The Paying Guests

  ‘Henley,’ he said, rubbing his pleasant-looking chin. ‘Now, I hadn’t thought of Henley.’

  ‘Or Windsor, of course.’

  ‘No, Henley’s the place. You could make a day of it at Henley. A stroll by the river, a bit of fun on the water.’

  ‘Feed the ducks.’

  ‘Feed the ducks. And finish up with a nice tea.’

  They exchanged a smile. His eyes were the blue of Cornish china, his fairish hair sat close to his scalp in tight little lamb-like curls. He was the type of man who, twenty or even ten years before, would never have dreamed of sitting down and chatting so freely with a woman of Frances’s class. Now he took a gulp of his beer, neatly wiped his mouth, and felt in his jacket pocket. ‘Like a cigarette?’

  The chat about Henley had perked him up. He left off huffing against the heat and told her all about a Saturday-to-Monday he had recently spent down in Brighton. He’d gone there with a pal – not the pal with the motor-car, another pal entirely. They’d had an evening on the pier, at a Wild West show. The stunts those fellows could pull with a lasso and a tomahawk had to be seen to be believed…

  Frances listened with half an ear, nodding, smiling; still conscious of Lilian; feeling the evening ticking forward, second by second, beat by beat.

  By half-past nine the sky outside was beginning to darken, and the lace at the window acquired a yellow electric sheen. Some of the children had come to their parents and started to pull at their hands: they wanted to go home, they were tired, it wasn’t fair, they wanted to go. One little boy climbed on to his mother’s lap and tried to press her lips shut: ‘Stop talking!’ Mildly, she pushed his hands away and went on chatting with her neighbour. But by ten, people were rising and gathering their things. A group was heading back to Walworth, taking the kids and the aunties home. Mrs Viney was going with them, if she could ever get out of her chair. It took all four of her daughters to raise her to her feet, the rest of the room calling encouragement, the boys making the popping noises of a cork coming out of a bottle.

  When she was up and wiping her eyes at the hilarity of it all, Lilian spoke quietly to Frances.

  ‘I’ll just see Mum and Vera off at the gate. And then we needn’t stay much longer. Just a little while?’

  ‘Yes, if you’d like to.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  She put a hand on Frances’s shoulder, smiling down into her face, her lipstick blurred by the kisses she’d given to aunties, nephews, nieces. When she moved away she went slowly, her hand remaining in contact with Frances until the very last moment, and Frances felt drawn by her fingers, pulled along in the wake of her touch.

  Once she had left it, the room became very ordinary. Ewart was still at Frances’s side. He was describing the runs he’d made in his van, to Maidstone, to Guildford; he’d been as far as Gloucester and back in a single day. When he paused to light another cigarette, she got to her feet.

  ‘I must just go and comb my hair.’

  ‘I’ll mind your drink for you, then,’ he said, as if they were quite old friends.

  A child in the hall directed the way to the WC. Frances went up the stairs to a half-landing and found two other women waiting; she leaned against the wall and waited with them, happy to let the minutes pass. The women were flushed and friendly with drink, making jokes about the weakness of their bladders. There was a lavatory in the yard, they said, but the men were using that. It wouldn’t do to venture out there; oh, no, the men were filthy beasts… By the time it was Frances’s turn, no one else had come, no one was waiting; she sat on the lavatory with her elbows on her stockinged knees, listening to the stew of jolly voices rising up from the rooms below. Above her, a frosted window was ajar, and in the artificial light the evening sky looked cool and moist: she wished she could wet her hands and face with it.

  As she was putting herself tidy, a gramophone blared into life. She started down the stairs and found Ewart in the hall. She had forgotten all about him. He still had her drink in his hand.

  ‘I was wondering where you’d got to!’ He sounded almost aggrieved. ‘This’ll be warm as anything.’

  She smiled, but gazed past him. ‘Have you seen my friend?’

  ‘The girl you were sitting with before? They’ve started dancing in the back room, you’ve been missing all the fun.’

  ‘Is my friend dancing too?’

  ‘I think so. Want to join her?’

  He didn’t wait for her to reply, but led the way into the room, which had been cleared of its children and had its bright lights dimmed. The gramophone was playing at high volume. The carpet had been rolled and propped in the corner, and four or five couples were already on the floor. Lilian’s partner was the cousin with the film-star looks. When she saw Frances coming in from the hall she leaned out of his arms to call to her, in smiling apology, ‘They won’t let me go until I’ve danced!’

  ‘Yes, let’s have a dance,’ said Ewart.

  He was right at Frances’s elbow. She smiled at Lilian, but shook her head. ‘Oh, no, I’m a horrible dancer.’

  ‘I bet you’re not.’ He put his hand to her waist, to guide her forward.

  The pressure of his palm took her by surprise. She was still looking at Lilian. ‘What’s that? No, truly, I am.’

  He moved his thumb as if to tickle her. ‘Well, I am too, if you want to know the truth. How about we just sit down?’

  Again, he didn’t wait for a reply, but steered her towards a sofa. The sofa was small, meant for two; there was a youth and a girl already on it and only a foot of room to spare. She thought he meant her to have the space for herself, but at their approach the girl slid obligingly on to the youth’s lap, and when she sat he managed to squeeze himself in beside her.

  ‘Good job we’re both little ones!’

  Frances was not little at all, and neither was he; but his manner had changed now, become playful and proprietorial. He said something about the gramophone, that she didn’t quite catch. He mentioned a palais de dance he sometimes went to, over in Catford – did she know it? She said she didn’t, speaking vaguely, as if distracted by the music, and at last he gave up trying to chat, seeming happy simply to sit there, jiggling his foot. For a minute or two she made a pretence of glancing about as he did, looking from one couple to another in a benign, wallflowerish way. Gradually, however – like a compass needle swinging to the pole – gradually her gaze settled, and she surrendered herself to the pleasure of watching Lilian dance.

  She danced well, of course; Frances might have predicted that. Her cousin did too, and with the shift in music to a popular song they began paying more attention to their steps. Keeping to the few square feet that was all that the small crowded room allowed them, they managed to work in turns and flourishes; at one point the cousin took hold of Lilian and whirled her round on the spot. She came down laughing, looking for Frances as soon as her feet were on the floor, so that Frances had the feeling that the laughter was really meant for her.

  Ewart spoke into her ear. ‘She’s a lively one, your pal.’

  Frances nodded. ‘Isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s had a drop too much to drink. She’ll be sorry in the morning.’

  But Frances knew it wasn’t that.

  Lilian saw them discussing her. She leaned away from her partner. ‘What are you saying about me?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  She kept looking at Frances then, across her cousin’s shoulder – seeking out Frances’s eye even while pretending to be bothered by it, once stretching out her hand to wave her away, claiming she was putting her off her dancing. The two men – the cousin and Ewart – began to shrug at each other. ‘You’re too daft tonight,’ Frances heard the cousin tell Lilian, at the next change of music. ‘You’re like a big daft girl, I can’t dance with you.’ But she gripped him, protesting, and wouldn’t let him go – laughing again as she did it. And again she looked at Frances
, again the laughter seemed meant for her.

  At last Ewart leaned closer to Frances to say, ‘You and your friend are up to something. Does she think it funny that you’re sitting here with me?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Frances, not following him.

  ‘I think she’s pulling your leg about something. She’s a married girl, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought she was. You’d never know it. If I was her husband, I’d smack her behind… How about you?’

  ‘Yes, I’d smack it too.’

  He drew in his lower lip in a silent guffaw. ‘No, I mean, have you got a chap? Is that what she’s smiling at? He’s not going to come and black my eye for me, is he?’

  His face was such a nice one; she couldn’t think what to say. She turned away from him, perhaps rather primly. But she did not feel prim, she realised. What she felt, when she thought about it, was an odd temptation to settle back against his shoulder, to give herself over to the squash of his thigh against hers. And he must have sensed a yielding in her, or at least the possibility of one, because as the frying-pan hiss of the next record gave way to a burst of music she heard him chuckle.

  Lilian, she saw, had finally changed her partner. The new boy was slim, fair-haired, one of a knot of youngsters on the other side of the room. He had danced Lilian over to them and was larking about with her there. Other couples had surrounded them, and Frances’s view was obscured; she caught broken glimpses, that was all, of Lilian’s white dress and stockings, her glossy dark head, her blurred red mouth. Taking another sip of claret-cup, she felt Ewart shift about until the side of his knee was pressing against the side of hers. There was a flutter of breath at her ear, and she understood that he had turned, had lifted his arm and laid it along the back of the sofa. When he spoke, his voice tickled her ear like the buzz of a wasp. He said, ‘How about this trip to Henley, then?’

  She kept the glass at her mouth. ‘Henley?’

  ‘Yes, how about it? I told you, I can get my pal’s motor-car any time I want. It’s a lovely little motor – a red one. What do you say?’

  Lilian and her fair-haired partner had moved away from the boy’s friends at last. They were dancing a tipsy Argentine tango, their cheeks pressed together, Lilian every now and then breaking off to complain that the boy’s chin was too rough against hers, or his steps too clumsy; but always letting herself be pulled back into the clinch.

  ‘What do you say?’ Ewart asked again.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Frances spoke without looking at him, still with the glass at her lips. ‘I’m so busy.’ And then, ludicrously, groping for an excuse and catching at a well-tried one from her youth: ‘My mother’s awfully old-fashioned about that sort of thing.’

  He laughed, and nudged her. ‘You don’t need your mum’s permission, do you?’

  She began to laugh too. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Anyhow, I could call for you, do it properly, let your mum see what a steady chap I am. I bet she’d like me.’

  Frances nodded, still smiling, still not quite looking at him. ‘Well, she would and she wouldn’t.’

  ‘Go on! She’ll like me all right.’

  He spoke as if everything were settled. His jacket had opened with the lifting of his arm and she was conscious of his blazing torso, of the hot hard buttons of his waistcoat. As before, something about the scorching length and bulk of him was oddly persuasive: she knew that if she turned her face to his he would kiss her. Watching Lilian moving in her supple, muscular way in the grip of her fair-haired partner, she was almost ready to do it. She could simply think of no reason in the world why she should not. She took another warm sip from her glass, and closed her eyes. Ewart’s breath came against her ear again, beery, but beyond the beer sweet as a boy’s.

  She felt a foot knocking at hers. Opening her eyes, she saw Lilian. The music was changing and she had left her partner: she wanted Frances to dance with her instead. Frances lifted a hand to say, Oh, no. Lilian caught hold of it and tried to pull her to her feet.

  ‘No,’ said Frances aloud, her drink spilling. She hastily put the glass down.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lilian, still tugging. ‘Come on.’

  She set her jaw in that stubborn way she had, only pulling the harder the more Frances resisted – using two hands now, and hauling almost painfully at the flesh of Frances’s wrist. So Frances rose and, reluctantly, let herself be drawn into a dancer’s embrace, while Ewart, shifting into her empty seat, and grinning like a good sport, looked on.

  The music started up: another tango. Their arms collided.

  ‘Who’s leading?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  They tried a few steps and nearly stumbled, tried a few more and stumbled again, and finally hit on something like a slow two-step, going sedately back and forth while the other couples lunged and dipped around them. But even then they danced badly, their feet tangling, their hands sweaty. Sometimes, in avoiding a more boisterous couple, they were pushed more closely together: their thighs or bosoms would meet, and, instantly, with a grimace, they’d attempt to move apart. Frances’s smile grew fixed and painful. Lilian laughed as if she couldn’t stop, saying, ‘Oops!’ ‘Oh, dear!’ ‘My fault.’

  ‘No, mine.’

  The record was endless. They danced on, without rhythm, without a trace of delight. And yet, when the music died they stood among the other couples in their dancers’ pose, with their hands still joined. And when they finally separated, it seemed to Frances that the space between them was alive and elastic, as if wanting to draw itself closed.

  Still with fixed, forced smiles on their faces they moved to stand with the boys and girls who had gathered around the gramophone and were noisily debating which record ought to be played next. But they took no part in the discussion. Lilian glanced over her shoulder and spoke in the shadow of the other voices.

  ‘He’s waiting for you, that chap. What’s his name?’ Her tone was bright, with a quiver to it. ‘You’ve made a conquest there, haven’t you? He’s taken a real shine to you.’

  Frances hesitated. Then, ‘It’s your shine,’ she said.

  Lilian looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s only taken a shine to me because I’ve taken a shine to you. It’s your shine, Lilian.’

  Lilian’s expression changed. She dropped her gaze, parted her lips. Her heart beat harder, jumping in the hollow at the base of her throat in that percussive way that Frances had seen once before. And when it had jumped six times, seven times, eight, nine, she looked up into Frances’s eyes and said, ‘Take me home, will you?’

  There was something to the way she said it: a complicity, an assent. Frances felt for her fingers, pressed them, then released them and moved off. Seeing Ewart just beginning to rise from the sofa, she stepped past him without a word. She went out to the hall and quickly began to search among the chaos of hats and bags for her and Lilian’s things.

  Looking up after a moment, she found that Ewart had followed her. He was gazing at her in astonishment.

  ‘You’re not leaving?’

  She answered with a try at apology. ‘I’m afraid I must. My friend – My friend isn’t feeling very well.’

  He said, ‘I don’t wonder, the way she’s been carrying on! Isn’t there somebody else who could see to her?’

  ‘It isn’t that, it’s – oh, it’s the heat, I expect. And we have to catch a train. We’ve a long journey home.’

  ‘You’re only going to Camberwell, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but —’

  ‘Well, I go that way. I’ll see you to the station.’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘don’t do that. My friend – she’s embarrassed. No, really. Please.’

  He had dug out his hat, but now stood with it in his hands, uncertain.

  ‘But we were getting on so nicely.’

  ‘Yes, it’s been awfully nice to meet you.’

  ‘And what about our trip?’
br />   ‘Oh —’

  Netta came out of the front room, a couple of empty glasses in her hands. Frances turned to her in relief. ‘Good night, Mrs Rawlins. It’s been so nice. Lilian and I are leaving now.’

  ‘Oh, you’re off, are you? Is Ewart seeing you to the station?’

  ‘No, I’ve told him he mustn’t trouble.’

  Ewart said, ‘She says her pal doesn’t want it. She’s isn’t feeling too bright.’

  ‘Which pal?’ asked Netta, as Lilian appeared.

  ‘This lady here.’

  ‘That’s my sister. What’s the matter with you, Lilian?’

  Lilian was blinking at the light and at the faces, putting back a strand of hair from her cheek. She said, ‘Nothing’s the matter with me.’ She spoke without meeting Frances’s eye. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, if you’re tired, why won’t you let Ewart go along with you? Or, Lloyd —’ Her husband had appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Lloyd, you could walk Lilian and Miss Wray to the station, couldn’t you?’

  He slowed for a fraction of a second, then came gallantly on. Of course he could, he said. He’d consider it an honour.

  Lilian protested. They mustn’t be silly, it would spoil the party, it wasn’t fair. But she spoke weakly, and Frances could feel the tight little charm of intimacy and expectation that had wound its way around the two of them begin to unravel. She put on her hat. Ewart put on his. Lloyd took out his pocket watch and tried to recall the times of the trains. Frances looked from face to face and wanted to hit someone – really wanted it, feeling a rush of despair and frustration at the idiocy of it all. At last, with a burst of false laughter, and in what, she realised, were her worst schoolmistressy tones, she said, ‘We’re two grown women, good heavens! I think we can be trusted to walk to the station on our own!’

  In the awkward pause that followed, Netta drew in her chin. She tapped her husband with her knuckles. ‘There you are, Lloyd, the girls don’t need you. They’re too modern.’ She spoke partly in support of Frances; partly, Frances thought, in mockery of her. ‘Ewart, take your hat off and come back inside.’