While waiting for the kettle to boil he said abruptly, “I’m afraid I need you.”
“O I’m sorry!” she cried, staring at him.
“Why?”
She closed her eyes murmuring, “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“I want you to live with me.”
“O?”
“Will you live with me?”
“Why not? It will be convenient. I’m terribly short of money.”
“Is that the only reason why you’ll live with me?”
In a low voice she said, “No, Colin.”
“You see I’d like us to get married.”
“There’s too much of that going on nowadays.”
“I’d like it all the same.”
“Why?”
“I prefer things to be conventional.”
“I’m married already!” she said with a sudden smile of beautiful malicious glee. He shut his eyes for a moment then said, “When did you leave him?”
“Years ago.”
“Was he bad to you?”
“No, he was nice. I only go for nice men.”
“Why did you separate?”
“Because I’m a bit of a bitch.”
“You’re not a bitch!”
“Nice men never believe I’m a bitch.”
The kettle boiled. He took it to a table by the bed where mugs and a jar of coffee powder stood among food tins and piles of magazines, mostly fashion magazines. While making the coffee something tugged at his mind. All the drawings on the wall showed big aeroplanes bombing tiny houses. He pointed to a heap of aeroplane magazines.
“Why are you fond of aeroplanes?”
“These belong to my son,” she said, smiling sweetly.
“How old is he?”
“Eight.”
“But!” cried Colin excitedly, “that means you’re old! I mean, I’m sorry, older than me.”
“Had you not noticed?” she asked coldly.
“No! I always think women who attract me are my own age or younger. Where is your son?”
“With a friend. He usually sleeps here.”
“Where?” asked Colin looking round the tiny room.
“With me,” she said taking a cigarette case from under her pillow.
“Is that healthy?”
“I honestly don’t know. Give me that lighter.”
“You’ve a horrible life Mavis,” he said holding a flame to the tip of her cigarette. She looked at him across it and whispered, “Do you really want me?”
“I need you.”
He removed her cigarette, kissed her then gave it back.
Then sat on the bed, warming his hands on the coffee mug and thinking hard.
“You’ll be a lot happier with us,” he said at last. “The lad can have a room of his own.”
“Us?”
“My father and I. We took a house in Saint Leonard’s Bank when I started at the college.”
She looked uneasy so he assured her, “We’re buying it through a decent building society. He pays a third and I pay two. I have the bigger salary, you see.”
“What does your father do?”
“Keeps a hardware shop.”
“So your posh accent isn’t inherited.”
“Acquired. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Will … your dad like me?”
“O yes, we never disagree about important things. I’ll tell him tomorrow. But if you’ve no objection I’ll come to bed again because I want to hold you again, just to make sure you’re real.”
5
At six thirty next morning he returned to Saint Leonard’s Bank, a pleasant lane between a public park and a terrace of neat little Victorian houses with small front gardens. Colin entered his home quietly and quietly washed, shaved and changed his clothes. A morning paper was thrust through the letter-box. He took it to the kitchen and read while waiting for his father
who entered half an hour later saying, “Aye aye, out all night were we?”
“Yes. I must tell you about that.”
“Son,” said his father starting to make breakfast for them, “you don’t need to tell me a thing.”
“But I must tell you about this. I’ve met someone — a woman I’m keen on. I’ve asked her to stay with us.”
“For the weekend?”
“For the foreseeable future.”
“You want to marry her?” said his father, staring.
“Yes but I can’t. She’s married already and she has an eight-year-old son who’ll stay with us too.”
“Jesus Christ Almighty Colin! Have you got her into trouble?”
“I have not made her pregnant. I have no practical reason for wanting her.”
“Who is she? What does she do?”
“She’s called Mavis Belfrage, unemployed at present. She was a student of mine whose grant was cut because she failed her exams.”
“So she has a practical reason for wanting you?”
“I’ve taken that into account. It doesn’t matter.”
“An eight-year-old son! She’s no chicken, Colin.”
“I’ve taken that into account.”
His father, frowning, laid bacon rashers in a frying-pan. Colin lifted his paper and appeared to read.
“Listen!” said Mr Kerr a moment later, “when we took this house it was in my mind — and I thought in yours — that one day you’d meet a nice girl, marry, have weans and there would be room for us all here.”
“That’s right. What are you complaining about?”
“I never thought you’d pick up a family second hand!” said his father, chuckling. “Is it cheaper that way, Colin? Listen son, listen. You can do better for yourself. You don’t need to take damaged goods.”
Without raising his eyes from the newsprint Colin said quietly, “Keep your sales talk for the shop.”
There was silence then he heard his father sigh and continue making breakfast. They ate without speaking.
6
Two days later Colin brought Mavis, her son and three suitcases to Saint Leonard’s Bank and Mr Kerr welcomed them as warmly as Colin had expected.
“Come in come in come in!” he said. “Drop those cases. Here’s where the coats go. The first thing you need in a new home is a nice cup of tea and something to eat.”
He led them to the living-room.
“Wrong, Dad,” said Colin, “the first thing we need is introductions. Mavis and Bill, this is Gordon my father. Gordon this is Mavis Belfrage and Bill Belfrage, her son.”
“I can see why my Colin fell for you,” said Gordon, smiling and shaking Mavis by the hand.
“Thank you.”
“Hullo Bill Belfrage!” said Gordon, shaking the hand of a thin little boy who looked as unhappy as his mother and kept as close to her as possible. “Look around, Bill, and see if there’s anything here you would like.” Bill looked furtively round the room. So did Mavis. Colin, trying to imagine it through her eyes, wondered if she thought it cheap and vulgar.
He had chosen the white walls, grey fitted carpet, Scandinavian furniture of blond wood and pale-grey upholstery. Colourful things came from the house where he had been born: curtains with repeat patterns of red-coated horsemen drinking stirrup-cups in the snowy yards of Tudor inns, a standard lamp with shade of scarlet pleated silk, bright brass and china ornaments on the sideboard and low bookcases. Before an electric wallfire stood an Indian brass-topped table set with tea things and a two-tiered stand holding plates of small triangular sandwiches and sweet biscuits. Between two china shepherdesses on the mantelpiece lay a long cardboard box with a 1940 fighter plane depicted on the side. This had held parts of a model Spitfire which, expertly assembled, now lay on top. After a quick glance at this Bill Belfrage looked away from it until Gordon said, “I thought a certain young man liked aeroplanes,” and Mavis muttered, “Go and look at it Bill.”