Henry Green - Back

“Thanks, I will. Extraordinary meeting you like this,” Mr Middlewitch replied. “No, it’s curiosity,” he went on, “they’re the same as cats, when you scratch with your finger under the newspaper, which have to come and see what you’re about. They’re like this. They know you’ve lived the most unnatural damned life through no fault of your own for years, so want to get under your skin. Because it wasn’t only Yvonne. Practically every girl I know had a go at me. Turned it to very good advantage, too, I did, on more than one occasion, I can tell you.”

Charley grunted.

“Perhaps that’s what they intended,” Mr Middlewitch said. “You never can be certain. There’s that about the little ladies, you never know, not even afterwards.”

“It’s not only the women,” Charley rather surprised himself by bringing out, as he paid for his round of drinks.

“Oh that other kind, men like that,” Mr Middlewitch announced, “I’ve no time for ’em. Sticking their noses into other people’s private affairs like one of those horrible little dogs, poms they’re called, aren’t they, that go snuffling and yapping at every bit of dirt on the side. But you’re one of the quiet ones, Summers. They must go for those big eyes of yours in a big way, the ladies, I mean. What about a bite to eat now? John has the table ready, they look after me in this little place. Yes,” he said, and it appeared as if he spoke only out of civility, for his voice was entirely free from any note of interest, “I’ll bet you could tell a true story or two on that score. But I know your type,” he said, looking round the dining room for acquaintances, and he waved a hand, “I know your type,” he repeated. “Mum’s the word where you’re concerned,” he said.

After Charley had asked for beer and had been overruled, his host making the point that, when there was whisky, it was a sin not to drink it, he ventured on a remark.

“It’s funny your mentioning what you did just now,” Charley said. “I had an experience just the other day.”

“I know your sort,” Mr Middlewitch replied, hardly listening, still on the look-out round this crowded room for old mugs, or pretty faces.

“Done nothing about it,” Charley continued. He took a long pull at his whisky and soda, then warned himself he’d be drunk in a minute.

“Have you met old Ernest Mandrew?” Mr Middlewitch demanded. “He’s a big noise these days.”

But Charley, like any very silent man, was not to be put off once he had begun.

“Asked me to come down to see them,” he drawled. “Parents of a girl I used to meet. Wasn’t much of a party. But as I was leaving the old man up and slipped me an address. Just like that. You see I was friends with the daughter, who’s dead now.” Here he paused. Then out it came. “Had a child by her as a matter of fact,” he boasted, denying Rose a second time. “Yet there he was, giving me the address of a widow.” Charley took another gulp, leant back unburdened.

“A widow?” Mr Middlewitch echoed. “Oh boy. I say, remind me to go across to Ernie Mandrew when we’re through, will you? I’ve got a bit of news will interest him, only I’m so damned forgetful these days. What were we saying?”

But Charley, for the time at any rate, had had his say. He was staring at the glass he held. His face, it is true, was very sad, but his mind was a concentrated blank. He felt the relief in his stomach.

Mr Middlewitch glanced at him.

“Yes,” he said, “we all of us came back to what we didn’t expect. There’s a number of people dropped out in everyone’s lives. I’m not sure, but they do seem a long time over our soup.”

He tried to catch the waitress several times, while Charley looked about, well satisfied.

“A widow you said, eh?” Mr Middlewitch began once more. Summers nodded. “Dark or fair?”

Mr Summers had never considered this.

“Red,” he replied, from habit.

“Oh boy, a redhead.”

“At least I don’t know. Haven’t seen her,” Charley mumbled.

“Haven’t seen her still?” Mr Middlewitch echoed. “Then you must be getting your oats, right enough. Of course, I grant there’s a lot of it around. That’s only human nature, with the numbers of men there are overseas. But a redhead with freckles, I don’t understand you, man?”

Charley was not to be drawn. He sat there, smiling.

“Well, any time you feel like,” Mr Middlewitch continued, “just pass over that address to me. I can’t say I’ve a lot of free time on my hands, but no doubt she could be fitted in, at a pinch. I don’t doubt at all, really.”

As the waitress brought their soup, he ordered two more whiskies.

“Steady,” Charley said.

“Well it all comes out of E.P.T., doesn’t it? Carry on. Don’t stint. Lord knows we’ve done without more than Scotch these last few years. Reminds me of the first girl I saw, when I got off that Swedish boat they sent us home in. You know, the first ordinary girl. She was a wizard blonde.”

If Charley had not had the whiskies he might have let this pass, but as things were he said, “Ah.”

“Well, I mean to say,” Mr Middlewitch took him up, sensing a response at last. “After all those years without a taste of it, nothing but men, getting to realize there’s damn all in human nature, don’t tell me you didn’t find that out, that there’s not a man, when you get down to bedrock, isn’t a twirp through and through, well then, to step off that boat of repatriated maniacs gone a bit crazy for having been released, and then to see a blonde out shopping, or whatever she was about, and free as air, I ask you. There was such a howl went up I thought the dock buildings would blow down.”

“And her?” Charley asked, becoming talkative.

“She never turned a curl. I’ve often thought about this since. She was used to it, you see. Very likely she might be the dock superintendent’s daughter, anyway she seemed to have the run of that place. You on to what I’m getting at? All the hundreds of thousands of service men coming and going in a port. Well, I mean, it’s war isn’t it, c’est la guerre . Makes brutes out of women.”

“Certainly does,” Charley agreed.

“Why, there’s no question but,” Mr Middlewitch said. “When we were over in Hunland, thinking of home, didn’t you and I imagine summer evenings and roses and all that guff, with a lovely little lump of mischief in the old car of course, but most of the time we were like kids dreaming for the moon, and perhaps for a little accident to happen to them with a girl. And what happened when we did get back? Why, we got stinking tight, old lad, and catted it all up.”

“That’s right, we did,” Charley agreed again, who had not got drunk particularly.

“And why?” Mr Middlewitch asked. “Because we found everything different to what we expected.” He pushed his plate of soup away, as though in disgust. Then he laughed. “Though I wouldn’t have been doing that with this grub out there,” he said.

Charley leant forward, but kept his eyes on the glass. His blood was soaring under the whisky.

“My girl died while I was out there,” he said, “the one I mentioned. I’ve been down to the place they buried her but everything’s different.”

“That’s just what I mean. Yes, there you are. That’s it. But, boy, are there compensations, eh? Not but what I fancy you should take a grip on yourself, Summers. We’ve been through it. We know. So I can speak to you as I wouldn’t to my best friend perhaps, just because you don’t know me from Adam, and I don’t know you. You see, I’ve kept in touch with some of the lads from our lot, and one or two have drawn their horns in, gone inside of themselves, if you follow me. Now that’s dangerous. All you’re doing is to perpetuate the conditions you’ve lived under, which weren’t natural. Well, my advice to them and to you is, snap out of it.”