Choice of Straws

  ‘Look, who said it was any joke? All right. Those policemen found Dave’s knife at the accident. He always carried it around with him, and they found it near where the car turned over. So, this fellow is killed somewhere in Stepney with a knife and they want to know if there’s any connection, that’s all.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘What do you mean, is there? Dave wasn’t anywhere near Stepney. What would he want to go there for? What do you think he was, a murderer or something?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I know you didn’t, but the way you keep on anyone would think … ’

  ‘All right, you don’t need to shout.’ She got up and turned up the volume, then came back and sat beside me.

  ‘What’s up with you and your Mum? Had a row?’ I had to laugh. If she wasn’t on to one thing it was another. And always the questions.

  ‘You should have been a lawyer, not a shorthand typist,’ I told her, but she wasn’t amused. So I asked what was on her mind now. She said she’d been wondering because she’d noticed we didn’t say much to each other. I told her she was what my Dad called a chronic worrier, and if she kept on like that she’d give some poor bloke a hell of a time. Right away she asks if I didn’t realize that it was she being given a hell of a time and not the poor bloke as I called him.

  Anyway she stopped the questions and we nattered about this and that, mostly about finding a little flat or room somewhere. She began telling me about how lots of fellows like Ron and Ginger Petty lived in flatlets and did all kinds of things for themselves, even taking stuff to the launderette. She asked me if I knew how to make a bed or cook or iron a shirt. I said no. She laughed, for the first time that night, telling me she’d have to keep an eye on me or I’d starve to death and go around like a beatnik.

  When it was time for her to leave we went down to find Mum and Dad. Usually at that time of night they were in the sitting-room watching television, but we heard them in the kitchen, and when we walked in they were sitting there, serious as judges. Ruth went and kissed Mum and said good night to her, then the same with Dad, me looking and wondering when all this kissing had begun anyway. And you could see that, for all his serious face, Dad was as pleased as anything.

  As soon as I got in from seeing Ruth off on her train Dad called me into the kitchen. He wanted to know if I’d mentioned to Baldy about Notting Hill. I told him I hadn’t. He sat there wondering aloud who could have told him. Not any of his mates on the site. Only a few of them knew anything about it and if the police had gone there asking any questions they wouldn’t have got much change out of any of them. Then Mum said perhaps the police had been talking to some of the neighbours. One by one they ticked them off, all those they thought might have known about it, till they came to Spotty Frock. Mum said she was sure if it was anyone it was that woman.

  Funny thing, but right after that Dad cheered up, said he didn’t give a damn what she’d said. He seemed to feel better, thinking it was not one of his mates at the site. But all of a sudden he got serious again and said did I realize how everyone had to suffer for what Dave and me had done. Innocent people. Him and Mum and others. He didn’t name any names but I knew who he meant. He said that ever since Dave was killed neither he nor Mum had known a quiet night, especially Mum, crying in bed most nights. Christ, the way he carried on I felt sorry I was alive. I just sat and listened to it.

  Then Mum had a go, telling Dad not to waste his time talking to me, didn’t he see I was all taken up with those niggers, even after what they did to my own twin brother. I could have killed her. I lost my temper and asked her if she thought I didn’t care about Dave, just because I didn’t go around moaning all over the place and being unpleasant to people I hardly knew. What did she want me to do, hate everybody just because he was dead? Okay, if I was making so much trouble for everybody, I’d clear out. Find a room somewhere for myself then I wouldn’t be bothering anyone. Crikey! You would have thought I’d dropped a bomb or something the way Mum jumped at that.

  ‘So that’s it, is it? You’re such a man now that you think you can just walk out of here when you please,’ her voice screaming at me.

  ‘Since when is this house not good enough for you? And your brother not cold in his grave? Tell me.’ Dad told her to quieten down and told me I should stop talking damn rubbish, that I had a good, comfortable home and whoever heard of such nonsense. Inside I felt quite calm, and suddenly I made up my mind. I said to Dad that I meant it, about leaving. I’d had enough of being treated like a child.

  Mum was watching me, her mouth thin and tight, then she said, ‘I think it’s those niggers that put you up to it.’ Just like that, as if she hadn’t listened to a single word I’d said.

  ‘Now, Madge,’ Dad warned her. ‘There’s no call for that, no call for that at all.’

  I couldn’t say a word. I know it’s not right to hate your own mother, but who says anybody’s mother has the right to say things like that. I was pushing my chair back to get up and shove off upstairs, but she was up in a flash and standing with her back against the door.

  ‘Yes, it’s those dirty Spades that put you up to it.’ The voice was quiet but full of spite. ‘All of a sudden you think you’re a man and you can leave home. I don’t know what’s been going on between you and them, but all of a sudden you can’t be spoken to. You should be ashamed of yourself. After those dirty niggers killed your own brother. Taking up with that black slut and carrying on God alone knows what. They’ve no shame, the lot of them.’

  ‘Now see here, Madge.’ Dad tried to shut her up.

  ‘Don’t see-here-Madge me,’ she spat at him. Then back to me. ‘If you think your brother’s in his grave and you’ll get off scot-free, you’re damn well mistaken. So you’d better watch out, I’m warning you. You’d damn well better watch out.’

  I could only stare at her, like someone I’d never seen before in my life, her face twisted with hating me, the corner of her mouth whitish with spittle. My own mother. I just couldn’t understand it. What had I done? What was there so terrible about wanting to be on my own? From what she’d said she probably had it in her head that the Spencers had put me up to it. Christ, how daft can you get?

  She left the door and came back to the table. The dressing-gown was lying on the table near where she’d been sitting. Grabbing it up she threw it at me.

  ‘That’s why you fetched that in, was it? To soften me up? Well, I don’t need anything from you. Take it and give it to that nigger slut, with my compliments.’

  The parcel hit me in the face, the corner catching me in the eye. The sudden pain brought tears, and millions of words came crowding into my head which couldn’t be said to my mother. I let the parcel fall on the floor, pushed the table to one side and went through the door, upstairs into my room. I pulled my bed around against the door so nobody could get in and lay on it while the things inside me tried to tear my guts to bits. I stuffed my mouth with the sheet to stop the sounds I couldn’t help making, helpless, as if I’d lost something for ever. When it stopped I lay there, feeling tired and really alone. In my mind I called Dave to come and change places with me, be here instead of me, then all would be fine. For Mum. She hated me for being alive while Dave was dead. All the talk about niggers and Spades was just her excuse for hating me.

  I heard somebody stop outside my door, as if they were listening, then walk away. Sounded like Mum. I cursed her in my mind. Later, when everything was quiet I got up and put a few things in a canvas holdall Dave and me used for our kit when we went swimming, my razor, comb, brush, Post Office savings book, small towel, a pair of socks, my new copy of World Sports, and Dave’s book of poems. Then I moved the bed away, not even bothering to be quiet, and went downstairs and out of the house. Only when I was on my way to the station did I make up my mind to go to Ruth.

  Chapter

  Twenty-three

  WHEN SHE OPE
NED THE door and saw me, her eyes became big and scared. Before I could say a word she grabbed my arm and pulled me inside, then stood looking at me as if I was a ghost or something.

  ‘What’s happened, Jack?’ Keeping her voice down, probably not wanting Naomi to hear us. Her hair was in curlers and she was wrapped up in a thick white towel robe. I told her I’d had a row with Mum and walked out, and could I stay there just the night?

  ‘Is that all, Jack? Nothing else? Please don’t lie to me.’

  I said of course that was all and what was she acting so funny about. Right away she sat down and began crying, hiding her face in her hands. I sat beside her, not knowing what the heck to make of it.

  After a little while she told me. She thought perhaps the police were after me, because soon after the train left Upminster he’d come and sat near to her, the same man she’d seen at our house, Baldy. She’d recognized him at once. Said he was a police officer and could he have a word with her? Then he’d wanted to know how long she’d known me, and if she’d known Dave, and what I was like, if she knew any of my friends. All kinds of questions. Did I ever talk to her about my brother and the things we did and where we used to go. Most of the time she said she didn’t know because she didn’t. Then she asked him why was he asking all those questions and he said because of a little matter they had to clear up. He asked her if I’d ever mentioned going to Stepney with Dave and she said no. Then he asked how did I feel about coloured people, and did we ever talk about them? She couldn’t remember all that he’d asked and what she said, but she hadn’t said much really because she didn’t know anything. He’d got off at East Ham after thanking her for her help, but she didn’t see how she could have helped him, not knowing anything. She was frightened, remembering the remark he’d made about someone being murdered, and when she got in wanted to ring me and tell me what had happened, but Naomi was in the sitting-room with some friends and the phone was there, so she couldn’t. The friends had left only a few minutes ago and before she could ring me, here I was.

  Again she wanted to know what was going on and if I was in any trouble, otherwise why would that policeman ask her all those questions about me? And what did he mean about Stepney? She’d read in the newspapers about the man being killed in Stepney. Did that have anything to do with me?

  ‘What is it all about, Jack? Tell me, please.’ I repeated that Dave had always carried a knife with him, a fancy thing in a sheath, just for fun, and the police had found it at the accident. Now they were wondering if it was the same knife that had killed the fellow Thomas in Stepney, and if Dave had been anywhere in Stepney that night.

  ‘Had he?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Look, Ruth. Dave left home to go and listen to some jazz in the West End that night. At least that’s where he said he was going. I don’t know anything about him going to Stepney and can’t think of any reason why he’d want to go to Stepney.’

  ‘Why did the detective want to know how you felt about coloured people?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  Question after question, till I got fed up with it and said look, is it okay for me to stay? She thought it would be, but she’d better have a word with Naomi. She was back in a few minutes with Naomi, both of them telling me I could stay as long as I liked if I didn’t mind bunking on the divan, and they fetched blankets and sheets and some cushions for pillows. I felt sorry about imposing on them like that but they said it was okay and they’d help me look around for a place.

  Funny about waking up in a strange room. For some minutes you’re wondering why familiar things are not where they’re supposed to be. Slowly you realize where you are and the whole thing starts up again, as if sleeping is only like a one-minute rest between three-minute rounds, and they’re waiting to have another go at you. Broad beams of sunlight were streaming through the open window shades on my feet where they’d pushed out from under the covers, and it was nice to feel the warmth. From somewhere outside birds were chirping, sparrows probably, making this excited noise as if they were quarrelling and fighting among themselves and I thought, crikey, even the ruddy birds! My watch said seven o’clock and I got up, dressed quietly and began folding the blankets and sheets, figuring on slipping out before the girls got up, but before you knew it, there was Ruth in her dressing-gown, hair every which way. Made me remember Mum’s old one still stuck under my bed. Wonder what she said when she couldn’t find it. She’d have to go and pick up the one she slung on the floor. I didn’t give a damn.

  While I washed and shaved Ruth made coffee and toast. Naomi was still asleep and Ruth said we shouldn’t make any noise to wake her up. Saturday mornings they usually slept late, not having to work. Most Saturdays I didn’t work either, except like today when we had something special to do at the works. Ruth said that she and Naomi would try to find a room or flatlet for me and I promised to phone them around noon, as I was only working half-day.

  Chapter

  Twenty-four

  WHEN I CAME OFF work I saw Dad standing near the bus stop, waiting for me, then remembered I’d told him I had to work that Saturday.

  ‘Well, Son.’

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ and we stood there embarrassing the hell out of each other.

  Then Dad said, ‘Well, let’s get on home.’ So I told him I wasn’t coming home after what had happened last night. He said I shouldn’t be a damn fool, that two wrongs didn’t make a right, and where did I think I’d go anyway? I said not to worry about me, I’d find some digs somewhere. He said that digs and places like that were for people who had no real home and family and if that was really what I wanted to do nobody would stop me, but it was never any good doing things in anger on the spur of the moment, so why not come home and let’s talk it over quietly together. And about what Mum had said, I shouldn’t take any of it too seriously. She got these crazy ideas in her head and wild horses couldn’t drag them out. I should know by now that her bark was much worse than her bite, and underneath it all I was her son and blood was thicker than water.

  Standing there listening to him I didn’t know what to say, especially with him talking like that.

  ‘Well, Son, we can’t stand here all day,’ he said. I told him I didn’t want to come back to have Mum carry on at me like she did, throwing my present in my face and cursing people she didn’t even know. Then he got very serious and turned as if ready to walk off and leave me saying,

  ‘Look, Son, you’re a man now, so it’s up to you what you do. If you’ve decided to leave home and go your own way, at least do it right. Tell your Mother what you aim to do, then do it, but don’t sneak off in the middle of the night and have her wondering where you are and what’s happened to you. In spite of what she said and did she’s still your mother and entitled to be treated with respect. Well, there’s the bus. Are you coming?’

  I went along with him, thinking to myself, Okay, but she’d better not start, not again. On the bus we talked about all sorts of little things till we got home.

  Going through the kitchen door with Dad, I saw Mum doing something at the cooker. She looked over her shoulder at us. All she said was, ‘Hurry up, you two.’ Then she went on with what she was doing.

  Hardly a word while we were eating, but as soon as we were finished Dad told her that I’d said I was moving out. She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘That’s up to him, isn’t it?’ she said, and right away she got up and began collecting the dishes as if she didn’t want any further discussion.

  Dad put an old newspaper on the table and began cleaning out his pipe with the big old stag-handled scout knife he’d had since he was a boy. When Mum had cleared all the dishes into the sink he told her to come back and sit down.

  ‘At least we can discuss it like a family,’ he said.

  ‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ Mum said, ‘if he wants to leave let him leave. But whatever it is he’s running away from he’ll find it wait
ing for him wherever he goes.’ She sat straight in her chair, arms folded across her chest. Dad got up, went around the table, carrying his chair with him, and sat beside her.

  ‘Now listen, Madge, what’s happened has happened and we can’t change anything, least of all by quarrelling amongst ourselves. Our Dave did something wrong, very wrong, come to think of it, and what happened to him was, in a manner of speaking, some kind of, well, rough justice, if you like, what people call retribution. Anyway, he paid for what he did, so there’s no reason to take it out on Jack here. Best thing … ’

  She didn’t let him finish.

  ‘How do you know that Dave did anything? Tell me that. How do you know?’ pulling away from Dad’s arm which he’d put around her shoulder, her mouth tight. We were both staring at her. Dad asked her what in heaven’s name was she talking about.

  ‘Just what I said. How do you know that Dave did anything at all? How do you know he hasn’t paid for something he didn’t do? You weren’t there, were you?’

  ‘But Jack here said … ’

  ‘I’m not interested in what Jack said.’ She turned to look at me, cold, like a stranger. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. Every night I’ve been thinking about it. Dave is not here to defend himself, so anybody can say what they like about him … ’

  ‘Now, look here, Madge,’ from Dad, but I could only look at her, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘You said the nigger was on top of Dave hitting him, didn’t you? Well, what about you? Not even a scratch. Not one little scratch. What were you doing when all that was happening? Running? Hiding?’

  She leaned across the table, spitting it out at me.

  ‘You ran away and left him, didn’t you? That’s why you got here first, sneaking in with your lies. You didn’t stay to help him, your own brother. Oh Dave, oh Dave.’ And she sprawled on the table, crying, her fingers trying to dig into the wood. I felt afraid, without knowing what I was afraid of. Christ, I’d told her everything, exactly as it had all happened, and I’d thought she believed me. What was she trying to do, make me feel like a criminal or something? How could she think I’d run off and leave him? Dad helped her back into her chair, looking at me as if he too suspected me, believed what Mum had said. You could see it in his face.