He leaned on the wall, trying to stop the spinning in his head. ‘Five thousand,’ he said thickly. ‘It’s… nothing, Margaret. Not any more. Margaret, I’m… rich, God help me. It don’t matter no more…’
What?
‘On the roads,’ he said desperately. ‘The… hauliers’ talk. They said you wanted five thousand. Margaret, I can do ten…’
A dawning comprehension. And for God’s sake, she was starting to laugh. ‘Jesse Strange,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘What are you trying to say?’
And it was out, at last. ‘I love you, Margaret,’ he said simply. ‘Reckon I always have. And I… want you to be my wife.’
She stopped smiling then, stood quite still and let her eyes close as if suddenly she was very tired. Then she reached forward quietly and took his hand. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Just for a little while. Come and sit down.’
In the back bar the firelight was dying. She sat by the hearth curled like a cat, watching him, her eyes big in the dimness; and Jesse talked. He told her everything he’d never imagined himself speaking. How he’d wanted her, and hoped, and known it was no use: how he’d waited so many years he’d nearly forgotten a time when she hadn’t filled his mind. She stayed still, holding his fingers, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, thinking and brooding. He told her how she’d be mistress of the house and have the gardens, the orchards of cherry plums, the rose terraces, the servants, her drawing account in the bank; how she’d have nothing to do any more ever but be Margaret Strange, his wife.
The silence lengthened when he’d finished, till the ticking of the big bar clock sounded loud. She stirred her foot in the warmth of the ashes, wriggling her toes; he gripped her instep softly, spanning it with finger and thumb. ‘I do love you, Margaret,’ he said. ‘I truly do…’
She still stayed quiet, staring at nothing visible, eyes opaque. She’d let the shawl fall off her shoulders; he could see her breasts, the nipples pushing against the flimsiness of the nightdress. She frowned, pursed her mouth, looked back at him. ‘Jesse,’ she said, ‘when I’ve finished talking, will you do something for me? Will you promise?’ Quite suddenly, he was no longer drunk. The whirling and the warmth faded, leaving him shivering. Somewhere he was sure the loco hooted again. ‘Yes, Margaret,’ he said ‘If that’s what you want.’
She came and sat by him. ‘Move up,’ she whispered. ‘You’re taking all the room.’ She saw the shivering; she put her hand inside his jacket, rubbed softly. ‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘Don’t do that, Jesse. Please The spasm passed; she pulled her arm back, flicked at the shawl, gathered her dress round her knees. ‘When I’ve said what I’m going to, will you promise to go away? Very quietly, and not… make trouble for me? Please, Jesse. I did let you in…’
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, Margaret, that’s all right.’ His voice, talking, sounded like the voice of a stranger. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say; but listening to it meant he could stay close just a little longer. He felt suddenly he knew what it would be like to be given a cigarette just before you were hanged; how every puff would mean another second’s life.
She twined her fingers together, looked down at the carpet. ‘I… want to get this just right,’ she said. ‘I want to… say it properly, Jesse, because I don’t want to hurt you. I… like you too much for that. ‘I… knew about it of course, I’ve known all the time. That was why I let you in. Because I… like you very much, Jesse, and didn’t want to hurt. And now you see I’ve… trusted you, so you mustn’t let me down. I can’t marry you, Jesse, because I don’t love you. I never will. Can you understand that? It’s terribly hard knowing… well, how you feel and all that and still having to say it to you but I’ve got to because it just wouldn’t work. I… knew this was going to happen sometime, I used to lie awake at night thinking about it, thinking all about you, honestly I did, but it wasn’t any good. It just… wouldn’t work, that’s all. So… no. I’m terribly sorry but… no.’
How can a man balance his life on a dream, how can he be such a fool? How can he live, when the dream gets knocked apart…
She saw his face alter and reached for his hand again. ‘Jesse. please… I… think you’ve been terribly sweet waiting all this time and I… know about the money, I know why you said that, I know you just wanted to give me a… good life. It was terribly sweet of you to think like that about me and I… know you’d do it. But it just wouldn’t work… Oh God, isn’t this awful…’
You try to wake from what you know is a dream, and you can’t. Because you’re awake already, this is the dream they call life. You move in the dream and talk, even when something inside you wants to twist and die. He rubbed her knee, feeling the firm smoothness. ‘Margaret,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you to rush into anything. Look, in a couple of months I shall be comin’ back through…’
She bit her lip. ‘I knew you were… going to say that as well. But… no, Jesse. It isn’t any use thinking about it, I’ve tried to and it wouldn’t work. I don’t want to… have to go through this again and hurt you all over another time. Please don’t ask me again. Ever.’ He thought dully, he couldn’t buy her. Couldn’t win her, and couldn’t buy. Because he wasn’t man enough, and that was the simple truth. Just not quite what she wanted. That was what he’d known all along, deep down, but he’d never faced it; he’d kissed his pillows nights, and whispered love for Margaret, because he hadn’t dared bring the truth into the light. And now he’d got the rest of time to try and forget… this. She was still watching him. She said, ‘Please understand…’
And he felt better. God preserve him, some weight seemed to shift suddenly and let him talk. ‘Margaret,’ he said, ‘this sounds damn stupid, don’t know how to say it…’ ‘Try’ He said, ‘I don’t want to… hold you down. It’s… selfish, like somehow having a… bird in a cage, owning it… Only I didn’t think on it that way before. Reckon I… really love you because I don’t want that to happen to you. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt. Don’t you worry, Margaret, it’ll be all right. It’ll be all right now. Reckon I’ll just… well, get out o’ your way like…’
She put a hand to her head. ‘God this is awful, I knew it would happen.. . Jesse
don’t just… well, vanish. You know, go off an’… never come back. You see I… like you so
very much, as a friend, I should feel terrible if you did that. Can’t things be like they…
were before, I mean can’t you just sort of… come in and see me, like you used to? Don’t go right away, please…’
Even that, he thought. God, I’ll do even that.
She stood up. ‘And now go. Please…’
He nodded dumbly. ‘It’ll be all right…’
‘Jesse,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to… get in any deeper. But -’ she kissed him, quickly. There was no feeling there this time. No fire. He stood until she let him go; then he walked quickly to the door.
He heard, dimly, his boots ringing on the street. Somewhere a long way off from him was a vague sighing, a susurration; could have been the blood in his ears, could have been the sea. The house doorways and the dark- socketed windows seemed to lurch towards him of their own accord, fall away behind. He felt as a ghost might feel grappling with the concept of death, trying to assimilate an idea too big for its consciousness. There was no Margaret now, not any more. No Margaret. Now he must leave the grown-up world where people married and loved and mated and mattered to each other, go back for all time to his child’s universe of oil and steel. And the days would come, and the days would go, till on one of them he would die.
He crossed the road outside the George; then he was walking under the yard entrance, climbing the stairs, opening again the door of his room. Putting out the light, smelling Goody Thompson’s fresh-sour sheets.
The bed felt cold as a tomb.
The fishwives woke him, hawking their wares through the streets. Somewhere there was a clanking of milk churns; voices crisped in the cold air of the yard. He lay still, face down, and there was an empty time before the cold new fall of grief. He remembered he was dead; he got up and dressed, not feeling the icy air on his body. He washed, shaved the blue-chinned face of a stranger, went out to the Burrell. Her livery glowed in weak sunlight, topped by a thin bright icing of snow. He opened her firebox, raked the embers of the fire and fed it. He felt no desire to eat; he went down to the quay instead, haggled absentmindedly for the fish he was going to buy, arranged for its delivery to the George. He saw the boxes stowed in time for late service at the church, stayed on for confession. He didn’t go near the Mermaid; he wanted nothing now but to leave, get back on the road. He checked the Lady Margaret again, polished her nameplates, hubs, flywheel boss. Then he remembered seeing something in a shop window, something he’d intended to buy; a little tableau, the Virgin, Joseph, the Shepherds kneeling, the Christchild in the manger. He knocked up the storekeeper, bought it and had it packed; his mother set great store by such things, and it would look well on the sideboard over Christmas.
By then it was lunchtime. He made himself eat, swallowing food that tasted like string. He nearly paid his bill before he remembered. Now, it went on account; the account of Strange and Sons of Dorset. After the meal he went to one of the bars of the George, drank to try and wash the sour taste from his mouth. Subconsciously, he
