Bert nudged him, held up the other hand to wave. “Here they are,” he said, nodding at two young women pushing in from the doorway. Brian got more drinks, two pints and a couple of gin-and-its, while Bert latched on to the stoutest of the two women, as if, being smaller than Brian, he needed to ally himself to someone hefty in order to strike the right average should everyone be weighed out by pairs as they went into heaven. She must have been well over twenty, married as like as not, a round face and well-permed hair, not much given to powder and rouge but making up for it by the amount of laughter that rolled out of her at everything Bert said — which must have pleased him because it kept a permanent grin on his face, a low-burning light which seemed to say: Look what I’ve landed myself with. She’s a rare piece, ain’t she? Brian cursed to himself. Her eyes shone, showed by their life that she was having the good time she’d got used to since her husband, you could bet, was going off his head in some snuffed-out hole of Burma or Italy. “What’s your name, duck?” Brian asked.
“Rachel.”
“Down the hatch,” he said. “That’s a Bible name, Rachel, ain’t it?” which got him a louder laugh than Bert. He called for two more gins and slid them over before the first ones were finished.
“Steady,” Bert said, thinking Brian might get on all right with gels his own age but that he didn’t much know how to treat grown women. If you bought them drinks the second they’d slung one lot down, they’d swill ’em off quicker than ever: you had to wait for the hint first, to keep things as slow as you could.
“He’s trying to get us drunk,” the other woman said, unable to laugh as heartily as Rachel. “It’d tek some doing,” Brian retorted. “What’s your name, love?”
A straight answer, as if she didn’t mind telling him: “Edna.”
Bert already had his arm round Rachel’s fine middle, like a kid embracing a jar of sweet biscuits. Edna was small and thin, well made up with rouge and lipstick and looked a year or two older than her pal if the truth were known. She had long curly hair and a well-padded coat — was so thin that Brian thought she might be heading for consumption, though the way she chain-smoked may have helped to keep her that way. Her small features seemed distrustful of the world and of Brian in particular, so that in odd troughs of soberness he wished for the knowledge and familiarity of Pauline. Nevertheless it was good to be in a pub, half-pissed with a grown woman who at last was beginning to smile and give him the glad-eye now and again. He held the bridgehead at the bar, passing over gin and beer and cigarettes: soldier Bert was moneyless, and women didn’t pay, so money-man lashed out, one half of him not thinking about it and the other half glad to be the fountainhead of so much benevolence. Bert was telling both women that Brian his cousin had a cupboardful of books at home as well as a stack of maps for following up the war, and Brian turned to deny this and make out that Bert was spinning a tale just for the fun of it. “He says owt to keep the party going,” he told Edna, squeezing her thin waist, but then relaxing his grip for fear he should snap her in two and get hung for murder. Booze was clouding his eyes, and he was glad when “Time” was bawled because he didn’t want to be dead-helpless by the time he got Edna in bed or against a wall, and in any case by ten he’d only that many shillings left, half of which slid away on the last order allowed after towels had been put on.
They linked arms and made their way with “Roll Out the Barrel” to the bus stop. Bert was half asleep while the bus crawled into town and only woke up loud and clear when Brian tried to kiss Rachel as well as Edna. Bert pushed him away and they poured on to the Slab Square pavement where the bus route ended. Edna lived at Sneinton and Rachel in the Meadows, so the foursome split up.
A cold mist cleared the fumes from Brian’s eyes, his body light, though more controllable. He kept a tentacle well-placed around Edna’s waist as they walked and was not afraid of snapping her in two any more. In fact, she gripped tight as well, which made him hope he was in for something good. The streets were empty except for an occasional mob of swaddies making for the NAAFI or YM. They went in a silence of loving expectation past the Robin Hood Arms and turned up Sneinton Dale. He wanted to ask whether she was married and had any kids, but didn’t because he sensed she’d get ratty and wouldn’t answer. A solitary drunk pushed into them and Brian swung to shove back, but Edna dragged his arm and asked him not to be a fool — which was the most definite thing she’d said all evening. They entered a long street of small houses. “You live here?”
She stopped by one. “Just here.”
“Can I come in then?”
“You’d better not. My husband’s at home.”
“I can’t see any lights on.”
“Wise guy,” she answered, which retort made him wonder how many Yanks she’d been with, and brought up the hope that he wouldn’t get a dose of the pox. She leaned by the door and he pressed in for a kiss, whispering: “Let’s go up Colwick Woods.”
“I can’t, duck. It’s eleven. It’s late.” He enjoyed the kisses, for she clung to him and allowed his insistent leg to force hers open. “It wain’t tek long.”
“I’m sorry, love, I’ve got to go.” But she didn’t pull away, though she pushed his hand gently down when it went too close. “My husband’ll come out.”
“I don’t care. Come for a stroll to the end of the street.” Someone was walking up the entry, but she seemed not to have heard. “You will if he catches you. Anyway, I’ll get it, not you. Stop undoing my coat, it’s cold.” They buried themselves into another kiss. The stillness and force of their close-pressed kisses drew a haze over him and he felt himself on the razor’s edge of luck, either about to get what he wanted or be sent off alone up the empty street. But he told himself that if he went on trying long enough, even against her quiet entreaties to pack it up, then she would open herself and give in. “No, don’t, duck. Stop it, there’s a good lad. I’d like to, but I’ve got to go in now.”
Footsteps sounded again from the entry, of someone soft-treading it out to the street. “Come on, Edna, we could have been at Colwick while we was chinnin’.”
“I’m going,” she said, irritated now. “I’ve got kids to look after.” A shadow stood by them, silent and oppressive. Brian noticed it, felt it must be that of some neighbour out to see if his kid was on its way back from the fish-and-chip shop, though he cursed himself later that this was the first thing he should think of instead of just running like mad out of it. A stinging hammer of hard knuckles hit him between the shoulder blades and he swung round, ducking as he did so to avoid number two, which missed by an inch. The man, unable to brake, lurched against him.
“Clive!” Edna cried, getting her information out in a fabulous hurry: “Stop it. Come on in. It worn’t owt. I’d only had a drink. He woks at our place.” Brian brought up the full iron strength of his arm into the man’s face before he could draw away, then hit him again and pushed him out towards the gutter, impelled to madness by what seemed the savage wreck of his shoulder blades.
“You dirty bastard,” the man said, and ran back at him. His fist came up and met Brian in the middle of his forehead, making it feel as if the skin had been pushed into his scalp. Words fused with the pain and starlit darkness of his mind: He’s winning. He wants to kill me! And with both fists ready, he grabbed the man’s shirt and felt it rip as he smashed at his face, then rammed out with his shoulders and forced him away from the housefront, hitting out quickly to give more than he got. The man stood in the middle of the street. “Leave her alone,” he cried, his voice wavering. “Get off.”