pie with double cream (Marge was a great bottler of fruit). Conversation had been – not exactly sticky – but
exhaustive. Mr Lamb, once wound up, was hard to stop: he had run through every conceivable job in the building trade where it would be funny if you found a woman. Mrs Lamb who sensed that she was
on to a good thing with the Russians had retaliated: in her case, she was not bound by a trade, but able to range over every profession she could muster, and they had been many. Gavin had mentally
gone through all the Arts and surprised himself by finding how few women painters, sculptors or composers – even poets – resulted. He had just got to Berthe Morisot, and on to the
notion that the Impressionists painted a good deal from a woman’s point of view – take Vuillard’s interiors for instance – but before he could give them as examples he was
jolted out of his private mind by an entirely new hazard: Ken had made some scathing reference to the English class system. Usually, this salvo – shot across Mrs Lamb’s bows as it were
– would have resulted in her fiery defence of the Royal Family, with Gavin broadening the argument into popular myth, and the concept of most people requiring a figurehead, anyone from a god
to a pop star, etc. (there were several well-worn jungle paths trodden each Sunday by different combinations of protagonists), but this time Ken had gone too far, or rather had gone exactly the
right distance, to provide Mrs Lamb with the opening that Gavin immediately realized she had been waiting for ever since they’d got out of the car.

‘It might interest you to know,’ she said, ‘that there’s no difference between Them and Us at all. As I happen to know. At first hand,’ she paused grandly.

Everybody looked at her. ‘That nice girl you brought home last night, Gavin. Lady – what was her name – ever so nice she was – Lady Minerva Munday!’

There was a satisfactory silence spoiled by Mr Lamb saying:

‘You wouldn’t catch
her
doing any making good.’

‘We’re not talking about the building trade, now, Fred. That subject is closed. We’re on to something else.’

Marge said: ‘Goodness me, Gavin, what have you been up to?’

It was her nature and practice to defuse any situation that she felt was becoming what she called ‘personal’, but this time there was a touch of genuine curiosity in her voice.

‘Nothing much.’ Gavin felt peevish – he would have said bored, but his face was heating up – particularly as he felt Muriel’s currant eyes on his face . . .

‘Gavin wasn’t up to anything,’ Mrs Lamb retorted sharply: ‘he simply brought a friend home from a party – in this case an Earl’s daughter – and she was
just like anybody else. There-was-not-the smallest difference. Of course she was very young; Gavin put her in the lounge and she slept on the settee with her parrot.’

There was another, short, silence, then Marge, looking anxiously at Muriel, said: ‘Well I never!’

Muriel, who had just discovered that she had eight damson stones on her plate (Gavin knew this because he had quietly counted them too), said: ‘You can get a nasty disease from parrots:
I’m surprised Lady What’s-her-name ‘s family allow that sort of goings-on. It sounds distinctly funny to me, don’t you think so, Marge?’

‘Of course her family have a deer park and estates to keep up, and naturally they’re finding that things are not what they used to be.’

‘You don’t catch me having trouble with my deer park.’

Marge cast a look at her husband that was a marital compound of telegram and gramophone record. Gavin translated it roughly as: ‘Watch out! You know you’ve always promised to shut up
about politics with Mum and Dad. It’s only once a fortnight, after all. You can’t expect them to change their ways at their age . . .
Please
, Ken . . .’

‘Anyway, speak as you find and
I
found her a nice, natural, young lady – just like anybody else.’

Ken winked at his wife so
that
part of it was going to be all right, but Mr Lamb, who was nettled at being made to change the subject, said: ‘
You
don’t like
everyone. I’ve known you be quite sharp with some people I could mention – ’ but Judy interrupted with:

‘Does she live in a castle, Gran?’

‘I don’t know, dear, I didn’t think to ask her. I expect she does.’

Muriel, in whom a variety of emotions had been raging, said:

‘Well, Gavin, I think you’re a very dark horse – I really do. No
wonder
you said you weren’t free. We had a little plan,’ she explained to the table,
‘we were going to go to the pictures and have a little supper afterwards, but I quite see now why it all fell through.’

Gavin was so incensed by this version of his arrangements that all pity for Muriel deserted him and he said: ‘I had a previous engagement. A party with my friend Harry in London. I just
happened to meet this girl at it – ’

‘Mrs Wilkinson at number 92. I’ve never heard you say a good word about
her
.’

This deflected Mrs Lamb, which was both a good and a bad thing. She would not in the least mind Mrs Wilkinson only she was common, fed her family on tins and dyed her hair.
And
she had
gone to Majorca leaving Ginger to fend for himself – not at all a nice thing to do. Marge went to make coffee and tea; the children got down and mercifully Mrs Lamb remembered the bear in the
lounge. Gavin decided to go and help Marge as a way of escaping from Muriel, who had begun to stack plates. Mr Lamb and Ken were left. Gavin heard his father say ‘Women!’ as he left the
room.

Marge was putting cups and saucers on a tray. ‘You’re not going to
marry
this girl, are you?’

‘Of course not! I only met her last night. All this fuss!’

‘I thought not.’ She looked relieved. ‘I could see that Muriel was ever so upset.’

‘Look, Marge, I’m not going to marry
her
either. I wish you’d stop trying to make something out of her and me. It’s a non-starter.’

‘She said you were wonderful to her when you did her hair.’

‘It’s my job to be wonderful. With hair, I mean. I don’t want to marry anyone.’

‘Oh well – ’ She gave way so easily that he had a nasty feeling that they were back to square one (in this case Muriel) and he was right, because almost immediately she went
on: ‘I mean – if you don’t particularly fancy anyone in particular, you might as well consider Muriel. I mean, Gav dear, you
can’t
spend all your life living with
Mum and Dad. It’s not as though you’re a homosexual.’

‘If I was, I’d be out on my own in a flat, you bet.’

‘A home – kids, surely you’d like all that. It would make all the difference to you.’

‘I don’t want all the difference made to me. I’m happy as I am. Just because married life suits you so well, you think everyone ought to have it.’

‘Of course it isn’t always easy.’

‘It isn’t a question of ease,’ he said, and immediately started wondering whether perhaps it wasn’t – just that. He watched her pouring boiling water on to instant
coffee and a pot of tea and thought: Perhaps I haven’t got the energy to be bothered enough with people; the other idea of being too easily bothered by them instantly redressed the balance.
It was as though everything about him was designed to keep him inanimate – poised for ever up a tree, on the brink . . . ‘I don’t find things particularly easy,’ he said to
Marge, ‘but I just don’t feel like marrying anyone. And of course,’ he finished shrewdly, ‘I can’t marry someone if I don’t love them.’