John Braine: Room at the Top

"You're a genuine flirt, aren't you, honey?" I said to her. "Hasn't anyone got really annoyed with you?"

"I only mix with civilised people," she said coldly.

I took a deep breath. Being angry wouldn't help. "Don't worry. I won't bother you." I forced a smile. "You're too attractive, that's the trouble."

There was a pause. When she spoke again her voice had softened. "Joe, you're very inexperienced. You can't get everything you want all at once. Will you remember that?"

"I'll remember," I said, not knowing then what she really meant.

It was the first reading of Meadowes Farm that evening. When I arrived at the Thespians the producer, Ronnie Smith, was already there. He worked in a bank, though you wouldn't have believed it at first sight. He was wearing green suede shoes, a very old pair of flannels, a yellow crew-neck sweater, and a golf jacket; with his seamed face and brilliantined hair thinning at the temples he looked like a middle-aged actor, which I suppose was exactly what he wanted.

"Hello there, Joshua," he said or rather shouted, that being part of the theatrical pose. "God, you've got a lovely part. Out of this world." He repeated the phrase with relish. "Yes, out of this world. You'll have to work though, God, you'll have to work!"

"You're scaring him," said Eva, who'd just entered with Alice. "T'lad's cum to enjoy hisen, 'aven't you, luv?"

"Hello, Eva," I said, "Hello, Alice. You look most seductive, I must say."

"That's very kind of you," she said. "Actually I feel terrible." Her voice wasn't very friendly; she certainly wasn't succumbing instantly to my charm.

At the side of Eva, who had a rosy complexion and a bouncing vitality, she did in fact look pale and haggard. She had honey-coloured hair which at that time she wore in a bun, and thin features. She had an angular fashion-plate figure, to which her big breasts didn't seem to belong; in the white sweater she was wearing, they seemed to sag with their own weight. In a way this appealed to me more than firmness; it was a guarantee of reality. I could imagine myself touching them.

I repressed the thought. It wasn't any use. I remembered Eva rubbing herself against me: You're wonderful, we must do something about this, we'll go away - a lot of good it had done me. I remembered Susan at the last Social Evening: Jack had never let her out of his sight and had whisked her straight home in a shiny new M.G. Alice wasn't for me; I might as well abandon that idea before it took too firm a hold.

I looked at the rest of the cast. Herbert Downs owned a small weaving mill, Johnny Rogers's father owned a coal business, Anne Barlby's father owned three groceries; Jimmie Matthews, the youngest, was attending classes at the Leddersford Technical College; Jimmie was going to help his daddy in the family firm, as no doubt Johnny was. Anne's big brother was learning the grocery business, of course, right from the bottom just like anyone else: Anne was going to the Leddersford School of Art which would keep her out of mischief till she got married, possibly to Johnny, whose father's business was expanding rapidly under the wicked Labour government. They all had more money than I, but it wasn't big money. It was all too easy to reach their grade, so consequently I didn't respect them very much. I looked at them gesturing freely but jaggedly as they talked in their best accents about The Lady's Not for Burning , and jeered at them mentally, one of the landed gentry watching the tradespeople ape their betters. But my feeling of superiority was short-lived; the first reading went very badly. Perhaps because I was still irritated about Eva and Susan, I made a thorough hash of my lines, mispronouncing the simplest words and emphasising almost every sentence incorrectly. We had to stop for a moment when I referred to a roadman's brassiere; I joined in the laughter but it was a considerable effort.

"D'Eon Rides Again," said Alice. "What a thought - erotic voices among the working classes." She spoke directly to me. "I am working class," I said sulkily. "And you needn't explain your little quip. I know all about the Chevalier. I read a book once."

She flushed. "You shouldn't - " she began, then stopped. "I'll tell you afterwards." She smiled at me and then turned back to her script.

I kept glancing at her throughout the rest of the play. Sometimes when she wasn't reading her part she looked plain, in fact downright ugly: her chin had a heavy shapelessness and the lines on her forehead and neck were as if scored with a knife. When she was acting, her face came to life: it wasn't so much that you forgot its blemishes as that they became endearing and exciting. She made the other women look dowdy and careless; Eva, too, I realised with astonishment.

When we'd finished, Ronnie sat staring at us for a moment, puffing his pipe noisily and fiddling with a sheaf of notes and a gold Eversharp pencil. "We'll have to work very hard, people. The play's a great deal more subtle than it appears." He took his pipe out of his mouth and then pointed the stem at me. "Joe, remember that you're an honest simple farmer. And for heaven's sake be careful about - er - articles of ladies' underwear." Everyone except me giggled. "In fact, you'd better cut that bit."

"Watch out, Joe," Eva said. "Ronnie loves cutting. You'll have no part left if you're not careful."

Ronnie beamed at her. "All plays should be cut by half," he said.

"Me and Orson Welles," Alice murmured into my ear.

"All right, people," Ronnie said. "That's it for tonight. Herbert and I will now try to make sense of the author's lighting plot."

"Would you like some coffee?" I asked Alice as she rose.

"No thank you."

To hell with you, I thought, and turned on my heel.

"You can buy me a beer though."

"The Clarence?"

"Too many Thespians there. Too clean and well lighted. They'll be installing neons soon. The St. Clair's much nicer. Dark and smells of beef and tapers."

Her car, a green Fiat 500, was parked outside. She unlocked the righthand door then hesitated. "Can you drive?"

"Oddly enough, yes," I said.

"Don't be so bloody thin-skinned."

"I wasn't - "

"You damn well were. I just thought you might like to drive. Most men hate being a woman's passenger. I'm an awful driver anyway."

I didn't say anything but sat in the driver's seat and opened the other door for her.

It was pleasant to be driving a car again; not that I'd ever had one of my own. I'd learned to drive in the RAF: I'd shared an Austin Chummy with three of the aircrew. As I engaged first gear I was again riding through the flat desolation of Lincolnshire with a crate of beer in the back and Tommy Jenks leading the chorus of "Cats on the Rooftops" or "In Mobile" or "Three Old Ladies"; I felt a nostalgia for those days, when I could afford to spend four pounds a week on beer and cigarettes and the silver half-wing was a passport to free drinks and high-grade women. The Austin wasn't up to much - and no wonder, after seventeen years' misuse - but a quarter of it belonged to me. Tommy smashed it up on the North Finchley Road, together with himself, a WAAF corporal, and the GI who drove the jeep he crashed into.

"You're scowling," Alice said. "You look like a gangster in that hat, did you know? Turn to the right here, will you?"

"Where are we?"

"Nearly in St. Clair Road. It's on my way home actually."

"You live right at T'Top, of course?" There must have been a sneer in my voice; I saw her wince, and wondered what devil had got inside me.

"I live in Linnet Road," she said. "I didn't choose the house. Though I think it's a very pleasant one. You live in Eagle Road, don't you?"

"I lodge there," I said.

We were driving down Poplar Avenue. From a big house to our left came a blaze of light and music. There was a gate half open in the high wall; I caught a glimpse of water and a white platform. "My God," I said, "a swimming pool."