insincere. Nor was it, entirely.
“Bank Holiday,” she mumbled.
“Yes.”
Four months away. I almost said, “Make it Whitsun, why not?” I kept remembering we had lived together, breakfast, supper, lunch and tea for nearly a quarter of our lifetimes. A nicer person would have found it harder saying goodbye.
“And before then you’d better let me know,” she repeated, grudgingly, “about something you’d like for the house.”
“Yes, I will.”
Perhaps one reason I was able to say goodbye so easily was that I felt I’d salved my conscience. I had bought her a video recorder. I had given it to her only about an hour before, while the two removal men were still coming in and staggering out. I believed she was pleased—certainly, if pleasure could be calculated by gruffness, she
was
pleased. Be that as it may she’d never again be able to accuse me of meanness.
“Well, then,” she said, “be seeing you, Raitch.” It seemed the flag was about to be lowered. “Don’t forget to ring sometime if you feel like it.”
“After I’m connected you’ll be the very first I call!”
She stood there awkwardly on the platform. I stood there awkwardly on the train. “Christ Almighty, ten and a half years!” she said.
“I know! Isn’t it incredible?”
It seemed a terribly protracted moment, by far the worst of the whole morning, and I knew I had made a mistake. Had I been on the platform I could so easily have thrown my arms about her—I might even have felt glad to—and by making my way back to my seat just before the whistle blew avoided those last desperately long seconds. It would have been natural, spontaneous. As it was, we just stood there powerless, and separated by glass.
She didn’t even cough. I realized a short while later—as I was taking my place in the restaurant car—that she hadn’t once had a cigarette in her mouth since our departure from the flat. This had plainly been intended as a gesture.
But perversely I felt more annoyed than grateful. It seemed as if she hadn’t quite played fair, had cheated a little, both with that and with her final, farewell words.
“It must be nice having something to look forward to!” she had said. “It must be nice having a home of your own!”
Afterwards she hadn’t even bid me goodbye; had just languidly raised her arm as the train moved out
.
That wasn’t the kind of con trick I admired.
12
I felt now as if I’d
never
had a real home—anyhow not since the age of eight.
The rented flat with my mother assuredly hadn’t been a home; it had been a prison. Or at least that’s what it had rapidly become, obscuring earlier memories of snugness and contentment and what had seemed unselfish love; obscuring the fun and irrepressible laughter when I was being tickled in my bed or sliding down the back of the bath and making floods upon the lino. Within a few weeks of my father’s death we had moved into Marylebone High Street; at that time not the wealthy street it is today. My mother had always been spoilt and somewhat frail—the shock of losing her husband, allied to the fact of our having been bombed out a mere four days after receiving that pitiless telegram; allied to the fact of her having suddenly recognized how relatively poor we had become... these were blows which she unendingly bemoaned throughout the remainder of her life. Add to
them
a reluctance, even an inability, to cope with so many fundamental chores (no husband and—for the first time ever—no maid) and I suppose that in retrospect it’s not surprising she grew hard.
But to return to the point. Whether it was a prison or a home, the only time I could remember being consulted on some question of its decoration my opinion had been summarily dismissed; and after that I took no interest.
Admittedly, when she had died and I was sharing another rented flat, this time with Sylvia, I had done my best, we both had, to make the place comfortable; but I had never
“Bank Holiday,” she mumbled.
“Yes.”
Four months away. I almost said, “Make it Whitsun, why not?” I kept remembering we had lived together, breakfast, supper, lunch and tea for nearly a quarter of our lifetimes. A nicer person would have found it harder saying goodbye.
“And before then you’d better let me know,” she repeated, grudgingly, “about something you’d like for the house.”
“Yes, I will.”
Perhaps one reason I was able to say goodbye so easily was that I felt I’d salved my conscience. I had bought her a video recorder. I had given it to her only about an hour before, while the two removal men were still coming in and staggering out. I believed she was pleased—certainly, if pleasure could be calculated by gruffness, she
was
pleased. Be that as it may she’d never again be able to accuse me of meanness.
“Well, then,” she said, “be seeing you, Raitch.” It seemed the flag was about to be lowered. “Don’t forget to ring sometime if you feel like it.”
“After I’m connected you’ll be the very first I call!”
She stood there awkwardly on the platform. I stood there awkwardly on the train. “Christ Almighty, ten and a half years!” she said.
“I know! Isn’t it incredible?”
It seemed a terribly protracted moment, by far the worst of the whole morning, and I knew I had made a mistake. Had I been on the platform I could so easily have thrown my arms about her—I might even have felt glad to—and by making my way back to my seat just before the whistle blew avoided those last desperately long seconds. It would have been natural, spontaneous. As it was, we just stood there powerless, and separated by glass.
She didn’t even cough. I realized a short while later—as I was taking my place in the restaurant car—that she hadn’t once had a cigarette in her mouth since our departure from the flat. This had plainly been intended as a gesture.
But perversely I felt more annoyed than grateful. It seemed as if she hadn’t quite played fair, had cheated a little, both with that and with her final, farewell words.
“It must be nice having something to look forward to!” she had said. “It must be nice having a home of your own!”
Afterwards she hadn’t even bid me goodbye; had just languidly raised her arm as the train moved out
.
That wasn’t the kind of con trick I admired.
12
I felt now as if I’d
never
had a real home—anyhow not since the age of eight.
The rented flat with my mother assuredly hadn’t been a home; it had been a prison. Or at least that’s what it had rapidly become, obscuring earlier memories of snugness and contentment and what had seemed unselfish love; obscuring the fun and irrepressible laughter when I was being tickled in my bed or sliding down the back of the bath and making floods upon the lino. Within a few weeks of my father’s death we had moved into Marylebone High Street; at that time not the wealthy street it is today. My mother had always been spoilt and somewhat frail—the shock of losing her husband, allied to the fact of our having been bombed out a mere four days after receiving that pitiless telegram; allied to the fact of her having suddenly recognized how relatively poor we had become... these were blows which she unendingly bemoaned throughout the remainder of her life. Add to
them
a reluctance, even an inability, to cope with so many fundamental chores (no husband and—for the first time ever—no maid) and I suppose that in retrospect it’s not surprising she grew hard.
But to return to the point. Whether it was a prison or a home, the only time I could remember being consulted on some question of its decoration my opinion had been summarily dismissed; and after that I took no interest.
Admittedly, when she had died and I was sharing another rented flat, this time with Sylvia, I had done my best, we both had, to make the place comfortable; but I had never
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