barge pole.
“Oh, yes,” I say, “my family came up here once. My father was very impressed. Now, which bar do you recommend?”
Inside there is a big log fire burning and a few old codgers playing dominoes in the corner. They look at us like they’ve never seen another human being before, but after examining every thread of clothing eventually go back to their game as we settle by the fire.
“You’d better not offer to do this too often, otherwise you’ll have no money left,” says Mrs. B., raising her glass of whisky gratefully. I agree with her but I don’t say so.
“It’s my pleasure. The very least I could do after that wonderful meal.”
Smarmy creep, aren’t I? But it’s only common sense to keep on the best side of your landlady. But how far should I go? If it was anyone else I’d be trying to get my hand up her skirt already; but I have to live with her. If she takes it the wrong way or we get too involved, it could be disastrous. I’d better bide my time till I see how the land lies—or the landlady lies.
“You’re looking very preoccupied,” she says. “A penny for your thoughts.”
“I wasn’t thinking about anything really—apart from how lucky I am to be staying with you, of course. No, I think I must be a bit tired. I’m feeling quite drowsy.”
“Not surprising after your journey. It’s probably the air, too. Very bracing, Norfolk air, but it takes it out of you. I’ll buy you one and then we’d best be getting back. There’s not a lot of time before they close, anyway.”
I protest but she is very persistent and in the end she slips me 50p and we have another one.
“Have you got any children?” I ask in one of our quiet moments—these occur when she stops talking to get her breath back.
“Yes. One. She’s at Teacher Training College at the moment. She’ll be home at Christmas. She’s a lovely girl, though I say so myself. You’ve got her bedroom.”
“I hope that’s not going to inconvenience you when she comes home?”
“No, she can move in with me. It won’t hurt her for a couple of weeks.”
“Is that all the holiday she gets?”
“No, but she has lots of friends and she is always going to stay with them. They come here in the summer, though it’s a crush putting them all up.”
I look forward to seeing Miss Bendon and the thought preoccupies me on the way back.
To my surprise Mrs. B. does not get out before we approach the garage but sits there while I open up and edge forward into the tight little nest of darkness. I switch off the engine and the silence is deafening.
“Well,” she says wistfully, “that was very nice.” I can feel her turning her face towards me and I don’t need a handbook to tell me what I am supposed to do next.
“Yes. Very snug little place, that,” I gulp. I’m tempted My God, I’m tempted, but I try to remember my resolution of earlier in the evening. Mrs. B. sighs and puts her hand on the door handle.
“Ah well, I suppose we’d better go home before someone wonders what we’re doing in here.”
“Yes.” I try a light laugh and hop out gratefully. Sitting beside Mrs. B.’s warm, perfume-doused body and listening to the noise her stockings make as they rub together is more than a young boy should be expected to stand.
We walk home in silence and Mrs. B. lets me in. and pauses at the foot of the stairs.
“Would you like Ovaltine or something?”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll turn in. I’m feeling really sleepy now.”
Mrs. B. puts her hand on my arm.
“Breakfast will be about eight. I’ll give you a call. Thanks again for taking me out. I did enjoy it.”
“It was nothing. Really nothing.” I drop my head and give her a quick kiss on the cheek as if the idea had just flown into my mind and been too overpowering to resist. “I’m sorry. I just felt I had to do that. I don’t know what came over me. Sorry.”
I make this speech stumbling up the stairs and at their foot Mrs. B. is gazing at me with what seems like tears in her eyes—or maybe it is the light.
“You’re a funny boy,” she says, blowing me a kiss. “Sleep tight.”
“Good night.”
I scarper across the landing and gratefully close my bedroom door behind me. Not bad, really. Enough done to save my honour and keep Mrs. B. simmering gently, without risking upsetting the apple cart on my first trip to market.
I undress and get into bed and then have to get out again and wedge some paper into the window jambs to stop their persistent rattle performing a Norfolk version of the Chinese water torture. The wind threatens to lift the house off the ground and the sea sounds mean and angry and coming from the next room. Considering I am living in the middle of a town it is amazing how quiet it is otherwise. No cars, no drunks, no Ngoblas extending hospitality Ghanian-style to about 500 guests.
Thinking about home makes me sad again. I imagine Dad dropping off in front of the little white light in the middle of the T.V. screen, and Mum carefully marking up tomorrow’s viewing in the T.V. Times before feeding the goldfish and putting the cat out.
Cromingham seems a long way from all that.
The next morning finds me outside the East Coast Driving School, which is situated in a small glass-fronted shop next to the Majestic Cinema and sllightly larger than it. The cinema is showing ‘The Big Sleep’ and the familiar faces of Bogart and Bacall, sneering at me from the faded stills, are comforting. “Yeah, he’s the kind of guy who would bat all your teeth out, then kick you in the stomach for mumbling.” “O.K., blue eyes, where’s Schultzy? Talk or I’ll give you a row of lead waistcoat buttons.” I turn up my coat collar, stuff my hands deep into the pockets and walk past the E.C.D.S. offices again. I have done this about six times now and the shapely blonde manicuring her nails behind a desk marked RECEPTION is beginning to notice me. She is wearing a silk blouse unbuttoned provocatively so the top of her bra cups show and she is either chewing gum or trying to ease out a stubborn piece of breakfast that doesn’t want to say goodbye to her teeth. She looks a greedy girl and I am prepared to bet that her appetite covers more than a taste for Black Magic chocolates. Besides her, the room contains half-a-dozen chairs and a test-your-eyesight wall chart. It looks like a doctor’s waiting-room.
It is five past nine so I square my enormous shoulders and stroll nonchalantly into the reception area, pausing only to remove the doormat which has hooked itself over one of my shoes.
“Yes?” says the girl, looking at me as if I am something the cat has brought up. “Can I help you?” She manages to make it sound like it is the last thing in the world she wants to do.
“I hope so,” I say. “My name is Lea and I have an appointment with Mr. Cronk at nine o’clock.”
“And you’re five minutes late for it, aren’t you, lad?” The voice belongs to an enormous man with a moustache like one of those things used for cleaning toilets.
He has appeared through a door marked PRIVATE and his bloodshot eyes are going up and down my body like they’ve been caught up in the zip of my fly.
“One thing I can’t abide is unpunctuality,” he goes on. “I saw you slouching up and down outside. Having second thoughts, were you? Or was it the lure of the moving picture house? No joy there, because it’s bingo two-knee-ite.” His voice rises to a shrill screech at the end of the sentence and the word ‘night’ is pronounced as in ‘knee height to a grasshopper.’ His inflection is about as army as