The Dressmaker - Beryl Bainbridge [52]
‘Whatever brings you here?’ she asked. He handed her a packet of cigarettes. She was taken aback: he didn’t smoke himself.
‘I rang Rita at work,’ he told her. ‘She said you were sick.’
‘I’m not. I’ve got a—’ She stopped because she didn’t want to admit anything. He was looking at her opening the packet of cigarettes.
‘Just a chill,’ she told him. ‘I’m off out now to me work. Did you want to see Rita?’
She knew he didn’t. He knew damn well Rita was at work. She was scandalised, and yet there was a little bubble of excitement in her, getting bigger and bigger at the thought.
‘Now look,’ she said, ‘let’s get one or two things straight.’
But when she looked at his face, she wasn’t sure she was right. He looked so innocent, so without guile, boyish with his bony face pale, twisting his cap in his hands. She lit a cigarette. It was no use giving him the packet back – not these days when they were so scarce.
‘What have you come for? You know young Rita’s at work.’
‘I wanted a word with you, Mam, you being more a woman of the world.’
The audacity of the boy! What did she know of the world, cooped up in Bingley Road like a ferret down a hole?
‘I reckon I can tell you. I ain’t going to see Rita again.’
She didn’t know where to flick her ash. Nellie had taken the bamboo stand up to the boxroom.
‘I can’t see her no more.’
‘Well, you best tell her yourself. You’ve no cause to be telling me.’
‘I thought you could break it to her. I tried to tell her, but she don’t seem to listen. I don’t aim to harm no one.’
‘Why can’t you see her?’
Inside it was doing her the world of good. She hated herself for the joy she got from his words. He didn’t want Rita; Rita wasn’t going to find the happiness that she herself had missed. She caught Mother’s eye, that stern and selfish orb. She stared back boldly. Mother couldn’t use the strap any more, not where she was.
‘I guess she’s too young, Mam. And she’s kind of joyless. She don’t want no fun, no drinking nor dancing.’
‘But she does,’ Margo protested. ‘It’s just she’s unsure of herself. We haven’t exactly taught her to enjoy herself, her Aunt Nellie and me. I mean I’ve tried, but it’s Nellie that’s the power behind the throne.’
She felt ridiculous, telling a complete stranger the intimate details of their life.
‘Rita sure sets a store by what you say. You could tell her. I mean, you’ve known grief, Mam.’
‘Grief?’
‘Your husband dying. You know about men. The kind of books you read.’
She looked at him, not fully understanding.
‘What books?’
‘Rita told me about the sort of books you read. She found one in your drawer. You know about men. You could square it for me.’
She couldn’t credit Rita had got hold of that book. She’d searched the house from end to end, day after day, trying to find it. She thought she had lost it at work. She went red with shame thinking of Rita reading that filth, Rita reading those dirty words.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I must be off to my work.’
He stood up, never taking his eyes from hers. He was a bad one, she knew for sure: the cocky way he looked at her, the little tinge of colour in his no-good face. She was devastated by the uselessness of her personality. The kind of men who fancied her – George Bickerton, Mr Aveyard, the chap on the tandem, the Dutch seaman in the boxroom. They were attracted to her at first. And it was precisely the glitter that drew them at the start that drove them away in the end. They couldn’t stand her at the end. She wished she was Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, languidly sitting in a long dress, calling them darling, sipping her cocktail, loyal and loving always – but cool like a snake, telling them to go before they