Ernest himself opened the door, and she was glad at finding him in. He’d got a good job right enough, able to go in when he liked: I wouldn’t be here now if Harold had such a job. He greeted her in a friendly way. “Hello, Vera. You are a stranger, aren’t you?” He was twelve years older than Harold, with the same dark eyes and complexion, similar stature going to roundness, afflicted with baldness blamed on his army days in Mesopotamia. They’ve all got strange eyes, though, Vera thought, leaving the pram by the window and following him into the living-room, where a huge fire burned in the grate. He offered her some tea, as if, she divined, being polite to one of his customers. The sound of herself saying no brought all the events of the black morning bursting into her. Ernest was thinking how pretty and lively she was, that Harold, though backward, had known how to go for the women, that in his opinion he’d done better than the rest of them in this respect. He hardly knew what to say to her, though: what could one ask one’s sister-in-law, except how one’s own brother was?
“I don’t know”—her tone was bitter — “and I don’t care.”
He’d thought something like this was in the offing. “What’s the matter then, Vera?” He was alarmed when she began to sob, yet also gratified because he had never known his own wife to shed a tear over anything. “Sit down,” he said; “that’s right.”
She cried into her hands: “It’s your brother. He’s a swine to me.”
Ernest sensed that some sort of blame was being thrown on to him. “Harold? How?” and didn’t like hearing his brother referred to in this way either.
“He hit me,” she accused, “for nothing. He’s a lunatic, that’s what he is.”
Ernest stayed calm, reasoning: “He couldn’t have hit you without a reason.” Since he wouldn’t dare strike his own wife, he thought all that sort of thing had been stopped years ago, had gone out of fashion.
“He tipped the table up as well,” she told him, “and smashed all the pots.”
“Whatever for?”—still unbelieving.
“I don’t know. Because we overlaid. He’s always using filthy talk. They’ll cart him off to Mapperley one day, the hateful way he looks at you. I couldn’t stand his dirty talk, and he hit me because I told him about it. I’m going back to my mother’s. I daren’t stay with him.”
Ernest caressed the top of his bald pate, looked at her sardonically, stood before the fire with his legs apart. He patted her on the shoulder. “Calm down, Vera,” he said kindly. “Beryl will be back soon with the shopping, and we’ll have something to eat.”
But she couldn’t calm down, felt Seaton’s blows once more and saw the table flying across the room, and she felt them again for tomorrow and the next day. “Can’t you talk to him?” she asked, a last desperate remedy that she didn’t think would help.
He was cautious. “I suppose I could, but I don’t know anything about it.”
“I’ve told you already,” she protested.
“I haven’t heard Harold’s side yet, have I? I must be fair.”
“And you won’t hear it,” she cried. “He daren’t tell you, don’t worry.”
“I think he will. There’s two sides to every story. People don’t do things like that for nothing.” He hadn’t meant her to take this in the way she did, but blood was thicker than quicksilver in the Seaton family.
“But he did,” she roared, “because he’s looney like the rest of the family.”
Well, this was the bloody limit. Now he could see how Harold had been provoked. They’re all alike, these women. And on she went: “He’s a numbskull who can’t even read and write, so it’s no wonder he does such rotten things. If he’d been to school he might a been a bit more civilized.”
The two things don’t figure, he told himself. “You must have asked for it,” he said sharply, “that’s all I can say.”
Yes, they’re all alike, she thought. “You’re all the same,” she threw at him.
They must fight like demons, and I’ll bet she does a good half of it. If me and Beryl did a bit as well, our lives would be a bloody sight livelier, but one word back from me and we’d be finished. And this no-good bloody girl complains of Harold, and then comes here to cheek me off as well. “You should go back and look after him,” he exclaimed.
As thick as thieves, that’s what they are. “But won’t you help me? Won’t you talk to him for me?” she pleaded.
“No, I bleddy-well won’t; not until I’ve heard the full story.”
She turned from him: “I’m going. But he isn’t going to swear at me and hit me any more. I’m going to do myself in,” she sobbed. “I can’t stand it, I tell you. I’ll chuck myself under a bus.”
The door slammed, every window in the house tingling against its frame. She pushed the pram down the path and into the empty street, walking quickly along the semi-detached rent-collecting shop-managing pavement. Everybody hates me, and he’s only the other side of the bad penny. I can’t understand why I ever got married. Now, why did I? And I didn’t want to, no, never wanted to do any such thing, though if I’d stayed at home the old man would have gone on pasting me, because they’re all rotters and if it ain’t Harold it’s the old man. Everybody hits me, and why? That’s what I’d like to know, because it’s no use living like this. I can’t keep on with it. I’d be a sight better off dead, I’m sure. I wish I was dead, and I will be soon, quicker than anybody thinks, under a tram at where it’ll be going fast, and then to have no more rowing and misery like I’ve allus had. The boulevard isn’t far off and there’ll be lots of traffic. Around two corners and up a bit of hill. Ernest is rotten like the rest. They hate everybody: and it’s no good going back so’s it’ll happen again in a few more mornings. Why am I still crying? Because they made me? I wouldn’t cry for them, the rotten lot. Thank God it’ll soon be over, because never again. I’m out of breath, but here’s the corner. They are all rotten. I’ll wait here as if I’m going to cross the road. Nobody’ll think to stop me.
As a tram came one way, footsteps ran up the street behind her and stopped when they came close. A hand touched her shoulder.
“Come on, Vera,” Ernest said gently. “I’m sorry about all this. I’ll see Harold and make things right.”
She shook him off. “I’m not frightened, so leave me alone. I’m fed up with everything.”
“Don’t be daft,” he said. “Come on, duck. Harold won’t hit you again.”
A suggestion of Harold’s kindness after a quarrel lurked in the tone of his voice. “No,” she said, watching a tram gather speed at the crossroads.
“Come on back to the house and we’ll have something to eat.” He took her arm firmly. “You’ll be all right. Things are never as bad as they seem.” His considerate inflexion so closely resembled Seaton’s that for a moment she thought he was behind her, too, as if by magic he had come out of the factory to find her and make up for the quarrel.