In the kitchen drawer was a ball of string. A ball of string and a knife to cut. Back to the front parlour. With savage tightness she knotted the string to the back of one of the dining chairs, and looped it round the door handle. She passed it around the back again, and pulled, the rough fibres burning her fingers; round the handle, and back a third time, lifting the chair off its back legs. She went out into the hall and dragged the door shut behind her. An example to the rest.
And back to the kitchen. She opened a cupboard and took out her breakfast egg. She balanced it on her palm for a moment and then allowed it to roll off and shatter on the floor. The result was gratifying. Evelyn made such strange noises when she bent down to clean the floor. “You’re a useless lump,” she would squall. “You never do a hand’s turn.” Useless lump, used to a bump. Muriel patted her body confidently. She thought she would go out to play.
It was very cold in the lean-to, but the cold was something that had never bothered Muriel. Over the last few weeks, when Evelyn had sternly forbidden her to go out of the house, she had taken to spending more and more time there, delving more deeply into the rotten cardboard boxes, shaking out the rusted tins and heaving aside planks of wood to see what was underneath. The recent wet weather had made it a musty, fungal place, with a private and unpleasant smell. Water was getting under the doors and soaking into Clifford’s collection of newspapers.
There seemed no likely end to the pleasures of the boxes. Here were images, for instance of people in strange clothes; furry little brown-and-white images, creased and smudged. And keys, for doors, a great bunch of them tied together. Locking doors, now there was a thing to do. And this fine garment.
An overcoat, Muriel thought. She could walk out in it. Promenade. She made a verse. An overcoat, across the moat, a man to dote, costs but a groat. It touched some chord in her heart, brushed some faint memory. She held up the coat and shook it out. It was thick and heavy, its dark wool mildewed but intact. Muriel wrinkled her nose at its ancient and complex smells. At first she wondered whether it had been left there by one of the corpses under the stones outside the door of the lean-to. Then her eye caught some writing. Writing in a coat? Who would want to write in a coat? She sniggered. She carried the coat over to the light to make sure. Yes, there was a kind of tape sewn into it, yellow and frayed, and faint grey letters on the tape. This coat had a name. Or its owner had a name. It would be pleasant to find out who was under the stones. Evidently corpses wrote in their clothes; evidently they had a strong sense of private property.
She spelled it out for herself. CLIFFORD F. AXON. Here was another matter. She smiled gently, and began to scrape with her fingernails at the mould which speckled the collar.
Colin had the third period free. It helped, this small oasis so soon after the dire start of the working week.
Frank O’Dwyer, his Head of Department, was coming out of the staffroom.
“Any change for the phone, Frank?” Change had become his obsession, lately.
“You may be the lucky one.”
They stood opposite each other digging into their pockets, like gunslingers in difficulty.
“What’s the magic of this telephone?” Frank enquired. “You spend half your working day on it.”
“I want to ring my sister.”
O’Dwyer produced a handful of loose change and decanted it into Colin’s palm.
“Did you run me off those copies?”
“5B’s exam? Yes…only twenty-five. Will that do? Bloody machine’s knackered again.”
“It always picks its time,” Frank said. “Twenty-five will suffice, they look over each other’s shoulders anyway, miserable little sods. Once we get the exams over it puts itself right during the night, do you notice? If it went to Lourdes, it would be called a miracle.”
Colin grinned weakly. He wanted to get away, but it was not possible to have a short conversation with O’Dwyer. He was a large lanky, charming man, with heavy glasses which slipped down his nose and needed continual readjustment. His breath smelled faintly of the nip of whisky which he took to get himself started each day. Ten years ago, even five, people had said he was much too good to be a schoolmaster; ought to be lecturing, ought Frank, ought to have his doctorate. They had stopped talking in those terms, but Frank had kept his pretensions; only his clothes mirrored his state, the neckties starved narrow with dearth of variety, disappointed jackets in sagging tweed. Colin saw himself; the regalia of stagnation, the shroud of opportunity, rags of receding hope.
“We ought to get together, Colin. You must come to dinner.”
“Surely,” Colin said. “We will. After the exams?”
Now Colin sat with a pile of exercise books before him. Form 1C. The Vikings. He tried to gather strength to open them.
“Smith of English? Who said that thing, ‘Work fascinates me: I can sit and look at it for hours’?”
“It came off a matchbox, I imagine. I don’t know. Ask Smith of Woodwork.”
If Florence did not understand…if Florence was not sympathetic…then when the Christmas holidays came, and all the schools closed, and all evening classes were over (and Sylvia knew they were)…then, when he could no longer mumble about Parents’ Evenings as he sidled out in the mornings (and hope that she would not somehow find out)…then when his small ingenuity was defeated, how and when and where was he going to see Isabel?
Smith of English made a sound expressive of pain.
“Animal Farm,” he said.
Colin looked up. “Pardon?”
“All right, listen. This is 3A. This is the O-Level stream, this. ‘George Orwell wrote Animal Farm in 1867.’”
“They have those cribs, you know, those little books. They just copy down any date that takes their fancy. 1867 will be Das Kapital, I should think.”
“Mm,” Smith said. “How about this next one then? ‘George Orwell wrote Animal Farm in 1857.’” He raised an eyebrow. “Indian Mutiny?”
But Florence, thought Colin; tell Florence? “Excuse me,” he said. He fished in his pocket and went over to the phone.
“Colin’s ringing his turf accountant again,” Smith said.
“Luther King House. Social Services.”
“I’d like to speak to Miss Field, please.”
“Just one moment. Putting you through.”
Click.
“Yes?”
A small sensation in Colin’s chest rose and lodged itself in his throat. Grief.
“Yes?”
That deadly secretarial voice, that hope-crusher, that frustrated old maid; some slab-toothed old hag with thin knees pressed together and her glasses on a little gold chain, some Medusa in an Orlon cardigan.
“I wanted Miss Field,” he whispered.
“Miss Field is not in the office at present.”
“When will she be back?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say.”
“Can’t you ask? Someone in your office should know where she’s gone and when she’ll be back.”
A slight intake of breath told him that offence had been given and taken.
“Miss Field is a busy social worker with a full caseload and I think it most unlikely that her colleagues would be aware of all her intended movements in the course of the day. In any case it is not our practice to divulge what visits a caseworker is making, as we do not breach the confidence of our clients.” She paused, to let this sink in. “If this is an emergency, I can pass you on.”
“No, could you just find out—”
“I can pass you on to another caseworker.”
“Thank you, I only want to speak to Miss Field.”
“Shall I pass you on?”
“No.”
“Would you care to leave your name?”
“That’s all right.”
“Would you care to leave your name?”