Holiday (19 page)

‘You don’t hold it against him?’

‘Why should I? That was his way, and he followed it. When I was big enough, I got out, went off to Leicester.’

‘But you came back?’

‘He’s my father, when all’s said and done. He gets on my tits, and I’ve nothing to say to him. But we see each other. I buy him the odd thing or two and he provides me with a bed. Fair exchange. Suits us both. But I tell you, mister, I wouldn’t chase over here, nor lose an hour’s work, if I knew he was dying. We may be father and son, but they’re names.’ He looked at Fisher. ‘You don’t think that’s right, do you?’

‘Well.’

‘It’s what most folks do, given the chance, I’ll tell you.’

‘Would mean more on my tax bill.’

‘You can afford that if you can afford this.’ He punched the car affectionately. Fisher asked if he’d like a lift anywhere.

‘No. I s’ll go back in there. Smoking like chimneys, the two of us. Few cups of tea. Telly. Bloody life, in’t it? He’ll be making the fire, now he’s asked. Roasting the legs off us trousers, and backs damp as fishes. And next Tuesday, I start again.’

‘Tuesday?’

‘Monday’s a holiday. I’ve got a car round the back.’

‘I see.’

Fisher drove off, disconsolate, down in the mouth. As the road turned to cross a dyke, he looked back at the house, a cube of blackness in a sunshine that looked rough as india-rubbings on a child’s drawing. He was in no mind to fault the young man, who spoke out of his own depression perhaps, talked thus sullenly against a society that promised, proffered him nothing. Half an hour later as he repassed the place on his way to Bealthorpe, he noticed a twist of smoke from the chimney, and the door fast shut. The kettle would boil in the fag smoke, and they’d hack hunks of bread and margarine, and hump there, in dislike if not hate, each man of himself if not the other. Fisher slowed, resentfully, the world on his back.

The young man spoke without hesitation, because he’d thought it all out, put it into words, and now did not object to trying it out on a stranger. Everybody judges from the point of view of his own inadequacy. Now, warned by unemployment, Kevin did not show much resentment even, but merely wished to be rid of the responsibility and, unusually, was honest enough to say so. Perhaps the father stood formidably yet in his age and weakness, a giant in complaint.

A dog scuttered across the road so that Fisher realised he was paying little attention to his driving. A brand-new bus forced him into the side while windowsful of children waved, jeered, cheered.

He ought to go back to Meg. A prodigal.

Immediately, with a lump of joy, he remembered a talk his father had delivered at the Sunday bible-class. This had been unusual for though Arthur Fisher was only too willing to hand round his opinions or snippets of knowledge, he never spoke formally at meetings. Perhaps he was not asked. On this occasion he had been invited to give five minutes on the parable of the prodigal son. This worried the old man: he tried to talk to Edwin, to his wife, even to Tina about it, but they brushed him off. The children made it clear that they did homework without assistance, so should he. So Arthur thumbed the concordances, trudged to the library, gave a strict account to his family on the way of scholarship. Elsie, much occupied, wished out loud three times a day, double-measure Sunday, that he’d never embarked on the project.

Fisher went to hear the result.

The old man spoke nervously, with a kind of special delivery which led to the occasional dropped h or grammatical indiscretion. Secondly, there was no attempt to make the topic palatable; all was delivered without fervour in a choked voice. But what impressed the boy was his father’s line. Arthur missed much that was obvious, misread once or twice, but stressed the clause, ‘But when he was yet a great way off.’ The father must have been waiting, on the look-out. Fisher had not thought of that himself, hadn’t noticed. What commentary or sermon Arthur had picked it from he did not know, for he was not willing to ascribe originality to the old chap, but he was shaken.

‘How did your dad get on?’ Elsie had asked.

‘Not too bad. He made a very good point.’

‘Only one?’

‘That I hadn’t thought of.’ The young Fisher had expounded.

‘And he didn’t make a fool of himself?’

Elsie must have passed comment on, for in midweek, Arthur had given his son half-a-crown ‘to go to the pictures.’ Both knew what it meant, though neither put it into words.

The memory whirled like the dust from the car wheels, settling gently after a time. He could not deceive himself with the sentimental notion that Meg was on the watch, in love, for his return, because he did not believe it. But she had sent a card. He’d certainly visit her as soon as he was back.

That brought no comfort, only a further memory and its small dust storm.

Once, before Donald was born, while they still lived in London, Meg had forgotten to call in at the post-office for stamps so that he could catch the evening’s post with important applications for jobs. Fisher had to chase round the neighbours interrupting tea and television. Moreover, when he’d returned, successfully, he found she’d burnt the meat; it was not exactly uneatable, but he found no pleasure in the black strips.

They sat to it.

Furious, he determined to say nothing. When she was angry or disturbed, she sniffed, strongly, unbecomingly, like a snuff-taker, goading him. He hacked at the blackened steak, rereading the same short item in ‘The Times’, not understanding a word, stabbing the lines with his eyes. He could not eat, and pushed a large half of the course with unnecessary clatter to the side of his plate. Meg, sniffing, finished hers, cleared the dishes.

‘I haven’t made a pudding,’ she said. ‘I thought you might like an apple. Or I could open a tin of fruit.’

She spoke apologetically.

‘Don’t bother,’ he said, waving, crackling his newspaper about.

‘Will you have an apple? Or a banana?’

‘In time.’

She cleared the table round him without his help, moved to the kitchen and began washing up. When he joined, her, she seemed relaxed, sniffing no longer, making less fuss about the chore than usual. He took the tea-towel. She spoke.

‘I’m thinking of joining an evening class.’

Immersed in his angry broth-boil of thoughts he did not hear.

‘I beg your pardon.’ Superior.

‘I’m thinking of joining an evening class.’

‘Oh, yes. In cookery?’

He continued placidly drying the knives and forks. Very deliberately, Meg took her hands from the bowl, shook them free of surplus drops, and picked a dinner-plate from the drying rack. This she held between her palms as she turned to face him. He forced himself not to look. She smashed the plate to the tiled floor where it exploded; she waited a moment, then walked from the room. Shaking with rage, but pleased to have wrung this tantrum from her, he took the brush and dustpan, cleared the floor, finished the dishes, tidied around. Satisfied he retired to the living-room. No wife. He began to read.

For perhaps half an hour he struggled with an article on ‘Junior Drama in a Rural Comprehensive School’ when he began to see sense. Meg taught part-time now and had done a morning’s work in the classroom, shopped, forgotten his stamps, done the washing before he’d arrived with his bellyaching. He forgot things; it did not matter a tinker’s damn whether or not he dispatched his applications tonight, she snuffed air into her nose because she couldn’t bring herself to confide in him; burnt or not, her meal was preferable to committee stew.

Where was she now?

Mild irritation split with the question. He made himself smile as he walked upstairs. She had switched off all the lights.

Meg lay in bed, the sheets pulled up to her face, only a small patch of bright hair splashed on the pillow. Her clothes, as usual, were nearly folded or hung in the wardrobe.

He, in the light from the passage outside, put a hand to her shoulder.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee, Meg?’

She stirred.

‘A delicious cup of coffee.’

She opened her eyes so that he thought she would smile. Suddenly she buried her face under the clothes she dragged upwards. Watching, weighing prospects he tried again. Very gently he smoothed the sheets above her.

‘I’m very sorry, Meg,’ he said. ‘I’ve acted like a boor.’

As he said it, he wasn’t convinced he pronounced the word properly, but he waited for some reaction. When she did not move, he laid his hand more heavily on her shoulder and said.

‘I’m very sorry, Meg. I really am. I shouldn’t have behaved like that.’

Her father had taken him aside just before the wedding to tell him, ‘Never sleep on a quarrel, Edwin. Apologise, even if you think you’re in the right. That’s good advice now.’ Fisher had been surprised at the approach. For all Vernon’s cleverness, and he did not question that, there was about the man a kind of naiveté, a touch of parson’s flatulence, a belief that life could be summarised, and helpfully, in Christmas cracker apophthegms. Perhaps it could, or at least perhaps these bits of old wifery did no more harm than most advice. If Fisher warred with Meg, and that was almost inevitable, then he’d withdraw when it suited him, not tie himself to this rule-of-thumb simplicity.

Nothing.

He stared down, shifted his feet.

‘Would you let me get you a cup of coffee, love? It’ll do you good. To show you I’m sorry. Would you drink it for me?’ He should have made the bloody thing and stirred it by her ear. ‘Please.’

Not a movement. It was marvellous she could keep so still.

He would not be irritated. Again he placed his hand on her, stroking her back.

‘I’m sorry, Meg. I am.’

He wasted his time. Again he straightened the edge of the sheet, and left her. It took three days for the quarrel to heal. At breakfast next morning, she’d ignored him in bed, she did not speak, but when he returned for the evening meal she’d become monosyllabic. By the weekend, they spoke normally, enjoyed a theatre visit, grum and gruff Ibsen once more, made love. Meg had never mentioned the incident again, but he felt the breach, feared it. If they had to row, he preferred her tongue lashing, or her fists.

That had not been the only incidence of such behaviour, and he wondered if the withdrawal was her only way to sanity; she punished him by leaving herself fallow. The explanation made no sense, but neither did her conduct. He could never tell when a remark of his would provoke turmoil, or start laughter.

Oddly, he thought as he drove, he’d never concluded that she was in any way deeply disturbed, insane. These were the kicks of a free woman, a selfish woman, at marriage. Shackled.

Then why had she married him?

On the rebound from Malcolm and her father she’d chosen him because he was both cleverer and livelier, yet did not make limiting demands on her. He seemed to want her for herself, not for some different person she could with care be shaped into. On artistic matters he had ideas, could be explicit about them, but he approved her, daily living, wildness and all, for what she was. Whether that had been a suitable beginning to a successful marriage he now doubted, but he realised the attraction to Meg at the time.

She had not been a virgin, but was close about her boyfriends. He never, for that matter, knew whether she’d had sex with Malcolm; certainly she had begged Fisher to leave her untouched until they were married. He’d argue, in a desperate way with her, out of jealousy, perhaps, so that she’d collapse into tears, accuse him of not loving her. On his part he was guiltily ending an affair with a woman who nearly ten years older than himself, a widow who expected to become his wife, though she claimed she’d refuse him. He did not give her the chance, ignored her letters, phone-calls, prosaic heart-broken shrieks he did not understand. Three months after his wedding to Meg, Thelma had married again, a suitably rich man of her own age, had moved from her poky flat into a magnificent Old Rectory in a village ten miles out and had given birth to two sons. He had no dealings with her, but saw her occasionally at concerts where she seemed unchanged, as energetic and bogus as when she tiptoed stark naked about her flat gesturing, posturing, hands like a ballet-dancer, sallow and athletic. Now she smiled sadly at him and said, ‘Good evening,’ but did not introduce her husband. She’d not been without brains, but felt she must convey herself through her body, think with breasts and vulva.

He’d acted badly, and considered that the ditching of this decent
puppenfee
was no real foundation for a marriage. When he’d confessed to Meg, she shrank, as if frightened at the confession, or perhaps dreading that she needed to reciprocate, but ended by saying brusquely,

‘Don’t boast, Eddie. It doesn’t suit your style.’

An answer learnt from father.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘And don’t stand there so miserably. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t mind.’

‘I wish you did.’

‘That’s stupid. What you were up to before I knew you is your own affair.’

‘I’m jealous when I think about you with other men.’

‘Why?’ Her word was stronger than a mere question; perhaps she saw some advantage for herself.

‘I hate to think how well they knew you, and of all the things you did together that I can’t share.’

‘It means nothing. I never think about them.’

He did not believe that, because he remembered his first girl at the university and how they’d walked hand in hand, slid in winter across the frozen ice of the pond. Probably if he met her now he’d find nothing of interest, but she was embedded into his memory, an imposing monument, casting a huge shadow, still.

Meg would smile, finger her lips, and say,

‘One must be grown-up about this, darling.’

‘I’m not, if grown-up means pushing it all out of my system.’

‘I know that.’

‘But, Meg,’ he said, ‘when we’ve been married ten years, will you want to forget the first?’

‘Very likely. We shan’t need it?’

‘I shall.’

‘We shall be leading a pretty poor life, dearest, if we need to remember all that fumbling and stupidity.’