A Kind of Loving (4 page)

'Such a nicely spoken young man,' Auntie Edna says. 'Lovely
manners, too.'

'He's educated, David is,' the Old Man says, as though this
accounts for everything. 'Educated.'

'And not a bit o' side with it, neither,' the Old Lady says. 'Oh, we couldn't have wished for a better match for her.'

Auntie Edna cocks a look at me where I'm slumped down in
the easy-chair taking all in and saying nothing. 'I suppose it'll
be Victor next,' she says. I like Auntie Edna but I do think she's
a bit of a busybody at times.

'No, we shan't be going to Victor's wedding yet awhile,' the Old Lady says, talking about me as if I'm not there. 'Give him
time; he's not twenty-one yet. And I don't even think he's courtin'.
Course, I suppose I'll be the last to get to know when he is. I'm
not bothered about him, though. If they were all as steady an'
content as him we'd do well enough. It's young Jim 'at worries
me sometimes. Allus studyin', y'know. Never seems to give his
mind a rest. He fancies bein' a doctor an' I suppose he'll have to
work hard if he's going to pass for college; but I sometimes think
he overdoes it a bit. I
found him one night, Edna - and this is without a word of a lie - I found him sitting up in bed in the
middle of the night, fast asleep, with his books open all round
him. Fast asleep, he was. Y'see he can't even leave it alone when he's supposed to be resting. His mind never rests; it's allus on the
work. I don't like it. He's growin' fast and he never did have
Victor's constitution. Like a young horse from the day he was
born, Victor was. Never a minute's worry over illness with him -
except the usual kid's ailments, o' course, an' that time he fell on the railings an' cut his head open.'

Auntie Edna looks round at me and gives me a sort of fond
smile. I wink at her and she twinkles at me.

'Jim's certainly shot up since we saw him last,' she says.

'Aye, too fast for his strength. He's taking all his strength into his brain instead of his body. I've been thinking I'll have a walk
over to the doctor's with him after the holidays and get his
advice.'

'If he's happy it'll help a lot,' Uncle William says. 'He's-a very
intelligent lad, you can see that; and lads like that have to have plenty to occupy their minds or they get restless and run down.
I shouldn't worry too much about him, Lucy. See what the
doctor says, by all means, but don't fret.'

'Aye, that's all very well, William, but when you have 'em you fret about 'em. It's nature.'

I don't really think the Old Lady should have said this because
Uncle William and Auntie Edna haven't any kids and I think they
miss not having them sometimes.

'Well we want him to make the most of his chance," the Old Man says. 'I only hope we'll be able to keep him till he can earn for hisself. It wasn't so bad with our Christine - she had scholarships; but they tell me scholarships are nobbut a drop in the ocean when a lad's studyin' medicine.' He fishes for his pipe and bacca, then remembers the big box of cigars he has in the cupboard. 'Here, William,' he says, 'try one o' these. David bought me 'em. Very good of him, wasn't it?'

'Very good indeed, Arthur.' Uncle William takes a cigar and
sniffs at it.' I thought you'd been treating yourself.'

'You thought wrong,' the Old Man says. 'I'm not in t'cigar
class.'

'Not far off, surely, Arthur?' Uncle William says, and I see
a gleam in his eyes as he lights up. "The new aristocracy, living
off the fat o' the land, sending your lad to college to study medicine. And you should have some brass if anybody has.
You're not the one to go out swilling it every night.'

'Ey up! Ey up!' the Old Feller says, rising to it. 'Just because we're gettin' a decent livin' wage after all this time everybody's
on to us.'

'I wish I war earning twenty pound a week,' Uncle William
says, 'and they could all be on to me as liked.'

'Earn it,' the Old Man says. 'I'm glad you said earn it. I tell you what I tell everybody else, William. If you think you can addle twenty pound a week in t'pit, you can come an' have a try. It can be done, an' there's fellers takin' that kind o' money out reg'lar. But they work like blacks for it. Aagh! all these fellers proppin' bars up and openin' their mouths. The hardest work
they ever do is lift a pint glass. They wouldn't last a shift down t'pit. I've done some coal-gettin' an' I know. I'm glad I haven't to do it now. I'm a deputy an' there's many a man under me earnin' more than I do; but I don't begrudge 'em it because I've addled money t'same way an' I know what it takes to do it. And there's another thing -'

'Now then, Arthur, that's enough,' the Old Lady says. "There's
no need to get arguin'. William's entitled to his opinion.'

'No man's entitled to an opinion till he knows the facts. I'm
just straightenin' him out...'

The Old Lady and Auntie Edna look at one another and I
decide it's time I was on my way. I get up.

'Are you goin' to bed, Victor?'

'No, I'm going out. There's a special dance on in town. I thought I'd go over for an hour.'

'What, at this time?'

"They'll only just have got warmed up.'

'Well, better take a key. And don't be too late; you've been
on the go all day, y'know.'

'Have a good time, Victor,' Auntie Edna says.

IV

The first thing I do when I get upstairs is take a look at myself
in the dressing-table mirror. It's one of those with three glasses in and if you get the knack of adjusting them you can see what
you look like from the side as well as straight on. It seems to me
I'm spending altogether too much time these days either looking
in mirrors at home or catching sight of myself in mirrors outside.
I never knew there were so many mirrors; the world's full of
them, or shop windows with the blinds down, which amount to
the same thing as far as what I'm talking about's concerned.
When I'm washing my hands at the office I can see another pair
of hands just like mine doing the same. If I go to the pictures ten
to one I'll climb the stairs and come face to face with my twin
brother coming up from the other side. (Only he's not strictly
my twin because he's the opposite hand to me.) And I've only to
look out of a bus at night to see this same opposite-handed me
looking in from outside. It's not that I'm conceited - at least, not most of the time - and when I see myself in a window or some
thing I don't think what a swell-looking geezer, but try to look at
myself as though I'm somebody else and wonder what I think of
me. And it's actually that I'm
not a
swell-looking geezer. At least,
not most of the time. I never used to be like this. I can remember
when I didn't give a monkey's what I looked like or what anybody
thought of me. But now it's different; because now, you see, I'm
conscious of women. Very conscious of them in fact.

When I'm looking in my mirror at home like I am now, I
don't think I'm so bad. Whichever way you look, and whoever's doing the looking, you couldn't call me ugly. Not
handsome,
maybe, but not ugly. My face is sort of square and what an author
might call open, and it's a good colour. (Thank God I'm not
one of these blokes who's plagued to death with boils and spots
and blains and whatnot.) The scar over my left eye where I
argued with the railing doesn't help, though I wonder sometimes
if it doesn't make me look a bit tougher. I don't know. And
there's always my hair. No two ways about that, I've got a head
of hair any man would be proud of, thick and dark with a natural
wave that needs only a touch of the ringers after it's combed
and glossy without a lot of cream. No doubt about my hair. And
I have it cut every fortnight and never miss. Or only now and again. I could do with a couple more inches on my height. I've
always had a yen for just two more inches. But still I'm not a little
runt because I've got a good build - a nice deep chest that I'm
not scared of showing off in swimming trunks, and square broad shoulders. And then my clothes. Now there's no denying I know how to dress. I don't pay the earth for my suits but I know where
they give you the right cut and I always keep my pants pressed
and my shoes clean. And if my shirt's just the least bit grubby
at the collar, into the wash it goes. Ask the Old Lady. She says it's like washing for an army keeping up to me alone.

So there I am - Victor Arthur Brown, twenty years old, one of the lads, and not very sure of himself under the cocky talk
and dirty jokes and wisecracks. Take me or leave me, I'm all
I've got. And what does it matter what you look like anyway?
Every day you see the niftiest bints with the gloomiest-looking
blokes; blokes you wouldn't think any self-respecting bird would
look twice at. And what do clothes matter? At least, decent
clothes, because it seems you get on best if you look a freak these
days and you're always seeing wenches clinging like mad to
bods in suits I wouldn't wear as far as the front gate.

So what the hell!

I'm as presentable as the next bloke and I don't see why Ingrid
shouldn't think the same way. Only, that's what I think here
in my own room; and the second I lay eyes on her I feel about
as fetching as something dreamed up for a science-fiction picture.

I pull myself out of the glass and go and have a wash hi the
bathroom. Then I decide to go and borrow Jim's new tie, the blue knitted one with the horizontal stripes. There's a light
showing under bis door and I find him sitting up in bed with an
exercise book on bis knee and a pencil in his hand.

I pick the tie up off the drawers.' Lend me this?'

He mumbles something. I don't suppose he could care less. I start to put the tie on in the glass. Another glass.

'I've never seen anybody make so much fuss over tying a
tie,' he says in a minute.

'What fuss?'

'All that twisting and turning and threading through. Why
don't you tie a knot an' have done with it?'

"That's a Windsor knot,' I tell him. I pull it into place and
smooth my collar down. 'When you tie a tie like that it makes a
neat knot and it stays put.'

'It'll be all creased up now when I want it.'

'What do you care?'

'Hmm,' he says, and goes back to his books.

'It's a nice tie.'

He says nothing.

'Like to flog it?'

'Eh?'

'The tie. Would you like to sell it?'

'I didn't buy it. Me mother bought it.'

I look hi the glass. It really is a smart tie; too good for Jim
who doesn't care about clothes anyway.' I'll give you half a crown
for it.'

'It cost a lot more than that.'

'You didn't buy it.'

'No, and how can I sell it when I didn't buy it?'

'You'd like the half-crown better, though, wouldn't you?' I
say, looking at him through the glass.
He's always broke, Jim is,
because he's always buying something or saving up to buy some
thing, like guinea pigs or rabbits to keep in the shed, or stamps for his collection, or something.