“Same thing, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say quite.”
“Still teach, don’t you? Still live off them that works, as well.”
“Now, Joe,” Mary interrupted. “You’ll have our new mate not wanting to stay with us.”
Jessop could have told her that had happened some time ago. He was considering how much of his portion he could decently leave before seeking another refuge from the gale, and whether he was obliged to be polite any longer, when Tom demanded “So what do you lecture, Des?”
“Students,” Jessop might have retorted, but instead displayed the Beethoven score he’d laid out to review in preparation for his introductory lecture. “Music’s my territory.”
As he dipped his spoon in search of a final mouthful Mary said “How many marks would our singing get?”
“I don’t really mark performances. I’m more on the theory side.”
Joe’s grunt of disdainful vindication wasn’t enough for Tom, who said “You’ve got to be able to say how good it is if you’re supposed to be teaching about it.”
“Six,” Jessop said to be rid of the subject, but it had occupied all the watching eyes. “Seven,” he amended. “A good seven. That’s out of ten. A lot of professionals would be happy with that.”
Betty gave a laugh that apparently expressed why everyone looked amused. “You haven’t heard us yet, Des. You’ve got to hear.”
“You start us off, Betty,” Daniel urged.
For as long as it took her to begin, Jessop was able to hope he would be subjected only to a chorus. Having lurched to her feet, she expanded her chest, a process that gave him more of a sense of the inequality of her breasts than he welcomed, and commenced her assault on the song. What was she suggesting ought to be done with the drunken sailor? Her diction and her voice, cracked enough for a falsetto, made it impossible to judge. Jessop fed himself a hearty gulp of Captain’s Choice in case it rendered him more tolerant as she sat down panting. “Oh,” he said hurriedly, “I think—”
“You can’t say yet,” Daniel objected. “You’ve got to hear everyone.”
Jessop lowered his head, not least to avoid watching Mary. Betty’s lopsidedness had begun to resemble an omen. The sound of Mary was enough of an ordeal—her voice even screechier than her friend’s, her answer to the question posed by the song even less comprehensible. “There,” she said far too eventually. “Who’ll be next?”
As Joe stood up with a thump that might have been designed to attract Jessop’s attention, he heaped his spoon with a gobbet of scouse to justify his concentration on the bowl. Once the spoonful passed his teeth it became clear that it was too rubbery to be chewed and too expansive to be swallowed. Before Joe had finished growling his first line, Jessop staggered to his feet. He waved his frantic hands on either side of his laden face and stumbled through the doorway to the toilets.
The prospect of revisiting the Gents made him clap a hand over his mouth. When he elbowed the other door open, however, the Ladies looked just as uninviting. A blackened stone sink lay in fragments on the uneven concrete beneath a rusty drooling tap on a twisted greenish pipe. Jessop ran to the first of two cubicles and shouldered the door aside. Beyond it a jagged hole in the glistening concrete showed where a pedestal had been. What was he to make of the substance like a jellyfish sprawling over the entire rim? Before he could be sure what the jittery light was exhibiting, the mass shrank and slithered into the unlit depths. He didn’t need the spectacle to make him expel his mouthful into the hole and retreat to the corridor. He was peering desperately about for a patch of wall not too stained to lean against when he heard voices—a renewal of the television sounds beyond the rear exit and, more clearly, a conversation in the bar.
“Are we telling Des yet?”
“Betty’s right, we’ll have to soon.”
“Can’t wait to see his face.”
“I remember how yours looked, Mary.”
It wasn’t only their words that froze him—it was that, exhausted perhaps by singing, both voices had given up all disguise. He wouldn’t have known they weren’t meant to be men except for the names they were still using. If that indicated the kind of bar he’d strayed into, it had never been his kind. He did his best to appear unaware of the situation as, having managed to swallow hard, he ventured into the bar.
More had happened than he knew. Joe had transferred his bulk to the stool that blocked the street door. Jessop pretended he hadn’t noticed, only to realise that he should have confined himself to pretending it didn’t matter. He attempted this while he stood at the table to gather the score and return it to his briefcase. “Well,” he said as casually as his stiffening lips would allow, “I’d better be on my way.”
“Not just yet, Des,” Joe said, settling more of his weight against the door. “Listen to it.”
Jessop didn’t know if that referred to the renewed onslaught of the gale or him. “I need something from my car.”
“Tell us what and we’ll get it for you. You aren’t dressed for this kind of night.”
Jessop was trying to identify whom he should tell to let him go—the barman was conspicuously intent on wiping glasses—and what tone and phrasing he should use when Daniel said “You lot singing’s put Des off us and his supper.”
“Let’s hear you then, Des,” Joe rather more than invited. “Your turn to sing.”
“Yes, go on, Des,” Mary shrilled. “We’ve entertained you, now you can.”
Might that be all they required of him? Jessop found himself blurting “I don’t know what to perform.”
“What we were,” Joe said.
Jessop gripped his clammy hands together behind his back and drew a breath he hoped would also keep down the resurgent taste of his bowlful. As he repeated the question about the sailor, his dwarfed voice fled back to him while all the drinkers rocked from side to side, apparently to encourage him. The barman found the glasses he was wiping more momentous than ever. Once Jessop finished wishing it could indeed be early in the morning, if that would put him on the ferry, his voice trailed off. “That’s lovely,” Betty cried, adjusting her fallen breast. “Go on.”
“I can’t remember any more. It really isn’t my sort of music.”
“It will be,” Daniel said.
“Take him down to see her,” Betty chanted, “and he’ll soon be sober.”
“Let him hear her sing and then he’ll need no drinking,” Mary added with something like triumph.
They were only suggesting lyrics, Jessop told himself—perhaps the very ones they’d sung. The thought didn’t help him perform while so many eyes were watching him from the dimness that seeped through the nets. He felt as if he’d been lured into a cave where he was unable to see clearly enough to defend himself. All around him the intent bulks were growing visibly restless; Mary was fingering her red tresses as though it might be time to dispense with them. “Come on, Des,” Joe said, so that for an instant Jessop felt he was being directed to the exit. “No point not joining in.”
“We only get one night,” said Tom.
“So we have to fit them all in,” Daniel said.
All Jessop knew was that he didn’t want to need to understand. A shiver surged up through him, almost wrenching his hands apart. It was robbing him of any remaining control—and then he saw that it could be his last chance. “You’re right, Joe,” he said and let them see him shiver afresh. “I’m not dressed for it. I’ll get changed.”
Having held up his briefcase to illustrate his ruse, he was making for the rear door when Mary squealed “No need to be shy, Des. You can in here.”
“I’d rather not, thank you,” Jessop said with the last grain of authority he could find in himself, and dodged into the corridor.
As soon as the door was shut he stood his briefcase against it. Even if he wanted to abandon the case, it wouldn’t hold the door. He tiptoed fast and shakily to the end of the passage and lowered the topmost crate onto his chest. He retraced his steps as fast as silencing the bottles would allow. He planted the crate in the angle under the hinges and took the briefcase down the corridor. He ignored the blurred mutter of televisions beyond the door while he picked up another crate. How many could he use to ensure the route was blocked before anyone decided he’d been out of sight too long? He was returning for a third crate when he heard a fumbling at the doors on both sides of the corridor.