Part Two, Chapter 1 - A Kind of Loving

By Stan Barstow

Next week it's the Staff Party.

Every year about this time Whittaker's take over the Town Hail and invite the Staff to this do. If you're married you can take your other half with you, and if you're single a boy friend or a bird. There's whist and dancing and a stand-up supper and a bar, and it's all free for nothing except the booze, and you pay for that out of your own pocket.

Mr Matthew makes a little speech and tells the Staff how well they've done this last year and how much better he's sure they'll do next. Nearly always the same speech, it is; and then if there's any old coves saying good-bye to it all the gold watches are dished out and there's a lot of shaking hands and clapping. I mean, you're forced to give a clap when some old keff what started in 1907 totters across the floor for his present, because you get kind of awe-struck when you think he was working thirty years before you were born, and you start to wonder if some lad born thirty years from now will stand here thinking the same thing when you hobble up for your watch or whatever it is they'll be presenting in fifty years' time. Somehow I can't see it for me. To begin with, I can't imagine myself at that age with all my troubles behind me and nothing left but pottering in the garden till the end.

Anyway, that's what happens at these dos, and there's nearly always a presentation to somebody because Whittaker's is the kind of firm blokes stay with for life.

There's enough booze put away at one of these dos to float all the battleships 'm Portsmouth Harbour and the bosses and the men get real friendly together. You know what I mean: lots of joking and back-slapping and introducing wives and thinking that old so-an-so isn't such a bad bastard after all. Course, they're all back on two sides of the fence again next morning but it's nice while it lasts, I suppose.

The women look forward to it more than anybody. All you can get out of them the minute Christmas is over is the Party. They parade their new frocks and their husbands or boy friends, not missing what the others have got, and saving it all up for after. I sometimes wonder which they like best, the Party itself or the tittle-tattle in the cloakroom after. Birds are queer. You can get two blokes who don't think much to one another and on a night like this they'll be like old pals. But get two women like that and a party only seems to make it worse.

Anyway, it's a real good do, a grand night out.

Well, things being different I'd have taken Ingrid but now I get there on my own about eight. I have a couple of glasses of bottled beer that blows you up and a dance or two and a natter with any of the lads I run into. Going up to ten I'm standing on the edge of the floor when Conroy pushes past me. I can see he has a bit of a load on and I watch him go down to the bandstand and have a word with the leader between sets. This bod, name of Oscar Winthrop, a tailor's dummy type with patent-leather hair and a pencil-thin moustache, looks a bit doubtful at Conroy and gives a little smile. I see Conroy throwing his head about and pulling a face as if to say, 'Come on, don't be a nig-nog, and in a minute Winthrop seems to give way and Conroy climbs up on to the stand and shakes hands with all the blokes in the front row of the band. They're grinning at Conroy and one another, but Conroy's face never slips. Tom Evans, the construction shop foreman, who's always M.C. at these dos because he's a real keen dancer and looks good in tails, moseys over to see what's up. He has a word with Winthrop and Conroy, who takes next to no notice of him, then walks away again as though he's washing his hands of the affair whatever it is.

Jimmy Slade comes up behind me. 'What's Conroy up to?'

'Dunno; just wonderin' meself.'

The leader puts his stick up and the band blow a chord.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' this bod says, 'we have had a request from one of your own Staff members to sing a number with the band. Never let it be said that Oscar Winthrop failed to encourage new talent. I give you, ladies and gentlemen, the singing sensation of Dawson Whittaker and Sons - Al Conroy!'

There's a bit of a laugh at this and one or two people clap. Conroy steps up to the mike, his face all red and serious, and bows all round. The leader gives the downbeat and Conroy buckles at the knees, throws his arms out and bawls into the mike:

Babe-e!

Who were you with last night?

A-huggffl' an' a-kissin' in the bright moonlight.

O-hoh,

I won't have nobody flirtin' with my baby,

I tell you this, oh baby, an' I don't mean maybe.

If you wanna keep me lovin',

A-huggin' an' a-snuggin'

Then save your lovin' kisses just for me.

When he's finished his chorus and the band's having a turn Conroy starts to prance about the stage, twisting and shaking himself as though he's got half a dozen scorpions up his vest. By this time the audience is going mad and the Drawing Office lads are sending up cheers over the noise of the band.

A voice right behind me says. 'Isn't that one of your staff, Hassop?' I sneak a quick look round and see it's Matthew Whittaker, the big boss himself.

Hassop sort of clears his throat and I bet he's wishing he could disown Conroy.'Hmmm, er um, er yes, it is.'

'Good worker, is he?'

'Quite a clever young man,' Hassop says. 'A little too headstrong and irresponsible for his own good, though, I'm afraid'

I'm all ears waiting to see what Mr Matthew will .say to this, but Mrs Whittaker, a dark woman, quite nice-looking to say she's past her first youth, says with a laugh,' He doesn't sound as if he'd starve if he ever gave up draughtsmanship.'

They all laugh, and when I hear a noise like water trying to get out of a stopped-up drain I realize Hassop's joining in.

They move off as Conroy finishes his number with a chorus of scat singing that's a proper marvel the way he gets his tongue round It; and at the end he stops his capering about so sudden he nearly throws himself off the stage into the potted ferns. He gets a terrific hand. I'm clapping like mad and so is everybody else I can see, including the band. Oscar Winthrop slaps him on the back as he comes down the steps.

Conroy makes his way across the floor and people are laughing and saying things to all the way. He comes up to me.

'Seen Jeff Lewis?'

'Not lately.'

'He owes me a quid.'

"Mr Matthew and old Hassop have just been talking about you,' I tell him.

'Nothing complimentary, I hope,' he says, getting on his toes and looking all round for Lewis.

'Hassop said you were a clever young man.'

'You're a lying swine, young Browny.'

'Honest. He said you were headstrong an' all, and too irresponsible for your own good.'

"That's more like it,' Conroy says. 'I can believe he said that.'

I tell him what Mrs Whittaker said as well but he's got his mind on something else. Lewis, I think.

'I'm more interested in my quid,' he says. 'Come and help rne find Lewis and I'll buy you a pint out of it.'

'Okay.'

We split up and work through the crowd and into the passage that leads to the bar. I haven't gone far when I come on Lewis from behind. He's standing in a group of four or five, chewing the fat and looking real keen, I have to admit. He's one of the few blokes apart from the bosses who's wearing a dinner jacket. Everybody else is wearing the suit they keep for weddings, funerals, and boozing on a Sunday dinner-time.

' Cortfoy's looking for you,' I say, clapping him on the shoulder.

'Oh, what for?'

'Because you owe me a quid,' says Conroy, coming up from the other side. 'You bet me a level quid I daren't do a number with the band.'

Lewis gets his wallet out and opens it. 'Ten bob, wasn't it?'

'A quid, you chiseller,' Cpnroy says, and reaches over and plucks a pound note out of Lewis's wallet. He half turns away, then turns round again. 'Put another quid up an' I'll do another number,' he offers.

But Lewis won't throw his money away so easy, and Conroy
says to me, 'C'mon, then, young Browny; let's see about that
pint.' '

On the way into the bar we meet Ken Rawlinson and bis girl friend coming out. She's a thin blonde piece with a way of looking straight through you as though you're not there.

'How do, Rawly,' Conroy says, and I see Rawly flinch. 'How d'ye like my number?'

The blonde bit focuses her eyes on Conroy as though she's just noticed him crawling out from under a stone.

'It's not whether I liked it or not that matters,' Rawly says, real distant like; 'but what the management thinks.'

'Pity I forgot me fiddle,' Conroys says. Td've given you a violin concerto. A bit of Debewssy, eh?'

'Debussy didn't write a violin concerto,' the blonde piece says, and takes Rawly by the arm and pulls him orTinto the crowd.

Conroy's laughing like a drain as we go into the bar. 'Bag a table,' he says, 'while I go get the wallop.'

I find a place by the wall under the mirrors and in a minute or two Conroy comes over with his big hands round four glasses of beer.

' Who're all these for?' I say as he lowers them on to the table.

'For us,' he says. 'Two apiece. They don't sell pints. Too refined. Like Rawly.' He laughs.' Old Rawly.'

'Seems to me he got one up on you there, though, Conroy,' I say. 'About the violin concerto, I mean.'

Conroy's taking a long pull at his glass. He shakes his head as he puts it down. 'He didn't say it: she did. Shouldn't be surprised if Rawly doesn't know Debussy from the Chancellor of the Exchequer.'

I notice now that Conroy pronounces the name like the blonde bit did and I begin to see that he was laying it on thick for Rawly's benefit. And I'm beginning to wonder if there isn't more to Conroy than meets the eye.

'On the other hand, maybe he does,' Conroy says, taking another swig at his beer, 'He knows most of the names and he drags 'em out at every opportunity. He's the sort of bloke who goes once a year to a symphony concert and talks about it at the top of his voice on the bus next morning. I can't stand him, young Browny. Him and his lousy Beethoven and bloody Dostoyevsky. He knows the da-da-da-daa bit from Beethoven and I'll bet not another note. And he wouldn't recognize a line of Dostoyevsky if you bawled it in his ear. He's a lousy fake, young Browny, and if there's owt I can't stand it's a fake.'

Conroy's not letting talking stop him from drinking and he's already emptied his first glass and started on the second.

'He buys The Times and the Guardian and the posh Sunday papers and reads all the critics and thinks that's it. He likes to blind you with a lot of names and facts. He can very likely tell you that Tolstoy had duck-egg and chips for his tea on 13 March 1888, but you ask him what they called Aima Karenina's fancy man and he'll look at you gone out.'

'Who's Anna Kar ... what's her name?'

'Karenina. She's a woman in a book of that name.'

' How do you know?'

'Because I've read the bloody thing,' Conroy says; 'that's how I know ... What's up - surprised? Thought Reveille was ray steady diet, did you? Well don't get me wrong, young Browny. I might be a loud-mouthed bastard at times but there's two sorts of them. I'm one and Rawly's another. And I don't like his sort. If you like Dostoyevsky and lousy Beethoven - all right. I reckon you're getting summat you won't get out of Peg's Paper and last week's Top Ten. But there's no call to go about letting everybody know what a fine cultured bod you are and thinking everybody else are peasants.'

He finishes his second glass and pushes it away, I'm only halfway down my first one and he looks at the full one.

'Want that?'

'No, go on, you have it.' I push it towards him.

'I'll get you another for it in a minute, only I can't be bothered getting up just now.'

He takes a pull and smacks his lips.

'And what's more,' he says, 'I don't like this pansy approach to it all. Let's grow long hair and manicure our fingernails, or else fill 'em with coal dust to show we can't be bothered with a little thing like keeping clean. It must make some of these blokes turn in their graves the types who lick their shirt-tails.'

Well, I'm fascinated at the way he's talking. I watch his hand on the glass as he lifts it again. Short and square-fingered, it is, with a fuzz of dark hairs on the back. Conroy doesn't look too intelligent, you know. He's got a square sort of face with a low forehead and deep-set eyes. But I know he's got a good engineering brain and he can turn out a line drawing that's a model for anybody in the office. He's also rowdy and coarse and foul-mouthed. And now here's a new slant on him altogether. Here's a Conroy who knows a lot about books and music - good music and good books - real heavyweight stuff that you think only horrible types like Rawly and old stagers like Mr Van Huyten are interested in. You sort of never associate that sort of thing with a liking for beer and dirty stories. Least, I never have till now. The long and the short of it is, Conroy's a Highbrow.

'By shots, Conroy,' I say, 'I've never heard you talk like this afor.'

'No,' he says, 'you haven't. Because when you see me I'm sober; and now I'm pissed. Or near enough to make no difference. Some blokes want to fight, others to shag every bird in sight, and others just flake out. Me, I just talk... more and more ... just talk ...'

He empties his glass and looks into it kind of sorrowfully like. Then he drops a real bombshell.

'Did I ever tell you about my missis, young Browny?'

I'm gawping and he's not too drunk to notice.

' Shouldn't have said that,' he says.' Tales out of school.'

'I didn't even know you were married.'

'I'm not married now,' he says. 'And as far as anybody else is concerned, I never have been. You let the cat out of the bag, young Browny, and I'll knock your block off.'

'Oh, I shan't tell,' I say.' No need to worry about me telling.'

'No, you're not a bad lad, young Browny...' He looks round at the bar as if he's wondering whether to go for some more beer. All at once he pushes his chair back and gets up. 'Have to go shake hands with an old friend,' he says, and he goes off into the crowd.

A bit later I'm standing in the ballroom doorway when I see Ingrid by herself not far away. She's wearing a yellow frock with big blue flowers on the skirt and gold-coloured dancing shoes. I think she looks real keen and it's a pity I've fallen out of love with her. I watch her for a minute or two and then something makes me go over to her and ask her to dance. She glances at me just once when she accepts and not again during the ten minutes we're on the floor. We don't say much either.

It's a slow waltz and they've turned the lights down a bit. I find I like having her so near and I know the other signs, the way my heart's flattering and I'm breathing as if I'm on top of a mountain. It's just the way I feel when I look at some of these nudes in magazines. I have my right hand in the middle of her back, on the fastening of her brassiere, and I move it further over so she has to come closer. Still she doesn't look straight at me or say anything in particular. It's just as though I'm just any one of the bods.

I don't know what to make of myself now. Here I've been telling myself I don't love her any more, and now I'm wanting her again. But not in the old way. Once I'd have given anything just to be here with her like this, but now I want her like I want the bints in the magazines. It's not really her I want at all, if you sef what I mean.

Maybe it's this and maybe it's because I think I ought to ba nice to her that makes me wonder if I should offer to take her home after the Party. After all, it was more or less fixed that I'd bring her, and now she's on her own. But when the set finishes I decide not to say anything right now. If I see her at the end of the Party and she's still on her own, then I might offer to see her home. I'm not sure. I don't know really how I feel. Looking at her now I'm nearly sorry I broke it off like I did.

First the bar packs up and then the clock in the tower strikes mid-. night. The Party begins to fade away, all the life going out of it as people begin to collect their coats before the rush starts. As I come out of the cloakroom they're singing 'Auld Lang Syne', and then the 'Queen' strikes up.

Jimmy comes over to me. 'How're you getting home?'

'Shanks' pony. It's the chauffeur's night off.'

'Miller's got his car outside. He's giving me and Pauline a lift. He said to see if there was anybody else. Come on, you may as well.'

I've sort of been half-looking round for Ingrid, but I'm not all that bothered so I follow Jimmy across the foyer to where this red-headed bint from the typists', Pauline Lawrence, who Jimmy seems to have got very friendly with tonight, is standing with Miller and his wife.

'Ah, Vic,' Miller says. 'You joining us? Good ... You've met my wife, have you? Vic Brown, one of our bright young men.'

I say howdedo to Mrs Miller, who's a plainish sort of woman, a bit on the dumpy side, and we all go out to the car park.
Miller's car's a biggish pre-war Lanchester in a sort of metallic fawn colour that I believe he picked up for a song. He's the sort of bloke who's always running down post-war jobs because he says they're tinny and have nothing in them. I pile in the back with Jimmy and this Pauline. He seems to be doing very nicely for himself there because he puts his arm round her straight away and she settles down against him as though she's been doing it for months. Miller gives the windscreen a wipe over with a cloth and gets in next to his missis. ,

'All okay back there?'he says, starting the engine..

'We're okay,' I tell him, 'except I'm the odd man out. I hope you're not making me responsible for these two lovebirds.'

'Wrap up,' Jimmy says, 'and look the other way.'

Pauline giggles and Mrs Miller looks over her shoulder and laughs. She seems like a good sort. But then, so is Miller. He's looking back towards the Town Hall entrance. 'Just a tick,' he says, and hops out, leaving the engine running, and disappears, He's back in a couple of minutes with somebody else. He opens the back door. 'Here, this will even things up a bit.'

A lass bends her head to get in and I move up to give her room, wondering who it is. Then my heart gives a knock, because it's Ingrid.

'Now we don't know who's sitting on whose knee,' Jimmy says. He turns a bit sideways to make room for four of us and Pauline snuggles up to him. Making a real play for him, she is. I wonder how long this has been brewing up and think Jimmy's a deep 'un for not mentioning it. Then I realize I'm just as deep because I've never said anything to him about Ingrid.

'What does it matter?' Miller says. 'All pals together.'

We move off out of the car park and down the hill into the shopping centre. Miller's not a very good driver really. He's kind of all tensed up all the time and he goes in fits and starts as if he can't make up his mind where he's going. There's still a few shop windows lit up in town but hardly a soul about. At first Miller tries a bit of general conversation but he soon gives this up and talks to his wife. It's quiet in the back seat. Jimmy and Pauline are necking away like mad. I don't know if it's the same kiss they started when the car began to move or another one. All I know is I haven't seen anybody come up for air yet. I shuffle about a bit and ask Ingrid if she's comfy.

'I'm all right,' she says.

We're close together, real close,; because we can't help it. I'm getting the same feeling now I had while we were dancing. Only now we're more private like and with Miller and his wife with their backs to us and Jimmy and Pauline occupied with their own affairs we're practically on our own. It's dark, and my leg's touching hers, and her face is less than a foot from mine.

' Get a load of those two,' I whisper to her.

'mm,' she says. 'Very friendly, aren't they?'

I move, as though I'm shifting about to get more comfortable, and put my arm on the back of the seat. I touch her shoulder and pull her towards me. For a second maybe it looks as though she's not having any; then she comes, bringing her head near so I can put my mouth on her neck under her left ear. In a minute I lift my free hand and turn her face and kiss her, She lets me, but there's nothing much coming back. I'm between her and Jimmy and Pauline and they can't see a thing if they're looking, which they aren't, so I slip my hand into her coat and squeeze her gently through her frock. A minute or two of this and she begins to wake up and act interested. By this time I'm thinking about that last date in the park, and wondering how soon we can have another one. 'When can I see you?' I say into her ear.

'I thought you didn't want to.'

'I do ... When can I? Tomorrow?'

'Not tomorrow.'

'When then? The day after?'

She's quiet for a minute. 'All right.'

'Does anybody 'know where we are?' Miller says. 'You'd better watch out in the back there. I'm just keeping going. If I overshoot and reach home you'll either have to walk back or kip down in the garden shed.'

Jimmy tears himself away from Pauline long enough to look out of this window. 'You turn left at the next crossroads,' he says; 'then it's about two hundred yards down on the left before the church."

'Who lives there?'

'You can drop both of us. I'll see Pauline home from there.'

'Sure you can trust him, Pauline?' Miller says.
'Trust me to what?' Jimmy says with a dirty laugh.

'Now then, keep the party clean,' Miller says. 'Once you step out of this car with a wolf like young Slade the responsibility is yours, young lady.'

'I'll risk it,' Pauline says.

'So be it,' Miller says, and swings the ear round the bend.

He pulls into the kerb down the road where Jimmy said and smothers a yawn as he lift his hands off the wheel. 'It makes you think, driving a car at night when everybody's gone to bed.'

' Makes you think what?' I ask him.

'Makes you think you should have been there yourself hours ago.'

'Oh, come now, Jack,' Mrs Miller says; 'you know you've
enjoyed it. I think we all have, haven't we?' she says, turning
round to us.

We all agree with her and Pauline says,' I think we should have a party every month.'

'God forbid,' Miller says. 'There'll be enough thick heads in
the morning as it is.'

'What did you think to old Conroy's turn?' I say.

'Quite a diversion,' Miller says. 'I must say I didn't think he had it in him.'

'He'd had more than a drop to drink,' Ingrid says. 'You could see that.'

'He did it for a bet,' I tell them. 'Lewis bet him a quid.'

Miller turns round in his seat. 'Did he really, Vic?'

'I saw him collect his winnings. Lewis tried to make out it was only ten bob, but Conroy took the quid. He bought me a drink out of it.' For some reason I feel kind of proud to be able to say I had a drink with Conroy after his number.

'You and Conroy drinking together?' Jimmy says. 'Whatever next!'

'Oh, he's not so bad when you get to know him, I had a real long natter with him in the bar. I'll bet you didn't know he -' I stop, because I'm just about to spill the beans about Conroy being married and I promised not to tell. 'He knows a lot about books and music,' I say, covering up. 'More than Rawly does; only he doesn't make a song and dance about it.'

'I can't stand either of them,' Ingrid says. 'Ken Rawlinson's a terrific snob and Conroy's just like a big animal walking about.'

The talk's getting a bit catty now so Miller breaks it up.' C'mon, kids, out you get. Let the old man get home to his beauty sleep.'

'Why, Mr Miller,' Pauline says, 'you're not old!'

'Flatterer,' Miller says. He reaches right over behind his missis and opens the door for Jimmy and Pauline. They get out and shout good night back into the car.

'Well, there's a couple who've certainly had a good time,' Miller says, and Mrs Miller asks if they've been courting long.

'I didn't even know they were friendly,' Miller says.

'I don't think they've spoken more than two words to one another before tonight,' Ingrid says.

'Like that, is it?' Miller says. 'You can't deny the Party brings the Staff together.'

He drives on for a bit.

'What about you two?'

'If you turn down at the next traffic lights you can drop me right at the door,' I tell him.

'And you, Ingrid?'

'I'll show you when we've dropped Vic.'

'I'm sure I never meant you to come so far out of your way, Jack,'I tell Miller.

'Think nothing of it,' he says. 'There'll be a small deduction from salary on Friday.'

As he turns into our street I pull Ingrid over to me again and kiss her. 'Friday night, then?'

'All right,'

The car stops and I get out. I bend down to say good night.

' Thanks for the lift, Jack. Very good of you. Goo' night, Ingrid.
Goo' night, Mrs Miller.'

I watch them go, the exhaust smoke pink in the tail lights, and then I feel for my key and go up the path. There's a big ball of fluttering excitement in me at the thought of seeing Ingrid on Friday night. I remember how I felt after last time, but somehow it seems different now, and I can't think about that. -All I can think about is seeing her again, and after can take care of itself.

III

One day about a fortnight after the Party Conroy doesn't turn in and nobody knows why he's away. The next day he comes as usual and about half-ten he goes into Hassop's office, and spends a good half-hour in there chewing the fat about something. Young Colin Laisterdyke takes Hassop his morning cuppa and comes out and tells us he's heard him say to Conroy that he doesn't suppose he can make him change his mind if he's made it.

'I don't think they've spoken more than two words to one another before tonight,' Ingrid says.

'Like that, is it?' Miller says. 'You can't deny the Party brings the Staff together.'

He drives on for a bit.

'What about you two?'

'If you turn down at the next traffic lights you can drop me right at the door,' I tell him.

'And you, Ingrid?'

'I'll show you when we've dropped Vic.'

'I'm sure I never meant you to come so far out of your way, Jack,'I tell Miller.

'Think nothing of it,' he says. 'There'll be a small deduction from salary on Friday.'

As he turns into our street I pull Ingrid over to me again and kiss her. 'Friday night, then?'

'All right,'

The car stops and I get out. I bend down to say good night.

' Thanks for the lift, Jack. Very good of you. Goo' night, Ingrid.
Goo' night, Mrs Miller.'

III

There's nothing official and Conroy doesn't say a dicky bird, but on Friday of the week after this Jeff Lewis goes round the offices with a box and a sheet of paper collecting money for Conroy's leaving present. It's a good collection to say Conroy's not everybody's best friend, and even old Hassop coughs up half a quid. We all say it wouldn't have been more than two bob, like all the rest of us put in, though, if Lewis hadn't been crafty enough to have this sheet of foolscap with all the names signed on it and how much they've given.

A week after this Conroy leaves. He spends nearly all afternoon walking round the Works saying so long to all the blokes he knows down there, and then about five we have a little ceremony up by Hassop's office and Conroy's presented with a matching fountain pen and propelling pencil set. Hassop makes a little speech about how much Conroy's going to be missed and everybody's embarrassed and wishing he'd belt up because we know he doesn't mean a word of it. There's Conroy's name in gold letters on the pen and pencil and it seems to touch him when he gets them. He swallows a time or two and then manages to say, "Thanks very much, lads. Bloody good of you.'

And that's all. Five minutes later he's got all his books and drawing tackle in a little attache case and he's ready for off.

He comes and holds his hand out to me.

' So long, then, young Browny.'

' So long, Conroy. All the best.'

'Watch out for the women, lad; and go easy on the beer.'

'I'll see to it.'

"That's the ticket. And Nil illegitimum.'

'What's that?'

'Nil illegitimum carborundum,' Conroy says. 'Don't let the bastards grind you down.'

I'm laughing. 'I'll watch it.'

And then he's away, and the queerest thing is this lump in my throat like a bird's egg seeing him go out of the door. I've only just got to know Conroy, the other Conroy under the brag and bluster, and I think we might have been good mates. I sit on my buffet and look at his empty board, I look at Lewis and Rawly and Whymper and the rest. It's not going to be the same without old Conroy. Somehow it hasn't been the same lately anyway. I fiddle about with my scale. I can't concentrate any more today, I'm a bit fed-up all round and I wonder if a change of job mightn't do me good.

In the meantime there's this business of Ingrid. I've seen her three or four times since the Party and every time I leave her I think that's the last time and I don't care if I never set eyes on her again. Then one day I'll look at her and get this feeling and we're off again. There's no love in it as far as I'm concerned and I can think that I don't much like her even when I'm all het up to get her out again. And I feel rotten about it. I feel lousiest when I've just left her. I think then I should tell her just how it is and I don't think it's, fair I should take her out like this. But I never do, because just then I don't want to go deep into things and start explaining. And it's easy when I'm wanting her to tell myself that she wants me and she'd rather have me this way than not at all. It's a mess.

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