The Lemon Table

  He spread his hand on the table before him. A hand-span plus an inch, that was the diameter of the salad spinner. Of course I’ll remember, he’d told her: you don’t think my hand’s going to shrink in the next twenty-four hours, do you? No, don’t put the guts in my kitbag, Pamela, I said I don’t want to cart them up to town. Perhaps he could see how late John Lewis stayed open tonight. Call them from the station, pole over there this evening instead of tomorrow. That would save time. Then in the morning he could do all his other errands. Precision thinking, Jacko.

  The following year he couldn’t be sure Babs had remembered him, but even so she’d been pleased to see him. He’d brought a bottle of champagne on the off-chance, and that had somehow sealed things. He’d stayed the whole afternoon, told her about himself and they’d rung the gong three times again. He said he’d send her a postcard when he was up in town next, and that’s how it had got going. And now it was—what?—twenty-two, twenty-three years? He’d brought her flowers on their tenth anniversary, a potted plant on their twentieth. A poinsettia. The thought of her kept him going on those bleak mornings when he went out to feed the pullets and scrape away at the coal bunker. She was—what was that phrase they used nowadays?— his window of opportunity. She’d tried to end it once—go into retirement, she’d joked—but he hadn’t let her. He’d insisted, come close to making a scene. She’d given in, and stroked his face, and the next year when he’d sent his card he’d been scared fartless, but Babs had been as good as her word.

  Of course they’d changed. Everyone changed. Pamela for a start: the children going, the garden, the thing she’d developed about dogs, the way she’d cut her hair as short as the lawn, the way she was always cleaning the house. Not that it seemed to him any different from how it had been before she started always cleaning it. And she’d stopped wanting to go anywhere, said she’d done her travelling. He’d said they had time on their hands nowadays; but they did and they didn’t. They had more time and they got less done, that was the truth of the matter. And they weren’t idle, either.

  He’d changed, too. The way he found himself getting scared when he was up a ladder cleaning out the gutters. He’d done it for twenty-five years, for God’s sake, it was top of his tasks list every spring, and with a bungalow you were never that far off the ground, but still he found himself scared. Not scared of falling off, it wasn’t that. He always pushed down the side-locks on the ladder, he didn’t suffer from vertigo, and he knew if he fell he’d probably land on grass. It was just that as he stood there, nose a few inches above the gutter, scraping at the moss and sodden leaves and stuff with a trowel, flicking out the twigs and bits of attempted bird’s nest, looking up to check for broken tiles and see the TV aerial was still standing to attention—as he stood there, all protected, Wellington boots on his feet, windcheater around him, woolly cap on his head and rubber gloves on his hands, he would sometimes feel the tears begin and he knew it wasn’t because of the wind, and then he’d get stuck, one rubber hand clamped to the guttering, the other one pretending to poke in the curve of thick plastic, and he’d be scared fartless. Of the whole damn thing.

  He liked to think that Babs never changed, and she didn’t, not in his mind, not in his memory and his anticipation. But at the same time he acknowledged that her hair was no longer quite the blonde it had once been. And after he’d persuaded her not to go into retirement she’d changed too. Didn’t like undressing in front of him. Kept her nightie on. Got heartburn from his champagne. One year he’d brought her the more expensive sort but the result was still the same. Turned out the light more and more. Didn’t quite make the effort she once had to get him started. Slept when he slept; sometimes before.

  But she was still what he looked forward to when he was feeding the pullets, scraping for coal, poking at the gutter with tears leaking, tears he smeared across his cheek-bones with the back of a rubber glove. She was his link to the past, to a past in which he could really tie one on and still ring the gong three times in a row. She could get a bit mumsy with him, but everyone needed that too, didn’t they? Choccy biccy, Jacko? Yes, there was a bit of that. But also, you’re a real man, you know that, Jacko? There aren’t that many real men around, they’re a dying breed, but you’re one of them.

  They were approaching Euston. A young chappie across from Jacko took out his bloody mobile phone and dialled pippily. “Hello darling . . . yes, listen, bloody train’s stuck somewhere outside bloody Birmingham. They don’t tell you anything. No, at least an hour or more I’d say, and then I’ve got to get across London . . . Yes . . . Yes do that . . . Me too . . . Bye.” The liar tucked away his phone and stared around, daring anyone to have overheard.

  So: run through the orders for the day again. Station, ring John Lewis re early strike on salad spinner. Dinner at one of those restaurants near the b-and-b: Indian, Turkish, didn’t matter. Maximum expenditure £8. The Marquis of Granby, just the two pints, don’t want to keep the billet awake with too many flushings in the night. Breakfast, extra sausage if poss. Half-bottle champagne from Thresher’s. Errands for the NAAFI: Stilton as per, kilner rings as per, loose powder as per. Two o’clock Babs. Two o’clock until six. Even the thought of it . . . Captain, art thou sleeping there below? Honourable members kindly rise . . . The ceremonial sword in its scabbard. Two until six. Tea at some point. Tea and a biccy. Funny how that had become part of the tradition too. And Babs was so good at encouraging a fellow, making him feel just for a moment, even in the dark, even with his eyes shut, just for a moment that he was . . . what he wanted to be.

  “RIGHT, THAT’S SIT, me boy. Home, James, and don’t spare the horses.” His kitbag was stowed between the seats, his mackintosh folded beside him. Ticket, wallet, sponge bag, tasks list now with little neat ticks appended. Rubber johnnies! That particular joke had been on him. The whole thing had been a joke on him. He did an eyes-right through the sealed window: an overlit sandwich bar, a stalled baggage-train, a porter in a silly uniform. Why do train drivers never have children? Because they always pull out on time. Ho bloody ho. Putting rubber johnnies on the list had always been his annual joke because he hadn’t needed any. Not for years. Babs, once she knew and trusted him, said they didn’t need to bother. He’d asked, what about the other thing, namely sprog-manufacture. She’d replied, “Jacko, I think the danger of that’s well past.”

  It had all gone as per to begin with, per as in perfect. Train on time, pole across town to John Lewis, spread the hand to indicate gauge of salad spinner, size recognized, no spare parts alas sold separately, but special offer, probably cheaper now than when Madam bought it. Debate with self about whether to discard guts of salad spinner at point of purchase and claim he’d managed to locate and supply outer bowl by itself. Decision made to present whole item of matériel on return. After all, old Slippery Hands might celebrate one evening by dropping the insides of the thing for a change. Except that, knowing his luck, he’d probably smash the bowl again and they’d be stockpiling guts for the rest of their existence.

  Back across town. Recognized and remembered by foreign chappie who ran the b-and-b. Coin in slot, report to base re safe arrival. Very decent chicken curry. Two pints, no more no less, at the Marquis of Granby. Discipline maintained. No undue pressure on bladder and prostate. Night surmounted with only the one visit to the latrines. Slept like the proverbial toddler. Sweet-talked way to extra sausage the next morning. Special offer on half of champagne at Thresher’s. Tasks list accomplished with no hitch or glitch. Wash and brush-up, toothpaste duty. Presented self for inspection at two o’clock sharp.

  And that was when the special offers ran out. He’d rung the bell picturing the familiar blonde curls and pink house-coat, hearing the giggles. But someone dark and artificial and middle-aged had answered the door. He stood there puzzled, not speaking.

  “Present for me?” she’d said, probably just making conversation, and had reached out and taken the champagne by its neck. Instead of replying, he’d hung on to the
bottle, and they had a silly tug-of-war until he said,

  “Babs.”

  “Babs’ll be a little while,” she said, opening the door wider. This didn’t seem right, but he followed her into the sitting-room which had been redecorated since this time last year. Redecorated like a whore’s parlour, he’d thought.

  “Shall I put that in the fridge?” she’d asked, but he held on to the bottle.

  “Up from the country?” she’d asked.

  “Military gentleman?” she’d asked.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she’d asked.

  They sat in silence for a quarter of an hour, until he heard one door close, then another. The dark-haired woman now stood in front of him with a tall blonde whose bra presented her titties to him like a fruit-bowl.

  “Babs,” he’d repeated.

  “I’m Babs,” the blonde replied.

  “You’re not Babs,” he’d said.

  “If you say so,” she’d replied.

  “You’re not Babs,” he’d repeated.

  The two women looked at one another, and the blonde had said, in a casual, hard way, “Look, Grandpa, I’m whoever you want, right?”

  He stood up. He looked at the two tarts. He explained, slowly, so that even the most wet-eared recruit could understand.

  “Oh,” one of them said. “You mean Nora.”

  “Nora?”

  “Well, we called her Nora. I’m sorry. No, she passed on about nine months ago.”

  He hadn’t understood. He thought they meant she’d moved. Then he hadn’t understood again. He thought they meant she’d been murdered, killed in a car crash, or something.

  “She was rather elderly,” one of them said eventually, by way of explanation. He must have looked fierce, because she’d added, rather nervously, “No offence. Nothing personal.”

  They’d opened the champagne. The dark woman brought the wrong glasses. He and Babs had always drunk out of tumblers. The champagne was warm.

  “I sent a postcard,” he said. “A ceremonial sword.”

  “Yes,” they answered, without interest.

  They drained their glasses. The dark woman said, “Well, do you still want what you’ve come for?”

  He didn’t exactly think about it. He must have nodded. The blonde girl said, “Do you want me to be Babs?”

  Babs had been Nora. That was what went through his brain. He felt himself grow fierce again. “I want you to be what you are.” It was an order.

  The two women looked at one another again. The blonde girl said, firmly but not convincingly, “I’m Debbie.”

  He should have left then. He should have left out of respect for Babs, out of loyalty to Babs.

  On the other side of the sealed window the landscape went by, as it did every year, but he could find no shape in it. Sometimes he confused loyalty to Babs with loyalty to Pamela. He reached into his kitbag for the thermos. Sometimes—oh, only a few times, but it had happened— he’d confused fucking Babs with fucking Pamela. It was as if he’d been at home. And as if that happened at home.

  He’d gone into what used to be Babs’s room. Redecorated too. He couldn’t take in what was new, only what was missing from before. She’d asked him what he wanted. He hadn’t replied. She’d taken some money and handed him a rubber johnny. He stood there holding it. Babs hadn’t, Babs wouldn’t . . .

  “Want me to put it on for you, Gramps?”

  He’d batted her hand away and dropped his trousers, then his pants. He knew he wasn’t thinking well, but it seemed to be the best idea, the only idea. It was what he’d come for, after all. It was what he’d paid for now. The honourable member was temporarily hiding his light under a bushel, but if he indicated what was required, if he gave the orders, then . . . He sensed Debbie watching him, half-standing, one knee on the bed.

  He squidgy-fingered the johnny onto his cock, expecting the action to bump-start it. He looked at Debbie, at the offered fruit-bowl, but that was no help. He looked down at his limp cock, at the wrinkled johnny with its drooping, unfillable teat. He felt the memory of lubricated rubber on his fingertips. He thought to himself, Right, that’s it, me boy.

  She had pulled a handful of tissues from the quilted box on the bedside table and handed them across. He dried his face. She gave him a little of his money back; just a little. He dressed quickly and walked out into the blinding streets. He wandered around pointlessly. A digital display above some shop told him it was three twelve. He realized the johnny was still on his cock.

  Sheep. Cows. A tree blown into a hairstyle. A stupid bloody little encampment of bungalows full of stupid cunts who made him want to scream and puke and pull the alarm cord or whatever the fuck they had instead of the alarm cord nowadays. Stupid cunts just like himself. And he was going back to his own stupid bloody little bungalow that he’d spent so many years doing up. He unscrewed the thermos and poured himself some coffee. Two days in the flask and stone cold. In days of yore he used to liven it up with the contents of a hip flask. Now it was just cold, cold and old. Fair enough, eh, Jacko?

  He’d have to give another coat of yacht varnish to the decking outside the French windows because it kept getting scuffed up by those new patio chairs . . . The utility room could do with a lick of paint . . . He’d take the mower in and have the blades sharpened, not that you could find anyone to do that nowadays, they just looked at you and suggested you bought one of those hover jobs with an orange plastic widget instead of a blade . . .

  Babs was Nora. He didn’t have to wear a johnny because she knew he didn’t go anywhere else and she was way past getting pregnant. She only came out of retirement once a year, for his sake; just got a bit fond of you, Jacko, that’s all. Made a joke one time about her bus pass and that was how he’d known she was older than him; older than Pam too. Once, when they were still getting through a whole bottle in the course of the afternoon, she’d offered to take her top teeth out to suck him, and he’d laughed but thought it disgusting. Babs was Nora and Nora was dead.

  The fellows at dinner hadn’t noticed any difference. He’d kept his discipline. Hadn’t got rat-faced. “Can’t manage it so well anymore, to tell the truth, old boy,” he had said, and someone had sniggered as if there was a joke in it. He’d bailed out early and had a drink at the Marquis of Granby. No, just the half tonight. Can’t manage it so well anymore, to tell the truth. Never say die, the barman had replied.

  He despised himself for the way he’d pretended with that tart. Do you still want what you’ve come for? Oh yes, he still wanted what he’d come for, but that wasn’t anything she could possibly know about. He and Babs hadn’t done it for, what, five, six years? The last year or two they’d barely even sipped the champagne. He liked her to put on that mumsie nightie he was always teasing her about, climb into bed with him, turn out the light and talk about the old days. How it used to be. Once to say hullo, once the real business, once more for the road. You were a tiger in those days, Jacko. Quite wore me out. Used to take the next day off. You didn’t. Oh yes I did. Well I never. Oh yes, Jacko, a real tiger.

  She hadn’t liked putting up her price, but rents were rents, and it was the space and the time he was paying for, whatever he wanted or didn’t want to do. That was one thing about getting his senior citizen’s railcard, he could save on the fare now. Not that there was a now anymore. He’d seen the last of London. You could get Stilton and salad spinners in Shrewsbury, for God’s sake. The regimental dinner would increasingly consist of seeing who wasn’t there rather than who was. As for his teeth, the local vet could sort them out.

  His packages were in the rack above him. His tasks list was a set of ticks. Pam would be on her way to the station by now, perhaps turning into the short-stay car park. Always went nose-first into a parking slot, did Pamela. Didn’t like backing, preferred to save that for later; or, more likely, leave it for him to do. He was different. Preferred to back into the slot. That way you were ready for a quick departure. Just a matter of training, he supposed; k
eeping on the qui vive. Pamela used to say, When did we last need to make a quick departure? Anyway, there’s usually a queue to get out. He used to say, If we got out first there wouldn’t be a queue. Queue ED. And so on.

  He promised himself he wouldn’t look at the wheel-rims to see if she’d ground them down some more. He wouldn’t pass any remarks as he wound down the window and reached across to the token-thingy. He wouldn’t say, Look how far the wheels are away and I can still reach. He’d just ask, “How are the dogs? Heard from the kids? Did they deliver the Super Dug?”

  Yet he mourned Babs and he wondered if this was what it would be like to mourn Pamela. If it was that way round, of course.

  He had done his tasks. As the train approached the station, he looked out of the sealed window, hoping to see his wife on the platform.

  The Revival

  1

  PETERSBURG

  It was an old play of his, written in France back in 1849; promptly banned by the censor, and licensed for publication only in 1855. It first reached the stage seventeen years later, when it ran for a pitiful five nights in Moscow. Now, thirty years after its conception, she had telegraphed asking permission to abridge it for Petersburg. He agreed, while gently protesting that this juvenile invention had been meant for the page, not the stage. He added that the play was unworthy of her great talent. This was a typical gallantry: he had never seen her act.

  Like most of his life’s writing, the play was concerned with love. And as in his life, so in his writing: love did not work. Love might or might not provoke kindness, gratify vanity, and clear the skin, but it did not lead to happiness; there was always an inequality of feeling or intention present. Such was love’s nature. Of course, it “worked” in the sense that it caused life’s profoundest emotions, made him fresh as spring’s linden-blossom and broke him like a traitor on the wheel. It stirred him from well-mannered timidity to relative boldness, though a rather theoretical boldness, one tragicomically incapable of action. It taught him the gulping folly of anticipation, the wretchedness of failure, the whine of regret, and the silly fondness of remembrance. He knew love well. He also knew himself well. Thirty years earlier, he had written himself into the part of Rakitin, who offers the audience his conclusions about love: “In my opinion, Alexei Nikolaevich, every love, happy as well as unhappy, is a real disaster when you give yourself over to it entirely.” These views were deleted by the censor.