The Dreaming Suburb (8 page)

His observations from this second vantage-point satisfied his curiosity regarding Mr. Cole's sudden kindliness, and within forty-eight hours the astonished Mr. Cole found his thoughtfulness repaid by the prompt offer of an alliance. He was not in need of an ally but succumbed, quite readily, to Archie's persuasive offers of co-operation. It was not right, Archie pointed out, that Mr. Cole, asthmatic and nearing sixty, should add to a tiring day's work by lugging all those heavy boxes up steep, gravelled drives in winter weather. From now on, he insisted, Mr. Cole should stay in the warm, and make up the lists, while he, Archie, should come back after shutter-drill, and do all the deliveries. There was, of course, an alternative to this happy arrangement. Failing Mr. Cole's immediate acceptance of the plan he would, in Mr. Cole's own interests, have to tell the manager about the chief storeman's excessive zeal. Mr. Cole accepted.

The system worked quite well until poor Mr. Cole was taken seriously ill, in the autumn of 1917, and died quite suddenly. Archie went to the funeral, and patted Mrs. Cole sympathetically on the shoulder, saying nothing about the patriotic over-time endeavours he had shared with the deceased, but contributing generously to the large cross of chrysanthemums sent by the staff of Coolridge's.

As the war dragged into its final year all the counter hands
and storemen at Coolridge's who had managed, on one pretext or another, to avoid conscription, left the shop and went into munitions. Some of them looked in from time to time, wearing new suits, and looking very prosperous. They chaffed Archie for his failure to seize the opportunity of making good money, four or five times as much money they told him, as they had been getting a year ago at Coolridge's, but not once did Archie consider taking their well-meant advice. He liked the grocery trade he told them and, because of the serious staff shortage, he had obtained rapid promotion, and was now occupying the late Mr. Cole's position as senior storeman. Munition-making, he warned them, would cease one day, and they would soon be seeking re-entry into the provisioning trade. They would then, perhaps, see the wisdom of Archie's loyalty to the firm of Coolridge, notwithstanding the scandalously low basic wage it paid its suburban counter hands. Archie had a wry sense of humour. He particularly stressed the word “basic”.

Archie stayed on at Coolridge's until some time after the Armistice. By then he had so consolidated his position that he had been moved to a larger branch in Lewisham. With the return of the trench veterans, however, he grew strangely restless and dissatisfied. Perhaps he missed his evening sessions with customers in the big houses, like Number Five A, Outram Crescent, or perhaps the end of rationing had something to do with it. At all events, he was quite ready to leave when the Rita Ramage episode occurred, and made it necessary for the manager of his new branch, a strict Baptist, to inform him that he would be most obliged if Archie would “begin to look for other employment”. This enigmatic phrase was already becoming familiar to ex-servicemen, returning from their earnest endeavours to make the world safe for democracy, but it had few terrors for Archie. He had done very well out of rationing. His cash-box, which reposed in the locked suitcase under his bed, now held a floating reserve of nearly a hundred pounds, and he felt that his nest-egg was an adequate buffer between himself and the dole queue. He surprised everyone, including his family, by leaving, then and there, without even serving out his notice, and, far from
economising, walked into a garage and bought the Douglas motor-cycle he had been promising himself for so long.

No one at home, of course, knew anything about Archie's nest-egg, or about Rita Ramage, and the part she had played in Archie's dismissal after six, outwardly blameless years, with Coolridge Ltd.

Rita was one of those favoured wartime customers who occupied the lower half of a detached house in Outram Crescent. She was the wife of an ex-officer in the Tank Corps, who spent most of his time in hospitals, undergoing a series of operations designed to make him walk again. So far, they had not succeeded, and his wife Rita had ceased to pretend to herself that they ever would. Being a realist, not much given to sentimentalising, she had come to terms with herself emotionally, and had decided that she was too young, at thirty-three, to enter the purdah reserved for the young wives of totally disabled veterans. She was a full-blooded, buxom woman, and she needed a whole man, not two-thirds of one.

She had money of her own, so that a man to support as well as solace her was not a necessity, unless the right one showed up, in which case she could think about a divorce. In the meantime Reggie could have the whole of his disability pension, but a substitute must be found who could perform those functions that a direct hit on Reggie's tank had effectually prevented its commander from performing.

It was only a day or two after she had arrived at this decision that Archie Carver let himself into her kitchen, and whistled for Letty, the Belgian refugee maid whom Rita had employed throughout the war. As it was Letty's night out Rita herself answered the whistle.

She had just emerged from a hot bath, and had helped herself to a large double-whisky. Perhaps these two factors had something to do with the impact upon her of Archie's aggressive masculinity. At seventeen-and-a-half, Archie was six foot, broad-shouldered, and extremely well-muscled. He had, moreover, an exceptionally clear complexion, lacking those rashes and pimples that trouble adolescence. To these physical advantages he added a studied affability, a judicious mixture (reserved for this type of after-hours customer) of
mild jocularity and moderate respect. This approach, he had found, paid off handsomely. Customers who knew they were breaking the law resented easy familiarity and distrusted servility. What was needed, on these occasions, was something in between, and Archie had good reason to believe upon the compound.

“The groceries, Ma'am, plus the usual,” he told her, with the ghost of a wink.

Rita gave her kimono cord a hitch, and glanced at the box he placed on the table. She knew nothing of Letty's private arrangements with the provision merchants, but simply that the girl was marvellous at getting everything they needed, notwithstanding all this paper talk about shortages, and U-Boat blockades. Archie's manner, however, and the slight smile that lurked at the corner of his wide mouth, informed her that there was something more in his whistle and wink than a desire to see the provisions checked. She picked up the bill, crossed to the dresser, found her purse and added half-a-crown to the total, putting the money on the kitchen table.

“Is that what Letty usually gives you?” she asked him.

Archie toyed with the idea of earning an extra shilling or two but decided, almost immediately, that the ultimate risk was not worth the immediate gain. This woman looked hard-bitten and he did not want to upset the sound business-like relationship he had established with her maid.

“That's about usual,” he told her, pocketing the half-crown, and slipping the rest of the money into his leather satchel.

On impulse she took out the bottle of hock that stood among the packages.

“Did Letty ever give you anything else ... a drink, for instance?”

“Never,” said Archie, truthfully. Letty was a wooden sort of girl and he had never made much impression on her.

“I was just going to get myself a snack. Are you hungry?” she asked him.

He was surprised and flattered. The woman was too old and too classy for a frolic, of course, even if she wanted one, which he could hardly believe, but she had a well-stocked
larder, as he was well aware, and a change from Louise's eternal, warmed-up suppers would be welcome.

“It's very kind of you,” he said, taking a chair. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all,” said Rita, promptly; “have one of these,” and she took a small silver case from her kimono pocket, and gave him a flat Turkish cigarette.

“How old are you?” she asked him, as she busied herself at the gas stove, and the smell of fried eggs, bacon, and tomatoes (what a business it had been to get those tomatoes) began to fill the cosy room.

“Nineteen,” he replied, promptly. His age jumped about between sixteen and twenty-one; according to possible advantages in the offing. She did not suspect a lie. He looked nineteen.

“How have you managed to dodge call-up?”

He considered for a moment. She was obviously not a flag-flapper, none of his special customers were, and he did not want to say anything that might spoil the good impression his physique had obviously made upon her.

“I don't believe in it,” he said, finally.

She laughed outright, and crossed over with the grill.

“Shall I tell you something ... what's your name?”

“Archie, Archie Carver, Ma'am!”

“Shall I tell you something I've never told anyone else? Don't call me ma'am; it makes me feel
my
age.
I
don't believe in it either, and what's more, I never have, not even in poor little Belgium!”

After that they both relaxed. She told him about Reggie, and he told her about his father, more than three years in the line, and still only a sergeant. He told her some of the things he had noticed on his rounds and, once the hock had been finished and she had poured him a whisky, he spoke frankly of his dealings with the late Mr. Cole.

She listened attentively. He was a refreshing change from the men Reggie had brought from the Officers' Training Unit—men who invariably referred to the German as “the Hun”, and flirted with her cautiously, much as they might have flirted at an Edwardian soirée. And as she noted his clumsy handling of the knife and fork, and his strong white
teeth, and the movement of his powerful shoulders, she yearned for him with the unreasoning desire of a strong woman who has outgrown modesty, but is a long way from resignation.

When he had finished, and had risen, wiping his mouth, she suddenly experienced panic. Her reason told her that he was far too young to be rushed, that forwardness on her part might easily frighten him off, that the way to handle this situation was to throw out a casual invitation for a repetition on their cosy supper, say, this day next week. But as he stood by the kitchen door, his big limbs relaxed, and a rather shy smile on his full lips, she realised that she could not wait a week, or even an hour, and she made up her mind to accept the risks, whatever they were. She was judging on appearances at this stage, and had no means of knowing that the risk was very slight indeed.

She moved quickly round the table, amazed at the violence with which her heart was beating. Looking straight at him, and forcing a smile, she said:

“Well, Big Boy, aren't you going to say ‘thank you' properly?”

He knew what was expected of him. Up to that moment he had felt flattered, and amused. His experience with women was more limited than he would have cared to admit, a few fumblings in the stock-rooms, and on the windswept links, nothing real, nothing like this. He was conscious of a swift spasm of fear, of being trapped, and although merely momentary the quirk was strong enough to prompt him to turn and run. Then his egotism flooded in, and he felt uplifted. He reached out like a vigorous young bear, and gripped her, kissing her full on the mouth, and thrilling to her responsive shudder.

He was not, however, prepared for her next move.

She wriggled out of his embrace, reached swiftly behind him, and locked the kitchen door.

“Wait here,” she said, a little breathlessly; “the girl doesn't come back until ten.”

She almost ran out of the room, leaving the door to the hall half open. He moved over and stood by the hissing gas-fire, conscious of the inadequacy of his seventeen years.
His throat was dry, and his eye caught the whisky battle on the littered table. He slopped a measure into a used glass and gulped it down, gasping as the unfamiliar spirit struck his palate. The loud ticking of the clock on the mantel-shelf seemed to fill the stuffy room.

Presently, he heard her call and went slowly into the hall. He remembered then that this was a flat, not a house, and that there were people living upstairs. He moved quietly, like a big cat, fighting down another spasm of fear and forcing himself to savour, in advance, the obvious delights of this gloriously unexpected encounter.

She had made her bedroom out of the old dining-room, and the door was open. He saw the light go out as he crossed the hall, but a warm red glow remained, and when he reached the threshold he saw to his surprise that there was a bright coal-fire in the grate.

She was standing, quite naked, beside the heavily curtained window. Her mass of thick, dark hair reached to her broad buttocks, and he noted with satisfaction that she did not appear nearly as old as when he had faced her, a few moments ago, over the kitchen table.

He stood there, just inside the door, staring at her in quiet wonderment. A subtle change revealed itself in her manner, as though the forced smile, and incongruous coyness of her original invitation, had been scornfully discarded with her clothes, now stacked neatly on the big armchair beside the fire.

“All right, shut and lock the door!” she said briskly.

He was disconcerted by her directness, and a sense of bewilderment took possession of him. He kept reminding himself that she was a married woman, married to an officer, and that he was just Archie Carver, a glorified errand-boy. Nevertheless she wanted him, far more urgently than any girl his own age had ever wanted him. It was hard to understand.

She stood with one plump arm on the low mantelpiece, bathing her body in the dancing firelight. Outside, the wind whipped up, and January sleet slashed across the windowpane.

“Come over here, Big Boy,” she said, in the same authoritative voice.

He moved across the room and put out his hand tentatively, as though to stroke a strange cat. She smiled then, and he noticed her white teeth, and heavy pink underlip. In after years, whenever he thought of Rita Ramage, he always remembered her excessively heavy underlip, and came to judge the accessibility of women accordingly. If they had fleshy lower lips, like those of Rita, they were all right. If their lips were balanced, they were not. He found this was a very reliable criterion.