She came out of the love-making mood before he did, though he was happy enough to shift, even to walk in silence through the same old dismal town, rain blowing against their faces.
‘Let’s say goodnight at the end of the road in case my father’s waiting. No use antagonizing him unnecessarily.’ Another reason was the ever present violence in Herbert which, though it had some attraction, made her afraid for herself as well as for her father. It was too easy to imagine them getting into a fight. She would like Herbert to have more control, and not be so self-indulgent. He was often touchy for little reason. Her other young men had put on a show of respect for her father, but Herbert relished no such laws, and her father had ranted only that day that he wouldn’t trust him as far as he could throw him.
They met less often, she making excuses for staying at home, which he didn’t question, using the time to work on his novel, whose progress she no longer asked about, indicating that she had lost interest, which at times suited him well, while at others it increased his sense of isolation.
He persuaded her to go to the pub on Wilford Road, thinking she might like to see a scene from one of his chapters. He led her along dark streets to get there, which route, apart from tiring her, put her into a gloomy state, especially when the devil was in him to rile her more than usual. The saloon bar was disappointingly empty. ‘You haven’t been in a dive like this before, I suppose?’
She smiled, knowing his game. ‘Is it just another of your planned adventures? It’s called slumming, isn’t it? If so, I can do without it. Pubs like this aren’t places a well brought-up woman would normally go into.’
‘A good upbringing should allow one to go anywhere.’
She sipped her brandy as if the rogue factory worker before her would belt her one if she didn’t appreciate it, or he would look askance if she drank it too quickly. Like everything about him it was hard to tell. ‘You ought to get a room in a better district.’
He only annoyed her to make her more lively, unless it was an underhand way of increasing the liveliness in himself, which thought brought on momentary shame at such meanness, though in revenge at her making him feel it he said: ‘You’ve told me that a hundred times already.’
Her face flushed with excitement, as if every quarrel took them further into the unknown. ‘I’m telling you again.’
‘There are two reasons why I don’t,’ he said calmly. ‘One is that it’s cheap where I am, and the other is that it’s close to work. Another thing is I like the woman who runs the place.’
She retied the pretty coloured scarf around her neck. ‘But you’re a writer, aren’t you? And you work in an office, don’t you? You could surely get a nice flat.’
He swallowed half his pint, wondering whether to belch. He didn’t, though if this was taking place in a story he certainly would have. ‘I’ve slaved on the shop floor since I was fourteen, except for a few years in the army.’
‘Oh stop that stupid talk. You know very well what my father told me. I suspected as much before, anyway. But why did you try to deceive me?’ She was close to tears. ‘That’s what’s so unforgivable.’
If things had gone that far between two people it was time to end the affair. He grinned, as widely as he was able to stretch his lips without the help of his fingers. ‘I didn’t deceive you, duck.’
‘You revelled in it. And in any case I’ve always known you weren’t what you said you were.’
He respected her, and maybe loved her too much even now to let rip the full power of his assumed personality. ‘You just try to guess everything, without coming out honestly and asking to talk it over. You don’t know anything about me.’
‘But if you loved me you’d have been open with me.’ She was ready to let the tears fall. ‘Why weren’t you?’
She guessed he had been searching for a reason to stop seeing her, and realized that she wanted to stop seeing him as well. Her legs supported her in standing up, though it was hard to stop the shake at her ankles. ‘You’re sly and deceitful, and mean. You’re afraid of the world and everybody in it. You don’t know anything about human beings because you’re not human yourself.’
The words came out hard, like a machine gun firing dumdum bullets which ought to have chewed his guts to mush, and would have if they’d meant as much to him as they obviously did to her. Real life again, he smiled. She had come alive at last, at the very point when he was intent on ditching her. To tolerate such yammering he drummed up more Archie than there was even Bert Gedling in himself, and no attempt at control could stop him. ‘You’re a sour old maid, a bleedin’ snob, as well, and all because o’ the work I do.’
Further words were stopped by her brandy splashing his jacket and shirt. ‘Don’t expect to see me again.’
The drops that hit his scar stung like acid, and if she hadn’t gone quickly he would have smacked her between the eyes. He had often wondered how it would end, and now he knew.
‘I think you asked for that,’ a man called from the bar, seeing his shock and rage impossible to hide.
Bert, realizing the procedure in such a situation, said that he supposed he did.
‘That’s a lovely scar you’ve got, though,’ the man said, stricken with admiration and envy. ‘Did she do it?’
‘Good Lord, no,’ Herbert smiled.
‘She gave you what-for, though, didn’t she?’
Herbert admitted that she had indeed, but said it wouldn’t be the last time such a bust-up would happen to him. He hoped not, anyway, otherwise what was the point of being on earth?
‘You’ve got a point there,’ the man said, and went on, cheerfully enough: ‘I’ve had six wives, if you want to know.’
Herbert didn’t particularly. ‘Six?’
‘Well, women, you might say. Three of ’em I left, and the other three left me. Not bad, eh? I can’t wait to find another, but I’m having a bit of a break at the moment.’
‘I’d say you deserved it.’ Herbert strolled across for another pint. The occasion of his rupture with Cecilia called for a swagger. He seated himself beside the Lothario, though he hardly seemed that, with his fat slack body and worn features, pasty skin and grey but alert eyes.
His navy-blue three-piece suit was of good quality, his collar and tie impeccable, as was the trilby at a confident enough angle. Even the stool he sat on seemed to feel the privilege as he swivelled to face Herbert: ‘No use crying over spilt beer, that’s what I always say.’
Herbert denied he was made that way, though knew he had lost her right enough, deciding never to get rid of anyone so unfeelingly again. In other words, have even more self-control over his mouth than heretofore, and watch his behaviour every second. That way he’d get what he wanted and stay sane as well — and you couldn’t have it better than that. As for happiness, if you thought about having much of that you would really end up to your neck in shit.
‘You know how to keep a woman happy?’
The man seemed to be intercepting his thoughts, but Herbert appreciated being amused by this funny little chap who claimed to be so irresistible to women. ‘Give ’em a good fucking every night?’ Bert said.
He laughed. ‘Yo’ young ’uns! Nothing so crude as that. I’ve worked it out like this: every time you feel happy, give her a good hiding; every time you feel rotten and down in the dumps, make her feel as if she’s the queen of the earth. Can’t lose, because that way neither of you can take each other for granted, or get fed up.’
‘How come that three of your women left you, then?’ He called for another pint and sat on a stool to listen.