Part One, Chapter 5 - A Kind of Loving

I

saturday night sees me standing with my hands shoved deep into my overcoat pockets looking in at the suits on the dummies in Montague Burton's window. I'm wondering how I'm going to pass the evening on now when a hand drops on my shoulder and Willy's voice says, 'Now then, tosh.'

I look round. 'Howdo, Willy.'

' What you doin'?' Willy says.

"I was just wonderin' where to go. Where you off to?'

'I was just plannin' on bavin' an odd 'un an' then catching this new Western at the Ritz.'

'By yourself?'

'Aye. Fancy it?'

'Okay.' It doesn't matter much one way or the other what I do now the evening's spoiled. But I reckon I'll be better off with Willy than moping on my own. Not that I'll be much company, the way I'm feeling.

We walk past all the shops lit up on Cooperative Street. One of Granger's windows blazes at us across the junction and a copper on the beat stops a minute to look at a few hundred quid's worth of fur coats.

'Who's in this picture?' I say as Willy nudges me to cross over the street.

'Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas,' Willy says. 'In colour an' all. Should be good. I like a good Western.'

Willy likes nearly any kind of picture. He goes three and four times every week and you can hardly mention a flick he hasn't seen. Beer and the pictures are Willy's hobbies. If you can't find him in a pub you know he's at the pictures. We're crossing the road towards the lights and this jangly piano coming from the Weaver's Arms.

'Let's find a quiet 'un,' I say when Willy makes to go in.

'It's good ale here,' Willy says.

' Mebbe it is; but I don't like pub pianos.'

Willy shrugs. 'Okay, I'm easy. I think there's another round the comer.'

We set off again.

'Didn't she turn up, then?' Willy says after a few steps.

'Who?'

"This tart you were waiting for.'

'Who said I was waiting for a tart? I was just looking in Burton's window and wonderin' where to go.'

'I wa' talking to a mate o' mine on the corner for five minutes afore I came across,' Willy says. 'I saw you walkin' up an' down an' looking at your watch.'

'All right, I was waiting for a bint, then.'

'And she didn't turn up?' Willy says. 'Well, it's not the first time it's happened.'

'It's the bloody last time it'll happen with me!' I say, letting some of it come out, though it's not mad I feel at all really.

'Famous last words,' Willy says, then stops. 'They've shifted it.'

'What?'

"That pub ... I'll swear it was here a fortnight sin' ... Fancy me losing a pub in the middle of me own home town. I must be getting soft in the head.' He stands looking round a minute, then gets his bearings. 'I know.' He starts off again. 'C'mon.' I follow him.

'Oh, why did she do it?' I'm thinking as I catch up with Willy and get into step again. Why, why, why? Why couldn't she say no straight out instead of having me waiting twenty-five minutes with nothing at the end of it? All day I've been thinking about it. Knowing I was going to see her was like having a jewel in my pocket and every now and then I'd take it out and turn it over and gloat over it. Minutes like that I could remember just exactly what she looked like when I asked her in the print room. Shut my eyes and I could see how the light fell on her hair, and her face, and the way she wouldn't look at me (and I know why she couldn't now, the deceitful bitch... No, I don't mean that really, either. I'm not mad, just miserable, and I'd run to her tomorrow if she wagged her ringer at me). She had a pale pink blouse on with a high neck that came up on her throat, her plump little throat that I wanted to stroke, like I'm always wanting to stroke her, soft and gentle and quiet. And now ,.. why? Why should she do this to me? Where did I go wrong? That's what I want to know.

We go into this pub - I believe it's called the Cherry Tree -and get a couple of pints of bitter and take them to a table.

'Have you been out with her afore?' Willy says. 'Or is this the first and last time?'

'I've been out with her twice,' I tell him. "Three times really, only I don't count the last time.'

'How's that?'

I see straight away I've said too much and I run my fingers up and down in the moisture on the outside of the glass before I say anything else. 'She brought a mate of hers with her.'

A big grin breaks on Willy's face. He drinks from his glass and he's still grinning when he puts it down.

'Would you believe it?' I say, putting on a show for him. 'Brought her mate!'

'You should ha' called round for me,' Willy says. 'I'd ha' taken care of her for you.'

I shake my head as I remember Dorothy. 'You wouldn't ha' liked this one, Willy. Feet little fiddle cases, mouth like a crack in a pie. You'd need a strong stomach or too much ale to make a pass at her ... Imagine what I felt like, though, walking up an' finding two of 'em.'

'Didn't she say why she'd brought her?'

'Oh, she spun me a cock an' bull tale about this pal turning up for her tea and she couldn't get rid of her without offending her. Course, I didn't fall for that one.'

'Doesn't look like it,' Willy says.

'How d'ye mean?'

'Well, you must've asked her again or you wouldn't ha' been stood up tonight.'

'I wanted to test her like. You know, sort of find out where I stood.'

'Well now you know,' Willy says.

'Aye, I do.' I lift my glass and have a drink. The ale's cold and refreshing just the way I like it. I haven't enjoyed a drink as much for a long time. Still, I'm half wishing I hadn't met Willy because the way the conversation's gone I feel a proper Sammy.

' Mebbe you were a bit hasty for her,' Willy says, watching me. 'Scared her off.'

'I never laid a finger on her.'

'Well you were too slow, then.'

'Well... we did a spot of neckin', y'know. But I wouldn't ha' dreamed o' trying anything else. Not with this one. She's not like that.'

'Not like what?'Willy says.

'Well... she's different.'

'How's she different?' Willy says. 'She's got two at the front and one in the middle, hasn't she, like all the rest?'

I don't like this kind of talk where Ingrid's concerned and I feel my face tighten.' She's a decent bird, Willy, that's what I mean.'

'Decent enough to leave you standin' on a comer, you mean?' Willy says.

'Mebbe she got held up or summat.'

'Mebbe she dropped dead after tea or summat,' Willy says.

'Oh, belt up, Willy,' I say, and have another drink. Willy's glass is already empty.

'Okay,' Willy says; 'we won't fall out about a bird. Specially one 'at doesn't turn up. Let's have another pint.'

'No, let's beat it.' I've bought the ones we've just drunk so I can say this without it looking as though I'm trying to skip my round. 'We might miss the start of the big picture.'

This Western's all about Wyatt Earp, the famous Marshal, and Doc Holliday and their fight with the Clanton gang at the O.K. Corral. I enjoy it, especially the last bit where they're all going at it hammer and tongs blowing the daylights out of one another. They look as though they really mean it. Real peevish, they get. Anyway, it takes me out of myself for a bit and there's times while I'm watching it when I might never have known any bint called Ingrid Rothwell. But once we're outside again in the cold it all comes back.

'We've time for a quick 'un afore they close,' Willy says. We're standing on the causeway in front of the pictures, making the people coming out down the steps walk round vs. 'Naw, I don't really feel like it, Willy. I think I'll beetle off home.'

'I was thinking o' going on to the Gala Rooms after,' Willy says. 'Why don't you come on? Forget about this bint an' we'll pick some fresh talent up.'

I run my shoe along the edge of the step. 'Naw, I think I'll go an' get to bed.'

Willy looks at me. 'Gi'n you a turn, han't she? You must ha' been getting serious.'

'Naw, it's not that, Willy, honest. I've had a hard day at the shop, that's all. Been on me feet since nine o'clock this morning. I don't feel like ploughing round a dance-floor now.' I could have done it with Ingrid, though, on feet as light as air.

'Well, just as you like, tosh,' Willy says. 'I'll be seein' ye, then.'

'Aye, be seein' ye, Willy. Adios!'

'Boners' noses,' Willy says.

The bus I catch doesn't go up the hill and when I get off at the corner I catch the smell offish and chips and I cross the road and go into the shop and buy a fish and four pennorth of chips. I sprinkle them with salt and vinegar and eat them out of the paper as I'm going up the hill. I really like fish and chips and there's no better way of eating them than in the open air, straight out of the pan, all piping hot. These are so hot they nearly burn my mouth and I break the batter, all goldy brown, round the fish and let it cool in the fresh air. I have to hold them away from me because I've been a bit too liberal with the vinegar and soon it starts seeping through the paper on to my fingers. They last me till I reach the gate and then I wipe my hands on the paper and screw it up into a ball and drop-kick it ten yards up the road.

It's half past ten and the Old Lady and the Old Feller are sitting with the table-lamp on watching television when I go in.

'D'you want some supper?' the Old Lady asks me.

'I've had some fish and chips.'

'You'll want a drink o' something, I suppose?'

'It's okay, don't bother; I'll make some cocoa.'

I go into the kitchen and make the cocoa and bring it back into the living-room and sit on the sofa at the back and light a fag.

I'm thinking about Ingrid as I watch the picture that's on TV. I've a feeling I saw it just after the war when I was a nipper. The Old Man stretches his legs out and sucks at his pipe and the Old Lady knits away in the dim light. A picture of perfect contentment, you might say.

'Where've you been?' the Old Lady says in a minute and I know she's got one of her newsy moods on.

'Pictures.'

'By yourself?'

'With Willy Lomas.'

'Willy Lomas? I don't think I know him, do I?'

'He's a mate of mine. I used to go to school with him.'

'Grammar School?'

'No, Elementary.'

She grunts and I think, there, if I'd been out with Ingrid she'd either have got to know all about it or I'd have had to lie. And even if everything was all right with Ingrid I wouldn't want the Old Lady to know about it yet. She hears wedding bells a sight too soon for my liking. She sets the pace and puts you out of your own stride.

The Old Man leans over and knocks his pipe out on the grate. 'I don't know why you pay good money to go to t'pictures when you can see 'em at home for nowt.'

'All these are old stuff.'

'What be that? They're pictures just same, aren't they?'

'You can't show colour and Cinemascope on TV.'

'Cinemascope?'

'Wide screen ... bigger.'

He sucks at his empty pipe. 'I don't see as havin' a bigger screen makes pictures any better,' he says.

I don't bother to argue about it. The picture's finished and there's a toothpaste ad on and I get up and throw my cig-end in the fire.

' Going up?' the Old Lady says.

'Aye, I'm ready for it. Had a busy day today.'

'You haven't forgotten we're all going to our Christine's for tea tomorrow?'

'No, I haven't forgotten.'

I say good night and go upstairs. There's a light in Jim's room and the door's ajar. I go into our bathroom that's like a big cold cave, all pipes and tanks and bare painted walls, and wash my face and brush my teeth as quick as I can. As I'm coming out I hear Jim give me a call and I go and stand in his doorway.

'What's up?'

He picks this pale blue envelope out of his book and flicks it down to the foot of the bed.' Letter for you.'

I pick it up and look at it. I look at my name in this handwriting and all at once I begin to get excited

'Where d'ye get this?'

'I found it behind the front door as I came to bed. Somebody must have pushed it in while we were watching television. There's no stamp on it.'

There's no address on it, either; just my name. I hold myself back from tearing it open there and then.

'Have me mam an' dad seen it?'

'No, I came straight upstairs.' Jim gives me a sly look. 'I wouldn't say it was a man's handwriting, would you?'

I'm grinning at him, grinning all over my face, even though I don't know what's in the letter yet. "Thanks, lad. I'll remember you in my will for this.'

'Don't mention it,' Jim says.

'Don't you mention it, either.'

'Mum's the word.'

'That's the ticket.'

I go across the landing and shut my door behind me before I rip the envelope open and take out this one sheet of matching notepaper. 'Dear Vic,' it says, 'My cousin decided to catch a later train and I went with her to Leeds to see her off. The train was late and it was after half past seven when I got back into Cressley. I went to where we'd arranged to meet but of course you'd gone. I wondered what on earth you could be thinking of me so I thought I'd better write this letter and explain or you wouldn't be on speaking terms by Monday. I'll be at the same place tomorrow night (Sunday) if you can manage it. If you don't come by 7.15 I'll know you can't get. Hoping you can, Love, Ingrid.'

That last word jumps out and hits me in the eye. Love! Love!

I throw the letter up in the air and do a standing jump on to the bed and bounce about like a clown on one of those trampoline things at the circus. She hasn't stood me up. She couldn't help it. And she sends her love. Her love! I jump down and feel in my back pocket and go back to Jim's room.' You know that speedometer for your bike 'at you're saving up for?' I throw a couple of half-crowns on to the bed. 'There's five bob towards it.'

I'm back across the landing again before I think that one half-crown would have been enough. Then I think, Oh, what the hell! What's money anyway? Good old Jim. Good old me. Good old everybody, and lovely, lovely Ingrid. Oh, what a lovely tart she is: what a luscious, lovable bint!

II

Sunday afternoon, then, we all troop across town - the Old Feller, the Old Lady, Jim, and me - to Chris's new place up a little avenue off Dewsbury Road. It's high up, like our house, and they've got a view as good as ours only with it being an upstairs flat they can see it from the living-room and ours only shows from the bedrooms. Chris and David have only got back from their honeymoon yesterday and there's kisses and hugs all round when she opens the door for us. And then we're all invited to look at the furnishings in the flat that Chris hasn't let any of us see before because she wanted to keep it all as a surprise for when they were actually living in. Well it looks real smart and I wouldn't mind a place like it myself. It's done out in contemporary style with light-coloured furniture with splayed legs that you catch with your feet if you're not careful and a kind of mauve fitted carpet and two different pattern papers on the walls. They haven't got a three-piece suite like ours at home but a couple of easy-chairs and a studio couch that makes up into a bed if they want to put anybody up for the night. The Old Lady looks round at it all, taking all in, and says, 'Yes, very nice, love, very nice,' in a tone of voice that says straight out it is very nice if you like that sort of thing but it isn't her cup of cocoa by any means. David and the Old Man get together at the window and look out. "That's what I call a real West Riding view,' the Old Feller says.'A bit of everything.'

'Better than the view from my old digs,' David says. 'A coal-dealer's yard, half a dozen rows of terraced houses, and the biggest Nonconformist chapel I've ever seen.'

'Have you never been to Cleckheaton?' the Old Man says, his face never slipping. 'You want to get our Chris to take you sometime. A lovely spot. They've got biggest Methodist chapel there 'at I've ever seen. An' another nearly as big on t'other side o't'road.'

'Ghastly places,' David says.

' Ho'd on, lad,' the Old Man says.' They were built to the glory of God, young feller. Just imagine the spirit 'at went into putting 'em up.'

'Oh, yes, agreed,' David says. 'It's a pity that they're mostly white elephants today. It's the architecture I'm referring to. Why must almost all the big buildings in the West Riding be either Greek or Italian? Every other one you see looks like the Parthenon covered in soot.'

'Because we believe in having t'best there is,' the Old Feller says.

'But is there no typically Yorkshire architecture?'

'Aye, Collinson's mill,' the Old Man says, grinning. He points. " That one wi' t'biggest chimney o' t'lot.'

David smiles. 'Well, I must admit that the West Riding isn't as bad as it's painted. I've been pleasantly surprised since living here.'

'It's not everybody's cup o' tea,' the Old Man admits. 'Some fowk like summat a bit ... well, softer, if you know what I mean...'

They get on talking about various parts of the country because the Old Man fancies himself as having knocked about a bit, and every now and again he has to admit that other places might have something. I get up and wander over to the bookcase by the fireplace. There's a chinking of pots from the little kitchen and every now and then either Chris or the Old Lady will march through with something else to put on the folding-leaf table they've got opened out in the middle of the floor. David's chief subject is English Lit. and there's a lot of Shakespeare and dull classics stuff on the shelves. I'm just browsing there, passing time on till the tea's ready, and this fat book with a green back takes my eye. I pick it out and notice the thing on the spine, what I took to be a snake, is a bow like they used in ancient times. I look at the title, Ulysses, and the name of the author, James Joyce, and they don't mean a thing to me; but seeing as I've got the book out I open it and leaf a few pages over. The next minute I've dropped on a bit near the end that nearly makes my hair stand up. As far as I can make out it's a bint in bed or somewhere thinking about all the times she's had with blokes. It knocks me sideways, it really does. I mean, I've seen these things what sometimes get passed on from hand to hand on mucky bits of typing paper - you know, all about the vacuum cleaner salesman who goes to a house and finds a bint in on her own - but I've never seen anything like this actually printed. Well, I'm racing through it, catching up on my education fast (it's the sort of stuff you race through because it's her thoughts, see, just as they come -and nothing left out, believe you me - and there's no commas or full stops or anything and all the sentences run into one another just the way they do when you're thinking yourself, I suppose). Anyway, I'm standing there taking all this in - or at least, all the spicy bits - when David comes over and asks me if I've found anything interesting.

I'm a bit embarrassed, though I don't know why because it's his book, not mine, and I say with a little laugh, 'This is a bit hot, isn't it? I didn't know they let 'em print stuff like this.'

'It went through several courts before free publication was sanctioned,' David says.

'I'll bet...' and I'm thinking, well, fancy old David reading stuff like this, and leaving it around for Chris to see an' all. 'Is it supposed to be good or something?'

'It's a masterpiece,' David says. 'There's no other word for it. It's one of the most significant books in the language.'

I'm thinking I'd like to have a go at it when I'm on my own and I say, 'You'll have to lend it to me sometime.'

'I'm afraid you'd find it very dull,' David says. 'It's not an easy book to read. There's so much below the surface that it takes several readings before you begin to grasp it ... Anyway, I shouldn't want your mother, for instance, to pick it up and open it where you did. She mightn't understand.'

'You bet your boots she wouldn't. What does Chris think to it?'

'She hasn't read it. She knows what it's about, and its reputation, and she says she doesn't feel obliged to go any further.'

He takes another book out. 'What about this?' I look at the title. 'Oh, Raymond Chandler. Yes, I've read this one. I've read three or four of his: all they've got in the library.'

'You like to read?'

' Oh, yes; I'm reading all the time. Beats television into a cocked hat, reading does.'

' What kind of books do you read?'

'Oh, thrillers, war stories, that sort of thing. You know ... Why don't you write a book, David? A war book, I mean. You've had plenty of adventures, haven't you?'

'Too many ...' He puts the Chandler back on the shelf. 'I did start one once, a book about my experiences in the prison camp ... But there have been so many it didn't seem much use.' He pulls another book out and hands it to me. 'Now if I could write a war story as good as that one it wouldn't matter how many there had been before.'

It's called For Whom the Bell Tolls. 'I've seen a picture of this,' I tell him as it comes to mind. 'It's a fairly old one but they reissued it a while back. Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman were in it... It was good.'

Ingrid ... Ingrid ... I'm hardly listening when David says to take the book with me and see how I like it.

A bit later I nip into the kitchen for a word with Chris while the Old Lady's out for a minute. 'I say, Chris, you won't mind if I beetle off about half-six, will you?'

She's slicing hard-boiled eggs for the salad. 'I shall be mortally offended,' she says. 'Invited for the first time to my new home and you can't get away soon enough. Is it something important?'

'Top priority. I wouldn't have gone out tonight only there was a bit of a mix-up and now I really have to.'

'What's her name?' Chris says.

'Oh, you don't know her.'

'I shall know her a bit better if you tell me what they call her. You do know, I suppose?'

'Course I do. They call her Ingrid Rothwell. You'll not say anything to me mother about it, will you? You know how she is. I mean, well, I'll tell her myself sometime, if... you know.'

Chris smiles, one of them lovely little smiles she has that make you feel everything's all right with the world and everything. 'I know,' she says.

The Old Lady bustles in licking butter off her fingers and wiping them down this apron of Chris's that she would put on. 'Cmon,' she says to me; 'out of it. Can't do wi' men cluttering the place up, hindering the job ... How're we doing?' she says to Chris. 'I think we're nearly ready, aren't we?'

' If you wouldn't mind mashing the tea.'

'Right you are, love.'

A few minutes later we're all sitting round the table and Chris starts talking about some of the things they saw on their honeymoon and this gets the Old Man started on London. It's one of the things about the Old Feller that niggles you a bit the way he thinks he's an expert on London because he was there a bit in the Great War and he's been two or three times since to brass band contests or Rugby League Cup Finals. It doesn't put him off a bit that he's sitting next to David who was born in the place. In a bit he gets so much at sea that even Chris has to pull him up.

'But the place you're talking about isn't even hi Leicester Square, Dad,' she says.

'It wa' t'last time I wa' there,' the Old Feller says. 'Are you tryin'to tell me I don't know London?'

'He'd tell Joe Davis how to play billiards,' I say and the Old Man says, 'You keep a still tongue in your head, young feller,' and lifts his first finger up to lay the law down. 'I'm tellin' you 'at when Ezra Dykes an' me were down for t'Daily Herald'Brass Band Contest in 1949 ... No, wait a minute ... war it '51? ...' He turns to the Old Lady. 'You remember that year. War it '49 or '51?'

'I don't know owt about it,' the Old Lady says, poker-faced. ' You'd better shut up an' get your tea.'

And David, who's sided with nobody, looks up at this and gives me a quiet wink,

At twenty-five past six I go into the bathroom and have a wash, then while the Old Lady's busy in the kitchen helping Chris with the washing-up I get my coat and nip out down the stairs.

She is waiting for me on the comer by Barclays Bank. She's got a blue coat on that fits to her figure, with a big fur collar and no hat. Her shoes have the highest heels I've ever seen her in. I see her before she sees me and it's like half of me's over there with her before I start to cross the road.

'Hello.'

'Hello. You got my letter, then?'

'Yes, I got it.'

I'm holding her hands with gloves on and looking at her while she babbles on all about why she was so late last night. Now I know it wasn't deliberate I'm not interested, but she will go on, giving me every little detail.

'What was his name?' I say, breaking into it.

'Who?'

'This porter you got to help you with the case.'

'How should I know?' she says, and then she sees I'm taking the mickey and she says,' Yes, I do go on, don't I? And it doesn't really matter, does it?'

'Not a bit.'

'I don't know what you must have thought of me, though.'

'Forget it. It's okay now.'

'What did you do?' she says. 'Did it waste your evening? Did you wait long?'

I tell her I went to the pictures with a pal and ask her how she came to think of writing the note. Because this is the real good bit about it all. She meant to come all right, and that's something; but to think of writing the note when she was late, that meant she cared about it and couldn't just let things slide. She had to do something.

'It just came to me,' she says. 'I thought if I let you know straight away you'd realize I couldn't help it. If I'd waited till Monday it would have had all week-end to pile up in - you know what I mean? - and it would have taken a lot more putting right then. I was afraid you might think I'd done it on purpose you see.'

'But how did you know where I live?' There's another thing: she must have been interested before to have known that.

She gives a little smile, not looking at me. 'Oh, I knew,' she says. 'P'raps I know more about you than you think.'

I feel like singing and shouting right there in the street. Oh, she's a peach. She really is.

III

'Well, where shall we go, then? Pictures?'

'I'd rather just walk and talk,' she says, and this suits me fine. It's what I wanted last Sunday when that Dorothy came and put her big feet in it. By, but when I think how near she got to busting everything up.. .What I'd have missed - all this, being here with her now and knowing she's definitely interested in me, like I am in her. But maybe it's all for the better that we have had some trouble because it's made Ingrid come right out and let me know she's interested. We've kind of gone back a couple of strides and advanced a dozen. I reckon we really owe Dorothy a vote of thanks.

'Did you have any trouble meeting me tonight?' 'Well, I really shouldn't have come,' I tell her, and think that man-eating lions on the streets wouldn't have kept me away. 'We've all been to tea at my sister's new flat. She just got back from her honeymoon yesterday.' 'Oh, yes, Christine. You told me about the wedding.' So I did, nearly a fortnight ago. And look how much has happened since then! I got to know Ingrid, then thought I'd lost her, and now I've found her all over again. And I still can hardly believe she's here with me now, and not at my invitation, but her own! I take hold of her hand and pull her arm up through mine and she turns her head and looks at me and smiles; and at the same time I get this gorgeous whiff of the scent she's wearing. 'I like your perfume. What is it?'

She giggles. 'It's called Desire?

'Living dangerously, aren't you, wearing stuff like that?' I think of the sort of joke somebody like Jimmy Slade might make - a chastity belt given free with every bottle - and grin to myself.

'It's quite expensive, as a matter of fact,' she says. 'I only wear it on special occasions. It's not for everyday use,'

'I don't know whether to be flattered or not.'

'Why?'

'I don't know whether it means you trust me to behave or trust me not to.'

She giggles again. 'Now, now. Keep the party clean.'

We get to talking about our families because we don't really know much about each other, and I find out that Ingrid's dad's a site engineer for a big constructional firm out Manchester way and his work takes him all over the country and sometimes abroad. 'He's really hardly ever at home,' Ingrid says. 'Mother says it's like being married to a sailor." (I notice the way she says 'mother' and not 'my mother' or "me mam", and this puts her family a notch above mine straight away.) "Then again she says it has its advantages. You never have a chance to get fed-up with a husband who's only at home occasionally. They're like a proper couple of love-birds when he does turn up. You'd think they'd been married a month instead of twenty years ... Of course, it'll be different when she hasn't got me for company. It'll be a bit lonely for her then.'

'Are you thinking of leaving home, then?'

'Well, I suppose I shall one day, when I get married, I mean.'

'How old are you, Ingrid?' I've guessed but I'm not sure.

'I was eighteen just before Christmas.' -I'd have given her another year. 'You're only a kid,' I say to tease her a bit. 'You won't be leaving your mother for a while.'

'Well you've got to think about the future, haven't you? Many a girl's married and started a family at eighteen. Anyway, how old are you, Father Time, if it isn't too personal a question?'

'Twenty.'

'I couldn't really tell. It was the grey beard that put me off.'

I laugh. 'Okay, okay.' And inside I'm singing and shouting again. It's all right, we're getting along grand.

'And what sort o' chap are you goinna marry? Somebody like your dad who's away all the time?'

' No fear. I want a husband who's with me all the time, and I'll risk getting fed-up with him.'

Just the way I want it: living and loving and laughing together, every day. It must be wonderful if you can hit it right.

"You'll have to wait an' see about that till he turns up. He might turn out to be a sailor or something and that'll be worse thanever.'

'How d'you know he hasn't turned up already?" she says, and I give her a quick look, wondering what to make of this.

' Well what are you doing out with me, then?'

'Making him jealous,'she says.

' I see. Is he a big bloke?'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that. He's quite well-built, though.'

'Handy with his fists?'

'I don't know. I should think he can take care of himself.'

'Hmm.' I pretend to raise my hat and turn back the way we've come.'Well, good night.'

She laughs.' Come on, I'll take care of you.'

We've walked up this residential avenue that branches off the main road that runs but to Greenford past Cressley Moor and now we can see the big gates of Ravensnook Park with all the fancy ironwork and shields, and a little side gate standing open, Ingrid suggests we walk through that way and we go in past the lodge which is in darkness and on to one of the wide tarmac avenues where there's empty flower-beds on each side and big trees.

'What did you think when I didn't turn up last night?' she says after a bit.

'I didn't know what to think, really.'

'I suppose it did occur to you that I might have got held up somewhere?'

'It did cross me mind.'

' You didn't really think I'd made the date and then deliberately not turned up, did you?'

'It has been known, y'know.'

'Well you don't know me very well if you think I could do a thing like that,' she says, and it seems to me there's a touch of frost in her voice now.

'Well I don't know you very well, do I? We've only been out together three times. Only twice with just the two of us. When you turned up with that Dorothy the other night I -'

'I didn't want her to come, you know. Only she often pops over on Sunday afternoons and stays to tea. I wasn't expecting her last week and when she came I didn't have a chance to explain to her till we were out of the house and then I couldn't get rid of her without offending her. She's like that, y'know. She got it into her head that she was coming to have a look at you and that was that. She said she'd only stop five minutes and then go.'

Well that clears that up. Now it's just like we're beginning again, only the funny thing is that Dorothy's got us off to a flying start this time. I'll bet she'd be mad if she knew!

'You know what happened after that,' Ingrid says.

I do. Not half. Is she ticking me off just a little bit? I wonder. Maybe she is, and she's probably right, because the mood I'm in now I can even think about Dorothy without wanting to puke.

'I didn't mean to open up on her like that, you know; only I couldn't stand all them insinuations of hers. Not after the two dates we'd had. And when all that happened and you didn't turn up last night, well, I just thought we'd had it. I thought you didn't want to see me any more and you didn't like telling me to me face.'

'And it wasn't that way at all!' she says. 'Doesn't it just show how misunderstandings can come about? It's a good job I did think of writing that note or I don't know what might have happened.'

'I can tell you what would have happened,' I say. 'I shouldn't have bothered you again.⁹

The bandstand, a big one shaped like a fancy cake, looms up out of the dark. I say, 'Let's sit down,' and steer Ingrid round a comer that's a mass of rhododendron blossom in early summer on to a sidepath where I know there's a seat.

'Would it have bothered you if I hadn't asked you out again?' I say and it seems like a kind of shyness comes over her because all she says is, 'What do you think?' I say nothing to this but I show her by lifting my arm and putting it round her shoulders. She moves a bit nearer to me on the seat and I think how funny it is what can make the difference between you jogging along from day to day and thinking that life's absolutely wonderful.

'What on earth's that you've got in your pocket?' she says.

I take my arm away and sit up straight again. 'A book.'

'It feels like a brick.'

I take the book out of my pocket and hold it in my hands. 'It's For Whom the Bell Tolls. Have you read it?'

Good heavens, no, she says, she can't read books. She gets three magazines a week and can hardly get through them for watching telly. 'Telly.' I don't like that word somehow. It always reminds me of fat ignorant pigs of people swilling stout and cackling like hens at the sort of jokes they put on them coloured seaside postcards; all about fat bellies and chamber pots and that sort of thing. You know. So I just go on holding the book and say nothing. There's something just in the feel of a book, I always think; something solid that's here to stay. Not like television, switched on and off like a tap. I think it's a pity she doesn't read because it means we shan't ever be able to talk about the books we've both read and recommend them to one another.

"They made a picture of it,' I tell her, for something to say. 'Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman.'

'My namesake.'

'Eh?'

'Ingrid Bergman. That's who I'm called after. Mother was mad on her at one time. Her and Leslie Howard. If I'd been a boy I'd probably have been called Leslie.'

'I thought it was a queer name for an English girl,' I say. 'I was going to ask you about it.'

'I don't think it's queer. I like it'

'I don't mean queer that way. I mean unusual.'

'Would you rather I was called Mary or Barbara, or something like that?'

'Dorothy,' I say. 'That's a name I've always liked.'

She digs me in the side. 'Go on with you!'

I laugh and put the book away in the other pocket. 'I like you just the way you are,' I tell her.

There's a little silence before she says, 'Do you, Vic? Honest?'

'I'd like to tell her I love her, I'm mad about her, but I can't do it in cold blood like, so I make do for the time being by saying, ' I wouldn't have run after you like I have otherwise, would I?'

'No, I suppose not.'

I slide my arm round her again and she comes over till her hair's on my face. I turn my face and brush my mouth across her cheek and a second later I'm covering her face with little short kisses, planting them all over, on her forehead, her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, and then on her mouth. I kiss her the same way on the mouth, as though one long kiss isn't good enough and I've got to go on kissing and breaking away and kissing again;, and all the time I'm whispering her name to her over and over again.

And then, in a bit, we ease up and break away for a breather.

'Phew!" she says with a little laugh.

'It's rotten being a girl sometimes,' she says after a bit. 'Suppose you'd never asked me again after last Sunday. It might have been ages before I could make you see I still wanted to go out with you.'

'That Dorothy. She nearly gummed up the works.'

'She wouldn't have minded, y'kndw. She's a bit of a cat, really, even if she is a friend of mine. She's jealous, y'know, because I'm going out with you. That's her trouble: she's jealous.'

'Why doesn't she find a chap for herself?' I say, easy because I've got Ingrid and anybody can have Dorothy that fancies her.

'She reckons she doesn't like men. She pretends she's above that sort of thing.'

'Don't any of'em ever ask her out?'

'I don't think so.'

'Hard lines.'

'Well, she's not attractive, is she? I mean, let's be honest, you didn't find her attractive, did you?'

'I find you attractive,' I say, thinking it's time we were making contact again. We kiss again, a real long slow one this time that melts me to the soles of my boots till I think I might pass out from the way I feel about her. When we break off this time we keep our faces together and I run my fingers ever so gently across her forehead and down her cheek and then we kiss again, and all at once she begins to do exciting things with her tongue and I'm holding her and holding her because I can't hold her close enough. And my mind's working away now because as I see it the way she's kissing me now she's as good as giving me the green light to go a bit further and I wonder if I'm right because I'll blow my brains out and no mistake if I balls it all up by offending her after all this. We kiss again and again she starts these wonderful tricks with her tongue and I think well that's it all right and no mistake and she will think me a Sammy if I don't do something now. I slip my hand into her coat and she twists a bit on the seat to make it easier for me. In a minute I'm inside her blouse but then I'm scuppered by all the harness and whatnot she's got on underneath. She says something and pulls away a bit and puts her own hand up to her shoulder. Then she comes back and whispers 'All right,' and my hand's in there again and I'm feeling the soft firm weight and the tip coming up hard under my thumb, and my guts are melting with tenderness for₍her.' God,' I'm saying to her.' God, I'm crazy about you, Ingrid,' and her fingers are up in my hair at the back and she's curling and twisting them and saying, 'Vic, oh, Vic,' over and over again, and all I can think of is this is what I was born for, this is what I've been waiting for as long as I can remember. And that's not all, because later, when my hand moves somewhere else, it's as though she's feeling just the same way as me, as though it's what she's been waiting for, because she quivers at my touch and sighs and then rests back in my arm and makes little noises in her throat as I love her like I never thought was possible except in imagination.

It's not till after that she seems to wonder and then she says in a little whisper as she leans against my shoulder, 'Vic .. . You don't think I'm common, do you?'

'Why?'

'Because of... of just now?'

'You haven't to think that,' I tell her. 'Don't think it.' And then I'm covering her face with them little kisses again, covering every square inch because I want her to see I'm thanking her as well as loving her and that after tonight I love her more than ever.

It's late when I get in and the Old Lady's waiting up for me, standing with her back to the foe and winding the alarm clock for morning. The Old Man's gone to bed apparently.

'You're a fine one,' the Old Lady says as I'm blinking in the light.

'How's that?'

'Getting invited out to yer tea and then slippin' off like that. I don't know what David thought, I'm sure.'

'Did he say owt?'

'He's too well-mannered for that. You could take a lesson or two from him on how to behave yourself.'

'I told Chris, y'know. She said it was okay.'

'Oh, our Christine 'ull stick up for you: she allus did. An' anyway, what else could she say? She couldn't keep you there if you said you were going out.'

I sit down in the easy chair and unlace my shoes. I know my face is a bit hot and red but my mouth's set because I'm not going to let anything spoil tonight.

'You should be ashamed of yourself,' the Old Lady says.

'Look,' I say, 'I was invited to tea at me own sister's, not Buckingham Palace. To tea. It didn't mean I'd to stay till supper-time.'

The Old Lady picks her cup off the fireplace and drinks the last of the tea in it. 'When you're invited to tea,' she says, nagging on, 'you don't just slope off the minute you leave the table.'

'You're exaggerating, as usual. Anyway, I explained it to Chris and she said it was all right.'

'Explained what? I don't even know where you've been that was so important.'

I get up and turn my back to her as I hunt for my slippers behind the chair.' I had a date.'

'With a lass?'.' 'Yes.'

'But you knew a fortnight ago you'd be goin' to our Christine's today.'

'I was supposed to meet her last night but there was a bit of a mix-up and we had to put it off till tonight.'

'I thought you said you were out with a mate of yours last night?'

'I was. I told you, there was a mix-up.'

'It's all mixed up to me,' she says. 'Hole-in-the-corner work.'

I'm getting wild because she's doing it. She's turning it all wrong. I can nearly hear her if she knew what happened in the park tonight, the way she'd turn it into something shabby and dirty, when it wasn't like that at all. I put my slippers on and keep my face down, but I know she's still watching me.

' Do I know this lass?'

'No.'

She says nothing else for a minute, then she says in a funny tight little voice, 'Well, I reckon you'll tell me what you want me to know about her in your own good time.'

'What's for supper?'

'There's a long-bun in the bread-bowl and you can make yourself a cup o' cocoa. I'm going to bed.'

' Have we plenty of milk?'

' We're not without.'

'I'll have a glass of milk, then.'

'Leave enough for your father an' me for breakfast, that's all.' She moves towards the door, carrying the alarm clock that's ticking away like billy-ho in the quiet. 'Don't be too long as you come up, and don't leave any lights ob.'

I go into the kitchen and find the long-bun and slice it in two and spread it thick with best butter. I'm wondering why the Old Lady didn't press a bit further about Ingrid; and then I come to the conclusion that she was pleased enough at the bottom of her to hear I've been out with a lass.

I take the long-bun and the milk and go and sit down in front of the fire. The trouble is that underneath it all I think it's shabby and dirty as well, because it's something nobody talks about, something you put up with because it's necessary to make the world go on, and people who enjoy it are in the same class as drunkards and gamblers. And I can't help thinking this even though I know it isn't like that at all; not with Chris and David, surely, and not with Ingrid and me.