The Dressmaker - Beryl Bainbridge [47]
Chuck was going to buy them a fridge.
‘A what?’ said Nellie.
‘For food,’ explained Valerie, ‘to keep it fresh, like.’
‘What food?’ said Margo comically; and they all laughed, thinking of the meagre rations inside the coldness of the lovely new machine come all the way from America, sitting round the table, sharing her good fortune, as if it was normal to have a crowd in on a Saturday night – drinking tea, dropping cake crumbs on the carpet with a fine display of carelessness. The light began to fade from the room; the yellow drained out of the beige wallpaper. From next door’s yard came the grieved sounds of pigeons calling.
Rita was restless and unhappy again. She took the milk jug and pretended it needed refilling, going away from the voices and the clattering cups into the scullery, leaning her head against the back door. She could hear Marge’s voice, full of vivacity and nerve.
‘When we were guarding the Cunard Building he said he could never get on with his wife. If you ask me—’
As she ended the story her voice rose in raucous vulgarity: a storm of hilarity, little trills of noise from the women, a man tittering strangely – not Uncle Jack – like a sheep running across a field. With shock she realised it was Ira. She had never heard him laugh before. It wasn’t even a conversation, it was a monologue, the demanding tones of a giddy girl being the centre of attraction. And she wasn’t a girl any more. Auntie Margo was an old woman with hollow cheeks and little veins that bled under her skin.
Uncle Jack came into the scullery looking for matches. He wore a delighted grin; he was good-humoured with the jokes and the company. He saw Rita against the door, her head on the stained roller towel, her face turned to him with the eyes wounded, like some animal at bay.
‘Ah, chickie,’ he said softly, ‘come on, what’s wrong?’
He was distressed by the sight of her. It was easy to comfort her; she was like a little child again.
‘I’m not going back in there.’
‘Don’t be a silly girl. You don’t want to be upset by your Auntie Marge.’
The urgency of the situation made him sensitive. He did see in a flash what ailed her.
He unbolted the back door and took her out into the yard, mellow with the last rays of the sun. They might have been in the country, the soft clouds in the sky, the cooing of the pigeons. He put his arm about her shoulder, leading her up and down the slope of the yard. He surprised himself, pacing the slate squares with the lupin plant wilting at the wash-house wall.
‘You’ve got to take into account the fact that your Auntie Marge was a married woman. You’re a big girl now, you’re not a little lass – you know what I’m getting at—’
His fingers stroked her shoulders in the black dress with the white collar. ‘The little maid,’ Nellie had called her, but she did suit it. It gave a dignity, a simplicity that you couldn’t help noticing. A little collar like a cobweb – cream lace, and cuffs to match. She was like something in a picture frame, an echo of the past. He was moved by her suffering, he wanted to pass on experience. He hadn’t lived that long; he hadn’t been through much, beyond death, his wife, and the hell of the trenches.
‘What’s she going on at Ira for?’ wailed Rita, tired of his meanderings.
‘She’s not, our Rita,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand.’
He could see Nellie peeping at them through the lace curtains, her face puzzled, not knowing what he was doing, walking Rita up and down the yard.
‘He keeps looking at her.’
‘He doesn’t. Don’t be daft. Listen, your Auntie Marge is a remarkable woman.’ Till he said it, he didn’t know it himself.
‘She’s not like Nellie and me; she’s a different cross to bear. I can only surmise—’
It was a lovely word, he dwelt on it, turn about turn up the brick yard, till Rita said, ‘What do you mean?’ plaintive like those damn birds next door.