The Furnished Room (21 page)

She said with annoyance: ‘Haven't you been listening to me?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then why don't you
answer
, dear? It's so annoying when you don't answer.'

‘There's nothing I want to say.'

‘Well, there's plenty I want to say. These ideas about not marrying; I suppose they're ideas you've picked up from these fine friends of yours, who do nothing all day but drink coffee, and set the world in order, and think they're such geniuses with their second-hand mistresses and second-hand ideas. I'm sure all these friends of yours would think I'm very boring, a silly suburban woman, because I stand up for the morality they laugh at. I suppose they never ask themselves where they'd be if it wasn't for people like me. It never occurs to them that if nobody got married then they would never have been born. It's only because decent people, whom they despise as being conventional, got married and sacrificed themselves to bring up children, that they're able to sit there discussing their fine ideas.'

He said coldly: ‘If you
must
attribute to me a lot of mythical friends...'

‘Well, you know very well your friends are like that. The few I've met all looked as if they could do with a good wash, physically, mentally, and morally. They all looked as if they needed a long walk over the moors, so that the wind could blow some of the silly ideas out of their heads. But it isn't them I'm interested in. It's you.' Her voice softened, was yearning. ‘I know Mother is a cross, nagging old woman. Yes she is, dear. But it's only because she loves you, and doesn't want to see you go down the drain. This idea about not marrying may seem very fine and free to you now, but what's going to happen when you're old?' Her voice sharpened again. ‘What will you be like then? One of these lonely, dirty old men who go round pinching young girls' bottoms because there's nothing else left for them?'

Beckett frowned.

She said: ‘There you are, I can speak up, I can talk as frankly as any of your wonderful friends.'

‘Yes. All right. You can. Now please let's drop the subject.'

‘All right, dear, if you want to. Oh, Joe darling, I did so want to have a nice evening with you, and now I've broken all my resolutions by nagging you. Will you forgive your nasty cross old Mum?'

‘There's nothing to forgive.'

‘Yes, there is, dear. I shouldn't nag you. It's only because I love you so much.'

The kettle was boiling. ‘Coffee?' he offered.

‘That would be lovely.' She asked in a bright, different voice: ‘And how's your job?'

‘Oh, that. Well, actually, I've left.'

‘Left your job?'

‘Yes.' He made two cups of Nescafé, stirring them hard to vent his irritation.

‘But
why
, Joe?' She took the blue-and-white striped mug. Sip. ‘What a pretty mug! Is it yours or the landlady's?'

‘Mine.'

‘Oh, yours. She doesn't provide crockery, then?'

‘No.'

‘Oh, what a pity. If I'd known you could have had some crockery from home. It would have saved you buying it.' Another sip. ‘Ah, this is nice. I was dying for a nice cup of something hot to pull me together after the journey. Journeys are really exhausting.'

‘Yes.'

‘I did look in at the station buffet, but it was so crowded I decided not to stay.'

‘No.'

She said: ‘But why did you leave your job?'

‘I don't know really. Because I was fed up.'

‘But you must know, dear.'

‘Nobody really knows why they do things.'

‘Now, that is a silly thing to say. Of course people know why they do things. I certainly know why I do things; I should think it very peculiar if I didn't.'

Beckett lit a cigarette.

She said: ‘I do so worry about you, the way you keep drifting from job to job in that shiftless way.'

He thought she had finished, but she continued in a timid, yearning voice: ‘You were so lovely when you were a baby. People in the street used to stop and look into your pram. And now when the neighbours and people enquire about you I just don't know what to say. I can't tell them you just drift from job to job.'

‘Why not? I don't care if you do.'

‘But
I
care, Joe. I met Mrs Delapole the other day. You remember, her son used to be at school with you. Anyway, Mrs Delapole said that he had a very good job now; something to do with an engineering company. His firm sends him abroad for them, it's all very exciting. And he has an expense account, and a secretary, and two telephones on his desk. And then Mrs Delapole asked about you, and I just didn't know what to say.'

‘What the hell does it matter what you say? Tell her to mind her own damn' business, if you like.'

‘Now, Joe. Mrs Delapole is a very nice woman, and she's always taken a friendly interest in you.'

‘Well I didn't ask her to.'

‘I have to tell her the truth, and it's so humiliating. It's so humiliating to be pitied for having a son like you.'

‘I'm sorry, but I don't intend to order my life with the sole aim of impressing your neighbours.'

‘But it isn't as if you were stupid and only fit for menial jobs. You have a good brain; you were always top of your form at school — far ahead of the Delapole boy, who was rather mediocre I always thought.'

‘Mum, I am not at school now. If you want to talk to your inaccurate memory of a schoolboy, all right. But don't expect me to acknowledge your concept as myself.'

He struggled for words, making chopping gestures with his right hand. ‘It's as if somebody insisted on calling me Smith or Jones instead of my right name, and then wondered why I didn't respond.'

‘Yes, I know, dear; of course I know you're not a child any more. But, you see, I want to feel as proud of you now as I did then. Other mothers can feel proud of their sons. I don't know why I'm the only one to have a problem child. I suppose it must be my fault. I must have slipped up somehow. Although the good God knows I've tried to be a good mother. I've worked for you and prayed for you. But I suppose I didn't work and pray hard enough.'

He said uncomfortably: ‘Oh no, you've done everything right.'

‘I can't have done everything right, or you wouldn't be in the mess you're in now. Oh, Joe, darling...' She held out her arms to him and cradled him back and forth. ‘My only son.'

He was in a cramped position, the brim of her hat jabbing his cheek. He said, in what he tried to make an emotional tone: ‘Darling Mum.'

‘My own boy.'

‘Mind the coffee, Mum, you're spilling it.'

‘Oh yes...' She released him, and dabbed her eyes with her gloved knuckles.

For something to say, he remarked: ‘Yes, I would have tidied the room if I'd known you were coming.'

She was saying: ‘I should have thought you'd want a more interesting job. It would be so
exciting
to go abroad for the firm. I can quite understand that you'd get bored with a dull job, but surely one that involved travelling would be just the thing for you. The Delapole boy went to Germany, and he had free time to go around and see all the sights and everything. Mrs Delapole showed me some snaps he'd taken of the Rhine Valley, and it looked absolutely beautiful, dear.'

Her thin face had a wan beauty as she spoke. A tremulous hope shone at the back of her eyes and flitted round her mouth. In spite of her physical frailty, she had indomitable willpower, love, and humility. She only needed a man's touch to bring out the joy which was in her. Being denied this touch, she had bowed her shoulders patiently and got on with the housework; but the timid joy was still there, waiting for the touch which could bring it to flower. When she spoke of things like the history in the Tower and the scenery of the Rhine Valley, there was a pathetic radiance in her face which could have transformed her if it had met an answering beam of love.

Beckett felt depressed. The feeling of certainty which he had experienced earlier when he was looking at the washstand, and the excitement of thinking about the problems of vitality versus boredom, had gone. His mother had destroyed it.

He did not disagree with what she said. On the contrary, he knew that he was wasting his life. But it was irritating when she told him something that he knew only too well already. It was more irritating when she judged him by standards, such as good jobs and sexual morality, which he himself considered irrelevant. He was indeed wasting his life, but not in the way she supposed. Her advice, therefore, was as meaningless as suggesting remedies for a cold in the head to a man who suffered from a broken arm.

She was fumbling in her handbag, producing a box of pills.

He said:'What's that?'

‘I have to take them, three times a day, Dr Murchison said.'

‘D'you want some water?'

‘Yes, please, dear.'

He was irritated, feeling the pills to be a reproach directed at him. He handed her a cup of water with averted face, not watching her as she swallowed it.

She started to recount her illness, starting from her first symptoms of feeling a bit off-colour, and then continuing with the various visits of the doctor and what had been said on each visit, telling him how the family had managed to cook and housekeep and look after her.

Beckett, who found accounts of feminine ills boring and somewhat nauseating, hardly listened. He stared out of the window, commenting ‘Yes' or ‘No' or ‘I see' whenever her voice paused.

‘... and Aunty Anne was
so
kind,' she was saying. ‘She came to see me three times and brought me grapes. I did so appreciate it. And Uncle Xavier and Aunt Margaret were very good, too.'

He nodded morosely, simultaneously bored by the doings of his family, and depressed by the implication of his callousness compared to the kind relations.

‘Are you listening, Joe?'

‘Yes, of course. It must have been terrible for you, Mum.'

‘Sometimes I feel I can't reach you at all. It's a terrible thing to feel about my own child. But when I talk, you don't really listen, and when I ask you questions about your own life, you just grunt as if you can hardly bear to answer.'

‘Do I? Sorry.'

‘I
am
your mother, and it's only natural that I should be interested in your life, your job, your girl friends. But I can never get any information out of you at all. It's like talking to a wall trying to talk to you. And yet I'm sure you talk half the night to your friends.' She sighed. ‘I suppose you think I'm just a boring middle-aged woman.'

‘No. No, of course not.'

‘Yes, you do.' Then she tried another tactic, saying in a renouncing, martyr voice: ‘All right. I've done all I can for you, I've talked till I'm hoarse. From now on I just give up. You can ruin your life, you can go down the drain, for all I care. I give up. I'll just forget that I've got a son, I'll cut you out of my heart.' She smiled briskly at the space beside him, to demonstrate that she had already started the operation. ‘Yes, I'll probably find it very easy once I've got used to the idea. It will be nice to only have myself to consider after all these years. It's about time I was able to be selfish for a change.'

Beckett was unimpressed. He knew she was acting. He pitied her clumsy attempts to act, and pitied her because her acting could not affect him.

She said: ‘It will do you good to realize you can go too far with people, that the greatest love can be destroyed if you treat it too badly.'

‘Yes, I'm sure it will.' Then he said: ‘Well, I expect you're hungry, aren't you? Come on out and we'll have a meal.'

She demurred at first, because she did not want to be an expense to him. Then, when he insisted, she gave in.

He made an excuse to leave the room, and borrowed ten shillings from the Irishman. That, together with Ilsa's fifteen shillings, would be sufficient.

When he returned, his mother said: ‘I didn't really mean that, darling.'

He smiled encouragingly at her. ‘Didn't you?'

The next thing she said was: ‘Are you going to put a tie on, dear?'

‘No.'

‘Oh.'

There was a pause. Then she said: ‘I just thought you'd look nicer with a tie.'

‘I'm all right without, aren't I?'

She touched the front of his shirt, pleading: ‘Look nice for Mother, dear.'

In silence he buttoned the neck of his shirt, took a tie from the wardrobe and put it on. He turned towards her. ‘Shall we go?'

He did not take her to the Paradine, the workmen's café he frequented, but to a smarter restaurant in Westbourne Grove. He had a warm feeling of protection towards her as he shortened his stride to match hers. Her hand was through his arm, and her bright eyes smiled up at him from below the brim of the antennae hat.

She warned him against habitually eating in cafés. She said that they heated the food up, which destroyed the vitamins. Continual café meals were bad for him, and would make him an easy prey for germs.

In the restaurant, she sat opposite him across the red-check tablecloth. Her hands, work worn, with the wedding ring dimmed by the years, touched the cutlery on either side of her plate. She turned her head. The line of her profile and neck was graceful and the hat brim cast a soft shadow. Then she looked at him with her timidly loving eyes.

They were thus smiling into each other's eyes when the French waitress served the food.

His mother's eyes achieved a final orgasm of love, then she said: ‘I should brush your hair back from your forehead, dear. You look much nicer when you're tidy.'

Annoyed, he pushed the lock of hair back in such a way that it immediately fell forward again.