Authors: Paul Ableman
The woman does not reply, but summons a small contingent of students and begins to assign revised stations. Finally, her self-control breaks down and she summarily despatches a
disproportionately
large detachment merely to patrol
Knitting.
“Yes, of course, that’s partly why I’m here,” she says to Federico and then turns to me. “I’m quite sure you did say ‘threshold’ so wouldn’t it be simpler if you admitted it?”
“Yes, it would be simpler,” I reply, but then add, “No, it wouldn’t be simpler. Anyway you can’t be sure. There are wonders, verbal wonders, everywhere today.”
“Not in this efficiently run establishment,” she avers, and I am compelled to admire the courageous fashion with which she maintains the objectivity essential for debate. Although deeply involved emotionally in the subject, she proclaims, by her lucid poise, the benefit of ages of dialectic tradition. “Not here,” she pursues, but, in spite of her self-discipline, her wanton glance escapes her for a moment to rest on Federico’s face. Then, with an effort, she returns it to mine. “You see we don’t believe in it.”
“I agree with her there,” remarks Federico. “Did you know we were out of glue?”
“Run for glue,” instructs the woman to a small knot of
students
who are lounging irresponsibly near
History.
“Glue?” calls an impertinent one.
“Good God,” exclaims another.
And none of them move. The woman has no alternative but to approach closer to them so that she can exert her authority at closer range. The strain under which she labors is expressed by the weary gesture with which she presses her finger-tips to a point a little polar of the temple.
“She’s laboring under immense strain,” I point out to Federico.
“She’s sturdy,” he assures me, “from a country childhood, catching pigs for her father, administering his piles of stolen wealth, piling up his piles, always with menials beside her. Observe now, how she subdues unruly students.”
“Who’s going for the glue?” asks the woman shortly, having reached the periphery of the grinning, murmuring group of students.
But in a moment it becomes plain that she is going to
encounter
more difficulty than would have been expected by anyone aware simply of the ostensible issue. A new spirit seems to be abroad in these students and it does not take any very profound understanding to sense that they have decisively rejected the practices of earlier generations. How this will affect the
traditional
activities and customs of which the community is so justly proud, it is still too early to tell but it is hard to imagine, for example, the lovely and ancient rite of assembling into choirs and chanting sad hymns of endurance being perpetuated by students in this new, self-assertive mood.
“Then you won’t join the chant?” asks the woman.
“You said glue. You said you wanted someone to go for glue.”
“Yes, I meant glue,” she corrects herself, and then, unwisely I can not help feeling, trying to disguise her slip as mere
impetuosity,
adds, “At least we don’t require chants yet.”
“Would philosophy help?” I ask, deriving from the woman’s stand the courage to step forward and attempt to mediate. “The glue is for sticking or possibly for binding. That’s a sample. Does that help?”
But, other than a few moody glances, my offer secures scant attention. And whether because of its failure in application or because of some genuine perception of its inadequacy, a feeling of shame comes over me. Simple curiosity, however, makes me anxious to stay and learn the outcome of the struggle. But this is not to be. A male student detaches himself from the group and begins to outline for me the scheme of word selection being developed by a totally different department.
“Of course,” he points out, “it doesn’t really affect the sort of thing I’m doing—unless you regard tools, and particularly plumber’s tools, as susceptible to that sort of consideration.”
“Do you work with tools?” I inquire, although still trying to follow the events taking place between the rest of the students and the woman.
“Only with one of them—a sort of prong or rake for jabbing unwieldy pipes. It’s undergone an extraordinary development—almost amounting to a revolution—in recent years. There—Farley’s gone.”
This last refers to the position over the glue. The woman, or manageress as I am now compelled to think of her, appears finally to have imposed her will on the group, for a young man can be seen outside looking up and down the street for a source of glue.
“I suppose he’ll find one,” I murmur.
“Yes, I suppose so,” sighs the student, “I’d better return,” and then, casually, as if he were still merely supplying
information
of general interest, he confides, “I don’t quite trust Fred—that Federico—still —”
“What threshold?” asks the woman, now apparently quite recovered from her—perhaps ordeal whould be too strong a word—from her exertion.
But the student with me merely smiles, lowering his head to shade his secret although allowing a hint of it to escape in the murmured words “Freddy—ask Freddy—” as he returns to his station. He does not return uninterruptedly to it, however, for a large tank flashes a few times and makes him think of his birthday and the refrain is carried through a number of things before petering off. He thus infringes on
Microbiology
but the established error merely evokes a tolerant rebuke, more, in fact, of a welcomed diversion.
“I note that down,” insists the woman. “Note them all
welcoming
the diversion. You noted his response?”
“He was flashed at,” I point out. “He had no precedent. Empty balconies. I won’t say—”
“I know,” she concedes, “empty thresholds,” but after a moment’s drawn consideration, her really charming, open, clear, and attractive features relax into a smile. “Well, I don’t know how you came to—after all, you’re only a customer.”
And she looks at me with a hint of merriment buried in the accusation.
“Yes, I am,” I hasten to assure her, “only a customer. Did you think I might be—”
“An inspector?” she interposes, and her face grows more thoughtful again for a moment. “They’re most ingenious—”
“Most ingenious inspectors,” confirms Federico in a hard voice, having come silently up behind her and planted his hands firmly on bright piglets and Dutch girls. “We have had the most ingenious inspectors here. Haven’t we, May?”
“Auntie May,” corrects the woman absently, looking firmly
back at him but hollow with apprehension. She nods. “We have,” she agrees, “a number of times. As a matter of fact, I was about to—to explain—”
“To explain about the most ingenious inspectors?” Federico asks meaningfully. Then he looks at me. “Well, sir, you’re a customer—”
“No,” I protest. “I might buy something, it’s true, but I’m not really a customer. Couldn’t you think of me as more like—well, a philosopher— I have some professional engagements—or else—”
“Yes—” He is silent for a moment, his face working, and then precise snorts of laughter escape him, clearing his
attitudes
so that, a moment later he can laugh quite freely, perhaps for the first time in years. Poor May, helpless now at this revelation, or rather confirmation, of what she must somehow have intuitively perceived ages ago, can only stand making tiny, fond movements with her lips. Finally, she brings out his name.
“Freddy—”
“All right,” he splutters, little convulsions of fury still
breaking
up through his pleasure. “All right, you can draw me some little lines—or something—Hell, what a stupid—well, I never could—”
With an absurd gesture he sweeps stockades of
Drama
to the floor.
“I’m quite—really furious,” he informs her. “God! I—I and this bunch of useless meters—look at us—Hell!” he cries. “Damn.”
May sighs, scrawling all the time, without realizing it, over
Botany
with her blue chalk, and then suggests:
“Perhaps now, you could help this customer?” she glances out at the polished eyes and golden eyes. “Before a real
inspector
comes. It might happen—oh yes—”
“And dismiss the staff? Let them go?”
“Not yet.”
“All right,” he confirms, and then to me: “What would you like?”
“Well,” I begin, rather embarrassed at the necessity for
extricating
myself, “I had thought of buying a book, as I
mentioned
. But now I don’t think I will.”
“All right,” agrees Federico, with a significant look at May. “You don’t want a book, nor have you destroyed anything, nor helped much—and if you
are
an inspector—”
“I’m not,” I protest. “I should have thought that was obvious.”
“It
is
obvious,” affirms May.
“All right. She says so—the manageress—what’s the word—”
“Exonerates.”
“Exonerates—dismisses—”
“Exonerates—”
“She now exonerates—”
And then I leave. I leave them the address of the dubious meeting scheduled at the Italian’s house and indicate, with the subtlest of facial gestures, awareness of their stored twine and then depart.
I have hardly regained the street when I am compelled to slip hurriedly around a corner, having noticed Susan out searching for me. She has disguised herself as a bereaved Italian peasant woman and carries a freshly boiled egg beneath her black shawl. Her disguise is both subtle and ingenious and I marvel when I see her carry it to the extent of offering a sprig of aromatic plant to a passing banker. He brushes her aside, his hand brushing through the leaves and doubtless inheriting a faint aroma. And then I see that her legs, in the short interval since I last saw her, have become red and sore and unsalved. And her face is pink and blotchy from habitual drinking. So
changed, in fact, do I find her that for a moment I wonder if it can really be Susan.
“Are you really Susan?” I ask, incautiously stepping out of the urinal.
“Yes, my peeky,” she squeals. “Your own Susan, really. Your own twiggady old Susan, with little sprigs of mint. Now you’ll have a little sprig of mint from Susan?”
“You’re not Susan,” I protest. “You’re an utter stranger.”
“I’m not really Susan,” she admits, crushing mint under my nose to demonstrate its virtue. “My name’s Mother Stockings. Either that or Mother Gin, depending on what they call me.”
“They never call you Susan.”
“They haven’t yet,” she agrees, fluffing little pointers of mint all around in the tray. “Now, you’ll have some mint?”
She waves a small bouquet of it, reeking of chemicals, towards me. Naturally, I have no use or desire for her adulterated mint, or any other wares, but I feel in some small measure attached to her.
“Your legs are bad,” I point out.
“Nasty things,” she agrees. She sets down her mint. “My legs are nasty red things with the veins sticking out. They’re fatter now than they were but they were always fat. I was never thin and pretty. I was always fat. You can have all that mint. You’ve killed my enthusiasm.”
“I’m sorry,” I exclaim.
“Perhaps it’s best. To tell you the truth, you didn’t kill it. I didn’t have any enthusiasm. I was casting about in my mind to think of some way of getting more money and I remembered my grandmother sold mint. But things must have been different then,” she stares away, down the natural focus at the polluted cloudlet, the seethe, and the massed commodities riven by
driving
grinders, “very different. Does Susan sell mint?”
“Of course not,” I smile.
“No,” she considers, rubbing her defective chin. “Well I’ve got my bus fare. You’ll take that mint?”
“No,” I explain. “I don’t want it. Don’t be angry.”
“No,” she shakes her head vaguely. “We’ll leave it there. The dogs won’t hurt it. You never see children in these
quarters.
Only those minders running bets and liaisons and press and such-like. I thought it would be a good place.”
“For selling mint?” I ask.
“Of course there’s no place left,” she confides. “No, too straight. Too many panels—it’s all that congealing. Thank God, for my little place. You passed it sometimes.”
“When Arthur pressed me,” I confirm. “When I mentioned you to him, how I nearly asked you the time.”
“You should have done,” she insists. “Oh, I know, you were put off, seeing me on the corner with my greasy dress and my head down. You thought I was sulking. Perhaps I was or just tormented by the children. I can’t remember.”
“Anyway,” I say, as gently and encouragingly as I can, “I saw the iron cavities and dark recesses and slits of soot.”
“Yes, well—” she hesitates, on the point of departure, and then brings out: “If you pass again—you know—I’ve got a stove—”
I stammer an embarrassed acceptance. She goes away and gets on a bus and I start away too but I do take a little sprig of mint and sniff it before I go.
And then I go somewhere and think something and someone asks me—
“Depressed? Yes?”
“Yes, depressed—fearful—”
“Fearful? Yes? We’re tourists. Where do we go? Depressed?”
“Yes, a bit depressed—I’ve just left that old hider—lurker—”
“It’s hot. Jonas?”
“Yes, hot,” agrees Jonas. He crowds towards me. “Help us
tourists, us two. Well—we find lots of things—bad good—”
“Bad food,” corrects his nephew. “He means bad food. Not bad good. Depressed? Yes?”
“Yes, a bit depressed,” I admit, wishing I could direct them to some reception place. “You saw me numbering those scales.”
“Bad good—”
“Bad food, Jonas. He likes fish—like those scales. Ours are better. Bigger, whiter—very clever. Jonas?”
“Is he depressed?”
Jonas now looks at me attentively, with worldly, vulgar eye.
“Give him some money.”
Then Jonas summons a blow from his fund of common
humanity
and knocks me forward a few inches.
“Well, Jonas is very sorry,” interprets his malicious nephew as he notes the look of distress on my face. “He’s not a brutal man—though his strength—his strength is brutal. That’s how he bellies through. He makes lots of money and bellies me about with him. If someone spit—Jonas’ strength cabbage him.”