Graham Swift - England and Other Stories

I have never, so far, walked across the court here to the senior common room — across the grass on which only a few are permitted to walk — in just my underpants. Or, for extra brio, with my Fellow’s gown on too. But I’m sure if I did this (and frankly I’m tempted) it would be forgiven me, at least once, since I’m the Morley-Edwards Professor of Greek. And I’m sure that far more scandalous acts have occurred in Oxford colleges and yet been permitted, or at least smoothed over — acts that would never be countenanced in suburban streets.

All my life I’ve taken seriously — pursued and furthered — my parents’ creed that education is the most important thing, education that leads us on an ameliorating journey through life. I am their exemplar, their vindication. What could better have answered and glorified their tenet than that I should have become a professor at an Oxford college?

If you want weirdness, real weirdness, the weirdness we’re all made of, if you want the primitive that never goes away, then go to the Greek myths and to what the Greeks made out of them. Though don’t forget your Ajax tin.

Ajax, son of Telamon and mighty warrior, second only to Achilles, but ousted by the brain of Odysseus, went mad in the end, mistaking sheep for people. I know this now.

WAS SHE THE only one? Was it all her fault?

Was she the only one not to wash her husband’s shirt? It hung in the wardrobe with all its creases and wrinkles, his best white shirt, his Sunday shirt, the last shirt he’d worn before putting on a uniform. She took it down and pressed it to her nose. When the letters arrived she crushed it to her face and, as she read, breathed deeply. It was the best that could be done. Was she the only one?

In those days a man’s white shirt was quite an item, with its long tails, double cuffs, its round neck with the stud holes. It was more like a sort of starchy nightdress, and it served her as such often enough. So the wrinkles multiplied, so there was her smell mingling with his. But that was only right. They were husband and wife. It became a superstition. If she didn’t wash it, so long as she didn’t wash it. Not until. Was she the only one?

Months went by. The letters came less frequently. She had to be sparing in her use of the shirt, or her smell would take away his. It was getting rather ripe, it’s true. His first leave was cancelled. He couldn’t say why. It was a blow that made her weep, but it wasn’t like a message to say he was dead. And she hadn’t washed the shirt.

This was her short marriage to Albert. Most of it was separation, most of it wasn’t a marriage at all, most of it was marriage to a shirt. He was a railway clerk from Slough, but he had his notions. One day he’d be a station master. He was fussy about his shirts. He only liked to be called Albert, never Bert.

She was Lily Hobbs from Staines. She was eighteen and didn’t mind: either Lily or Lil.

I’m Bert, Bert, I haven’t a shirt. .

Months went by. Then he came home. Because his previous leave had been cancelled he now had two weeks. Was it true, two whole weeks? And he was untouched — not a scratch, or so he wrote. Was it true? Was he being brave? Still she didn’t wash the shirt. Seeing was believing. She’d heard stories of telegrams arriving before men due home on leave. She had two choices anyway: to wash it, specially, for his arrival, or not to wash it — until. She chose the latter. Her big mistake.

If she’d washed the shirt, would everything have been all right?

I’m Bert. .

But there he was on the doorstep. So, it had been just as well. There he was. Or there he wasn’t. Albert Tanner. He said, ‘Hello, Lily. Can I come in?’ Which was just like him, but not. She rather wished he’d said ‘Lil’. She rather wished he’d clapped a hand quickly to her behind, but he hadn’t.

He’d never mentioned the shell shock. That was news to her. Did it explain everything, and what was it anyway? Shell shock. Had he invented it? He said that he had it, like something catching, like measles. Was that why he hardly touched her? He said it was why he had the two weeks. He said he’d have to report every other day to a doctor, an MO, in London, who’d assess him to see if he was fit to return. Which was like saying — was he saying this? — that his two weeks, depending, might go on indefinitely.

In which case, God bless shell shock. In which case, Albert, be as shell-shocked as you can.

Was it all lies? Was he preparing for his desertion? Did he really have two weeks? There was something about him, standing there in his uniform. He didn’t look like a soldier, or even a railway clerk. He looked like a crafty door-to-door salesman. He looked like the sort of man women left at home had to watch out for. He looked up to no good. He looked — was this really the word? — like a criminal. Albert? A criminal?

Then he saw the shirt.

He wanted to know, he demanded to know why it was hanging there like that, his best white shirt, ‘in that filthy condition’. And before she could explain to him the several reasons (but couldn’t he guess?) he was explaining to her, he was shouting in her face that the reason why it was hanging there in that filthy condition was that she’d lent it to another man, she’d been letting another man wear it. And to prove the point he thrust his nostrils into the fabric, pushing it to his face, then let out a disgusted ‘Pah!’

None of this had she imagined. None of this in her wildest anticipations had she allowed for. He wouldn’t be untouched, he’d have a bit missing. An ear or something.

I’m Bert, Bert, I haven’t a. .

Now that this was happening the sheer absurdity of it couldn’t smother her terror. Was he going to hit her? Albert? Hit her? For a moment she actually looked at the shirt and saw it, perhaps as he was seeing it, like some other man skulking there in the wardrobe, just as they were supposed to do in naughty stage plays.

She knew she had to stand her ground, keep steady, be reasonable. Yes, of course, of course: over there (but she’d never thought of this before) it would be the constant talk, what their women got up to back home. They’d tease and torture each other with it, they’d tease and torture themselves.

It was June, 1918. No one knew the war had only five months to run. If he hadn’t been a railway clerk but a railwayman — a signalman say — he might have been permanently excused, but he’d joined up anyway.

Yes, of course. She was eighteen. She walked down streets on her own, her skirt swung. But.

‘It’s your smell, Albert, no one but yours.’

Which was a lie, a half-lie, because the smell by then was mostly hers. But she could explain that, and wouldn’t the explanation, surely, please him? Wouldn’t it even be the clearest sign — it seemed ridiculous to have to grope for a word — of her loyalty?

But she never did explain. She saw his rage boil over. Was he really going to hit her?

‘Wash it!’ he said. ‘Wash it, right now!’

He’d barely got home. It was like an order, a bellowed military order. ‘Wash it!’ He was a corporal now, with a stripe on his shoulder. He’d gone away a private and come back a corporal. What had he done to become a corporal so quickly? She didn’t like the word corporal, she liked the word private. He’d gone away Albert too.

‘Wash it!’

She couldn’t disobey. He would have struck her. She washed it while he stood over her and watched her wash it. She put it through the mangle. Then later she ironed it while he stood over her too and watched her. She hadn’t imagined this. But she foolishly supposed that when this task was finished all might be restored. This was her punishment — her penalty, her humiliation — all thoroughly undeserved, but so be it, she would undergo it, if it would bring Albert back again. Perhaps, when the shirt was fully laundered, he’d break down, see the obvious truth, beg her forgiveness.