The Collected Stories

‘Say what?’

‘Don’t say “Be that as it may”.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh just because, Keithie.’

They had in common an institution background: they had not known their parents. Dawne could remember Keith when he was eleven and she was nine, although at that time they had not been drawn to one another. They’d met again later, revisiting their children’s home for the annual dance, disco as it was called these days. ‘I got work in this shop,’ she’d said, not mentioning Uncle because he was only her employer then, in the days when his sister was alive. They’d been married for a while before he became an influence in their lives. Now they could anticipate, without thinking, his changes of heart and his whims, and see a mile off another quarrel with the Reverend Simms, whose church occasionally he attended. Once they’d tried to divert such quarrels, to brace themselves for changes of heart, to counter the whims that were troublesome. They no longer did so. Although he listened carefully, he took no notice of what they said because he held the upper hand. The Smith’s will forms and an old billiard-room – ‘the happiest place a man could spend an hour in’ – were what he threatened them with. He met his friends in the billiard-room; he read the Daily Express there, drinking bottles of Double Diamond, which he said was the best bottled beer in the world. It would be a terrible thing if men of all ages could no longer play billiards in that room, terrible if funds weren’t available to keep it going for ever.

Mrs Franks made an announcement. She called for silence, and then gave particulars of the next day’s programme. There was to be a visit to the James Bond mountain, everyone to assemble on the forecourt at half past ten. Anyone who didn’t want to go should please tell her tonight.

‘We don’t have to, Keithie,’ Dawne whispered when Mrs Franks sat down. ‘Not if we don’t want to.’

The chatter began again, spoons excitedly waved in the air. False teeth, grey hair, glasses; Uncle might have been among them except that Uncle never would because he claimed to despise the elderly. ‘You’re telling me, are you? You’re telling me you got yourselves entangled with a bunch of O.A.P’s?’ As clearly as if he were beside her Dawne could hear his voice, enriched with the pretence of amazement. ‘You landed up in the wrong country and spent your holiday with a crowd of geriatrics! You’re never telling me that?’

Sympathetic as she was, Mrs Franks had played it down. She knew that a young couple in their thirties weren’t meant to be on a package with the elderly; she knew the error was not theirs. But it wouldn’t be any use mentioning Mrs Franks to Uncle. It wouldn’t be any use saying that Keith had got cross with the receptionist and with the people in Croydon. He’d listen and then there’d be a silence. After that he’d begin to talk about the billiard-room.

‘Had a great day, did you?’ Mrs Franks said on her way out of the dining-room. ‘All’s well that ends well, eh?’

Keith continued to eat his meringue Williams as if he had not been addressed. Mr Franks remarked on the meringue Williams, laughing about it, saying they’d all have to watch their figures. ‘I must say,’ Mrs Franks said, ‘we’re lucky with the weather. At least it isn’t raining.’ She was dressed in the same flamboyant clothes. She’d been able to buy some Madame Rochas, she said, awfully good value.

‘We don’t have to say about the old people,’ Dawne whispered when the Frankses had passed on. ‘We needn’t mention that.’

Dawne dug into the deep glass for the ice-cream that lay beneath the slices of pear. She knew he was thinking she would let it slip about the old people. Every Saturday she washed Uncle’s hair for him since he found it difficult to do it himself. Because he grumbled so about the tepid rinse that was necessary in case he caught a cold afterwards, she had to jolly him along. She’d always found it difficult to do two things at once, and it was while washing his hair that occasionally she’d forgotten what she was saying. But she was determined not to make that mistake again, just as she had ages ago resolved not to get into a flap if he suddenly asked her a question when she was in the middle of counting the newspapers that hadn’t been sold.

‘Did you find your friends from Windsor then?’ an old woman with a walking frame inquired. ‘Eeh, it were bad you lost your friends.’

Dawne explained, since no harm was meant. Other old people stood by to hear, but a few of them were deaf and asked to have what was being said repeated. Keith continued to eat his meringue Williams.

‘Keithie, it isn’t their fault,’ she tentatively began when the people had passed on. ‘They can’t help it, Keithie.’

‘Be that as it may. No need to go attracting them.’

‘I didn’t attract them. They stopped by. Same as Mrs Franks.’

‘Who’s Mrs Franks?’

‘You know who she is. That big woman. She gave us her name this morning, Keithie.’

‘When I get back I’ll institute proceedings.’

She could tell from his tone that that was what he’d been thinking about. All the time on the steamer they’d taken to Interlaken, all the time in the teashop, and on the cold streets and in the souvenir shops, all the time they’d been looking at the watch displays and the chocolate displays, all the time in the grey-panelled dining-room, he had been planning what he’d say, what he’d probably write on the very next postcard: that he intended to take legal proceedings. When they returned he would stand in the kitchen and state what he intended, very matter of fact. First thing on Monday he’d arrange to see a solicitor, he’d state, an appointment for his lunch hour. And Uncle would remain silent, not even occasionally inclining his head, or shaking it, knowing that solicitors cost money.

‘They’re liable for the full amount. Every penny of it.’

‘Let’s try to enjoy ourselves, Keithie. Why don’t I tell Mrs Franks we’ll go up the mountain?’

‘What mountain’s that?’

‘The one she was on about, the one we sent him a postcard of.’

‘I need to phone up Croydon in the morning.’

‘You can do it before ten-thirty, Keithie.’