All the Way Home and All the Night Through Page 3

  We marched onto the dance floor and carried the instruments across to the stage. Girls and boys were standing awkwardly round the edges of the floor. They viewed our arrival with feigned disinterest. We put on a bit of a show, laughing and making ironic comments on our surroundings as if we couldn’t care less. I tinkled on the piano while the others got set up. We felt as awkward as they did.

  The first number went well. We were exhilarated by its speed and brashness, but no one got up to dance. Everyone carried on talking as if we weren’t there. When we finished, no one applauded. Then we started “Black and Blue” too fast, but it gradually settled down to its normal pace. Still no one danced, but we got a trickle of applause from a group of about seven people at the far end of the floor.

  “This is no bloody good,” said Ivan, the drummer, when the number was over.

  “I know. They could at least dance,” I said.

  Then the door at the end of the hall swung open and three girls and three boys came in, laughing and shouting. All eyes turned on them. The girl in the front of the group looked in our direction, said something to one of the boys and led the other two girls across the floor toward us. She was small and had beautifully fine blonde hair framing a pixie face.

  “Hello Harry,” she squealed as she strutted toward us. Harry blew a raspberry on his trombone and the girl carried on a loud conversation with him which embarrassed all of us.

  “Play a fast one,” she said.

  We began to play “Running Wild”. The girl tripped across the floor and selected one of the boys she had come in with. The pair of them began to dance badly but with enthusiasm. By the end of the tune, about half the people in the hall had got up to dance. After that everything was fine.

  During the interval, I found myself holding a bottle of beer and talking with Harry and the fair-haired girl. Her name was Josie.

  “Are you at Art School, too?” she asked.

  “Yes. I take my finals next year.”

  “What are you going to be when you finish?”

  “Pleased,” I said.

  “Why, don’t you like it?”

  It hadn’t been funny anyway.

  “Harry,” she said, “come and meet Janet. She’s coming to your college next year. You can tell her all about it.”

  They moved away. I had a drink of beer and drifted over to where Don, the leader and clarinetist was sitting.

  “I think we’re playing all right, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I think everyone’s beginning to warm up,” he said.

  “Where’s Bill and Ivan?”

  “Over in the pub. They’re saving their beer till later.”

  “Shall we go and have one with them?”

  “Yes, might as well.”

  We walked across the floor to the exit.

  “Who’s that Harry’s talking to?” asked Don.

  “Some bird that’s coming to college next year,” I said.

  “Very pleasing dollie to look at.”

  I had a look.

  “Not bad. Don’t think she’s all that much.”

  “Looks all right to me.”

  We went and joined the others in the pub. Harry came in about five minutes later. He got a drink and sat down next to me.

  “What about that then?” he said.

  I knew what he was talking about.

  “What about what?”

  He laughed at me.

  “Well, all right, what about her then?” I said.

  “Smart dollie, what? She’s coming to college next year.”

  “I know.”

  “Bags of cash. One of the richies.”

  I had a drink.

  “So what?”

  “She’s called Janet Walker.”

  “Oh, give over.”

  “What’s wrong with you, then?”

  “Well, I told you I didn’t think her anything special.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Anyway, I don’t, you do. That’s all. What difference does it make that she’s a richie anyway?”

  “None, Victor.”

  “Anyway, it’s about time we got back.”

  After the dance had finished and all the guests were putting their coats on, I said to Harry:

  “I’m sorry I was shitty. I don’t know why it was.”

  “ ‘S all right. I just thought she was all right. You know.”

  I began to give Ivan a hand packing up his drum kit. When Harry came near again, I said:

  “I think maybe it’s got something to do with Hilary. I’m beginning to get a bit choked. I need a change.”

  “Never could understand that anyway.”

  My pride stopped me from going on truthfully.

  “Oh, I think she’s all right, you know. It was all right at the beginning. As usual. Still, I’ll see the summer out.”

  “I wouldn’t bother if I was you.”

  “Get lost.”

  “I’m going to. I’m off to have another word with that Janet.”

  I watched him climb down off the stage and walk over to the crowd of late-leavers standing by the exit, where the girl, Janet, was being helped into her coat by a tall fair-haired boy of about seventeen. Her face wore an unsure, worried expression, as though it was hard for her to trust anyone who spoke to her. I turned away before Harry reached her.

  “What do you think of that bird Harry’s talking to?” I asked the drummer.

  He looked up from unscrewing a cymbal.

  “What, the one in the red dress?”

  “Yes”.

  “Looks all right to me. I noticed her earlier on. Reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. Best here tonight, I reckon.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “What do you think of her?”

  “Not much,” I said.

  I went over the river to see Hilary on the Saturday.

  The weather was dry and sticky and after every cigarette, I felt like drinking a pint of ice-cold milk. Streets were black and yellow with light and shade; people were outlined in the sunlight with white intensity.

  The minute I saw her, I knew it was the day to finish it.

  I met her off her bus at one thirty. She was wearing a starched, flared summer dress, white and crisp and covered with red roses. She was carrying a rolled umbrella and her hair was too carefully done. Her big straw bag brushed raspingly against the stiffness of her dress. We smiled as she walked toward me.

  “Now then,” she said.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Isn’t it hot?” she said. “It was scorching in the bus. It’s made me feel all sticky.”

  We walked out of the shade of the bus station and into Victoria Square. Saturday shoppers were beginning to shove uncomfortably about in the heat.

  I suggested we went and had a drink of something cold.

  “Yes, all right, but can we go in the Picadish? I want to see Gwen. She’s had her hair done this morning and I want to see what it’s like. She said she was going to have the biggest beehive ever. I must see.”

  “Do we have to, really, Sweet?” I said as pleasantly as I could. “I mean, it’ll be really crowded and uncomfortable in there with the heat. You know what it’s like on a Saturday.”

  “Oh, it’ll only be for a minute. I won’t take long,” she said and laughed and squeezed my hand as I gave in.

  The Picadish was a self-service restaurant on the top floor of a big department store across the Square from where we were standing. All the mob met up there on a Saturday, screaming and shouting in a corner of the restaurant, finding out about the parties which were to take place in the evening.

  I walked behind Hilary, carrying two glasses of cold milk. We made for a
group of about a dozen of the mob who had spread themselves over a couple of tables.

  Gwen’s beehive was ridiculous. It must have been over a foot tall. Hilary shrieked over to where Gwen was sitting, leaving me holding the milk. There was no one I wanted to talk to so I sat on my own at the end of a nearby table.

  I was taking a drink of milk when a little prat called Reggie came over. He was about seventeen, still at school, and dressed in cords with an art college scarf decorating his mucky neck. He used to turn up all over the place. A fund of snide information such as: how your girl ended up in the bedroom at George’s party. He considered himself a sharp man.

  “Now Vic,” he said as he sat down opposite me. “How’s every little thing?”

  “All right.”

  “Are you going to Harry’s party tonight?”

  “No”.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m going home.”

  “Oh, of course. You’re not back till Monday, are you?”

  “I’d stay if I wanted.”

  “What about Hilary? She’ll be going. She’s been invited.”

  “What’s it to do with you?”

  “Nothing, but I thought you’d both be going, you know.”

  “Well, we’re not.”

  “I only thought, you know. I mean, Hilary’s talking to Gwen as if you’re going together.”

  “We haven’t even talked about going yet, so go and get your ears washed out. And when you come back, go and sit somewhere else than with me.”

  I got up and went over to where Hilary and Gwen and the rest of the girls were screaming at each other.

  “Hiya, Vic,” said Gwen.

  “Now then,” I said. Then to Hilary: “Are you ready for off then?”

  “I haven’t had my milk yet.”

  “No. It’s over there. Come and get it and then we’ll make a move. See you, Gwen.”

  Hilary saw something was up, so she followed me over to her glass of milk as soon as she had made her farewells.

  “What’s the matter with you, then?”

  I couldn’t tell her there so I put on my nicest face and said:

  “Sweet, I’m sorry. Look, it’s just the heat and everything. Besides, I haven’t seen you for a week and I want you for myself. We only see each other for a short time, you know.”

  It pacified her. She drank her milk.

  “How about the pictures this afternoon?” I said. I wanted to see “Rio Bravo” and it was the last day of its run.

  “Yeah, I don’t mind.”

  “We’ll just about make the beginning of the one at the Regal if we move now.”

  We went to the pictures. We sweated the afternoon away necking on the back row. In the interval, when the lights went up, I told her.

  “Look,” I said, “It’s like this. You see, it’s not that I don’t feel any the less about you or anything, but well, I’ve got problems, you know, and I can’t tell you what they are because, well, I can’t. Anyway, until everything’s blown over, sorted itself out, you know, I think it would be simpler if I didn’t see you for a while. Only until everything’s sorted out. It will be easier for me this way. Try and understand.”

  She stared at the seat in front of her.

  “What are the problems?”

  “Look honestly, I can’t tell you. I wish I could. Try and under-stand. I can’t tell you, really.”

  She looked unhappy.

  “You’re sure it’s not because you’ve changed or anything because I’d rather know if it was. I know I’m only sixteen, but I’d rather you—”

  “Look, honestly Sweet, it isn’t that at all. I wish I could explain.”

  “I wish you could, too. You can’t think very much of me or else you’d tell me what it is.”

  The lights began to go down and the advertising came on. In the dark, I told her a pack of lies.

  “Well, it’s my folks. It’s hard for me to tell you, to tell anyone, and I hope you won’t talk about this. I know you won’t, but anyway. You see, I—it’s hard even to say it. You see, they’re getting divorced, so...”

  “Oh, Victor.”

  “Yeah. Well, I know. Apparently it’s been going on for some time now. Anyway, I didn’t know. Not until they told me the other day. It was awful.”

  I piled it on. She believed me. She cried in pity and honest concern showed in her face.

  “So you see, it’s just that, well, I have to have time to get used to everything.”

  “Couldn’t I help you?”

  I paused to give me time to think of an answer.

  “Honestly, Sweet, I just feel that I’ve got to be alone in this thing. It’s not that I feel you couldn’t help; I just don’t want to involve you.”

  Finally, after a long spiel, I convinced her. We left the cinema. It was half-past six and the shoppers had gone away. The sharp blue sky soared quietly over the relaxing streets and squares. Light dust moved in the gutters, stirred softly by the thin early evening breeze. Victoria Square was almost deserted. Its broad perspective stopped short in the deep purple shadow of the North-facing buildings.

  We walked slowly along past the station facade and the Station Hotel. We were facing the sunlight. I let its pleasant comfortable warmth soak through my sweater. Hilary was silent. We trailed along for a while until we came to Allenby Road.

  “Well,” I said, “I’d better be off. I won’t catch my ferry other-wise.”

  “Are you going home?”

  Her voice was taut with surprise.

  “Well, yes, I’d better.”

  “But aren’t you coming with me to Harry’s?”

  “Look, Sweet, can’t you understand? I’ve told you how things are. Try and make it easy.”

  “But just for tonight, I mean; it’s not as though we’re finishing. We’re going to be together again soon aren’t we? We can’t just part now, like this.”

  She stood there, nearly in tears, the pastel sun shimmering round her summer dress. I brushed some hair out of my eyes with my forefinger. A trolley bus rolled dustily by.

  “Look, I’ve got to go. It would only make things more difficult if I stayed tonight.”

  “Please, Vic, please. Don’t be mean.”

  “I’m not being mean. You won’t understand.”

  “I don’t think it’s just because of what you told me. I don’t believe it’s just that.”

  “Don’t then.”

  “It’s not just that, is it? Is it? Tell me, Vic, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Just try and understand.”

  “Oh, Vic.”

  She started to cry. I grabbed hold of her by her forearms.

  “Look at me. Listen. There’s nothing the bloody matter. It’s just that I’m sick and tired of you. You do nothing except get on my nerves all day long. So that’s why I’m finishing with you. Permanently. That’s the truth. This is it.”

  She stood stock still, staring at me in disbelief. I still had hold of her by the arms.

  “And now I’m off to get my ferry. See you.”

  I let go of her and strode off.

  “Victor!”

  She came after me.

  “Victor. Vic. Don’t. Don’t go. Say you don’t mean it. Come back. Oh please.”

  “Get lost.”

  She tried to stop me by clutching hold of my shoulder. I shook her hand off and the sharp movement must have thrown her slightly off balance. She lost her grip on her string bag; it tilted too far forward and all its contents fell out onto the pavement. I turned round and looked down. Compacts, biros, gloves, hankies, sunglasses, all these littered the ground. A headscarf began to slide away in the breeze. She looked at the mess on the pavement then at me. S
he compressed her lips in frustration and misery and began automatically to bend down and pick up her belongings. The movement made her look gawky, and the breeze lifted her skirts and petticoats slightly. She had to squat partially to begin gathering in the clutter. I stood there for a few seconds, watching, and then I found myself backing away from her, into the warm sun. The movement quickened then suddenly I had turned round and was charging away into the sun, flying as fast as I could. The light breeze screamed past my ears, triumphant. I heard a wail coming from far behind me, but I never turned round and I never stopped running.

  “You’re back,” said my mother, surprised as I came in through the kitchen door. “I thought you were staying at Harry’s.”

  “I was but I decided to come home.”

  “Good. Well, I expect you’d like some food?”

  “Yes, please.” I hung my jacket up behind the door.

  “By the way, I won’t be going out with that Hilary anymore.”

  “Oh, what’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing. You know. Got fed up.”

  “I hope you were kind, Victor.”

  “Oh, aye.” I darted across and spun my mother round to face me and started dancing with her.

  “Oh, Victor, you great thing, give over.” We both laughed.

  “What’s for tea?” I said.

  The tension, the expectation, the apprehension of going back began as soon as I left the house on Monday morning. The door banged behind me at seven thirty. I walked down Greenfield Road with my folder under my arm. I turned down the hill that led to the station. The sun was shining early morning quietness, and the cold blues of rural brick-patterned shadows sent out envoys of tickling breeze. Everything, grass, hedges, trees, was still half awake, poised and still, waiting unsurely for a sign to allow the cycle to begin again. The sky, its pale ghostly blue soundlessly covering the fields, was the very essence of the original morning. I got on the train and the train drew quietly out of the station, and then I was on the ferry and in no time at all I found myself walking up the steps outside college. I pushed open one of the double doors. There was no one about. The entrance hall was deserted. I was, as usual when I travelled across, the first to arrive. I lived in digs in town during term time and went home the occasional weekend when there was nothing doing.