Gently Floating (2 page)

‘You vicious bastard,’ French said. ‘I’ll break your bloody arm for you.’

‘I’ll do you in,’ the man swore. ‘I will. I will. I’ll bloody kill you.’

‘John!’ French shouted. ‘Come out. I know you’re in here somewhere.’

He began throwing open the doors, but the second door he tried was locked. He hammered on it, shouting. The man was getting up off the floor. French drove his shoulder into the door and the door sagged. Then the man was on him.

‘You bugger, you bugger!’ the man was gasping.

He had the stop in his hand again. French seized his wrist but couldn’t bend it back, took a numbing blow on the shoulder. He heaved at the man and shoved him away. The man stood swaying, panting, watching. The blow on French’s shoulder had hurt. He didn’t follow up to deal with the stop. The man threw it. It grazed French’s arm and bounded up the hallway with violent bumps. French went forward, got a plimsoll in his stomach, staggered back a pace, winded, remained sucking in breath.

‘You bloody great sod,’ the man swore.

But he didn’t attack French again. From three yards’ distance they eyed each other, resting, breathing, calculating chances. Reuben’s Cakewalk was blatting out ‘Dark Eyes’. Some blood was dripping down the man’s chin.

‘Are you opening that door?’ French gasped.

‘Bloody great sod,’ the man repeated.

‘I don’t go without him,’ French said.

The man said nothing, made no move.

A door behind the man opened, but the man didn’t turn his head. A blonde woman came out into the hallway. She stood still, looking at the two men.

‘Aren’t you bloody well ashamed?’ she said.

‘Shut your mouth, Rhoda,’ the man snarled.

‘I should shut my mouth,’ she said, ‘with you two behaving like wet kids. What’s it about? You know John isn’t here.’

‘That’s a damned lie!’ French shouted.

‘Clear out of here, Rhoda,’ the man said.

The woman shrugged, made a swing motion with her hips.

‘He hasn’t been here,’ she said to French. ‘We haven’t seen him this week.’

‘He’s in this room,’ French shouted. ‘Either you open it or I smash the door in.’

She felt in a pocket. ‘Catch,’ she said. She threw a small door-key to French. The man rounded on her, feinted a blow. She laughed in his face, didn’t flinch away.

The room was a small, cheaply furnished bedroom with plasterboard-lined walls. It contained nowhere for a man to hide and there was nobody in it. One of its lattice windows was pegged open. French went across and looked through the window. It gave into a dark, narrow cul-de-sac which communicated with the front of the plot. Nothing stirred out there. The room had a bleak, unoccupied smell.

The blonde woman came into the room after French and stood near the door, watching him look through the window. She was about forty years old and wore a blue worsted dressing gown and she had an oval face with full features and she had a full figure and it was firm. She had steady blue eyes, a round-tipped nose and a crumpled mouth. Her blonde hair was naturally blonde. It had been fashioned by a hairdresser but now straggled untidily. She was smiling at French’s back. When he turned she didn’t smile.

She said: ‘Satisfied?’

His brown eyes fastened on her. He came back from the window.

‘He wasn’t here,’ the blonde woman said. ‘Perhaps he’s giving the girls a treat in town.’

‘You lying whore,’ French said to her.

‘Thanks for nothing,’ the woman said.

‘You got him out of here,’ French said. ‘He must have taken a rowboat from the front.’

‘We don’t have a rowboat,’ the woman said. ‘Your bloody work-launch bust it up for us.’

‘Liar, liar,’ French said.

‘Aren’t you a sweet bastard,’ the woman said.

‘There’s one of our dinghies in the dyke,’ French said. ‘Do you think I can’t believe my eyes?’

The woman drew her head back to stare at him. ‘And that’s the bloody reason?’ she said. ‘You break in here and knock Sid about because of that dinghy in the dyke?’

‘He came in that dinghy,’ French said.

‘Don’t make me spit,’ the woman said. ‘Sid had that dinghy, his bike is buggered up. Mr Archer said he could borrow a dinghy.’

‘To go quarter of a mile?’

‘What’s that got to do with it? They never walk when there’s a boat.’

‘You filthy liar,’ French said.

‘A gent,’ the woman said. ‘A gent.’

French closed his eyes. The woman watched him. The man was moving in another room. French’s face showed pale, dragged. He was shifting his weight from side to side.

‘It’s got to stop,’ he said, his eyes still closed. ‘You won’t get the money. I’ll see to that. I’ll get an injunction. You’ll never see a penny. Did you think I’d let my son be robbed?’

‘Who’s talking of robbing him?’ the woman said.

‘His mother’s money,’ French said. ‘I don’t have to watch while you pinch it off him, while he’s debauched by a bitch like you. Now I’m telling you. It’s got to stop. Sid can pick up his money in the morning. And if ever I find John here again, I’ll see you both out in the gutter.’ He opened his eyes. ‘You heard that?’

‘You’re up the pole,’ the woman said. ‘What do we care about your brat’s money? You’re a bloody joke, with your big talk.’

‘I can fix you,’ French said.

‘Try scaring your son,’ the woman said.

‘And I can talk to the union,’ French said. ‘They won’t wear the sort of game you’re up to.’

‘What game?’ the woman said. ‘Let’s see your proof, if you’ve got any.’

French closed his eyes again, swallowed, tried to breathe regularly.

The woman said: ‘Look, you’re all mixed up. Nobody’s trying to rob your precious son. And you’ve knocked yourself up, if you ask me, you’d better sit down and have a drop of something.’

‘You’ve had your warning,’ French said.

‘Let’s go and sit down,’ the woman said. ‘Christ knows, there’s no harm in talking about it. Perhaps it’ll make you feel better.’

She turned away from him, went down the hallway, into the room on the left. The man was sitting in it. He was dabbing his mouth. His lips were cut and puffing up. She winked at the man.

‘You frig off, Sid. I’ll do better on my own.’

‘If ever I get a chance at that bastard,’ he said.

‘Just frig off, I can handle him.’

The man muttered, got to his feet, went padding off down the hallway. As he passed French he spat on the floor. He slammed the door of the bungalow, and after it, the gate. The woman came out in the hallway, beckoned to French.

‘Got a stinking temper, Sid has,’ she said. ‘But he’ll get over it, it doesn’t last. We can talk now he’s gone.’

‘You heard what I said,’ French said.

‘You’re worked up too,’ the woman said. ‘I don’t care what you’ve been saying. It’s a lot of pills. Come and sit down. I’ll tell you something about your son. You’ve worked yourself up about nothing.’

‘You’re a liar,’ French said.

‘I know I’m a liar,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down.’

French looked at her a long time. Then he went slowly along the hallway. The room on the left was furnished as a lounge and looked over a veranda which faced the river. The furniture was cheap and pre-war but there was a modern TV and a transistor radio. The room smelled of cigarette-smoke and of a cheap cosmetic. It was small and the furniture was huddled together. The woman went to a stained-wood cabinet and poured whisky into glasses from a Dewars’ bottle. She added nothing to it. She handed one glass to French.

She said: ‘Cheers,’ and swallowed half her drink.

French didn’t drink or say anything. She closed the door he had left open, sat on the settee, crossed her legs.

‘So John’s a nice boy,’ she said.

‘I don’t want to hear about it,’ French said.

‘Don’t be so bloody touchy,’ she said. ‘And sit down so I don’t have to crick my neck. I want to talk to you.’

French looked behind him, found a fireside chair, sat.

‘He’s a nice boy,’ she said. ‘You’re quite right, I made a man of him. What’s wrong with doing that, anyway? Some fast little bitch might have got hold of him.’

‘You’re only twice his age,’ French said.

‘Don’t give me that,’ the woman said. ‘That’s what they want when they’re that age – a woman who knows all about it. I’ve been bloody good for that boy – the way he is, shy. You ought to thank me instead of shouting at me. I’ve been an education to him.’

‘And Sid holds the door?’ French said.

‘Sid,’ the woman said. She made a gesture. ‘Sid doesn’t give a crap, he never did, about that. Maybe his accident did something to him.’

‘It was his own fault,’ French said.

‘I know it was,’ the woman said. ‘For chrissake climb down a bit.’

‘His own fault,’ French said. ‘He tried to walk a yacht up the slipway. Showing off to the apprentices. That’s how he hurt his back. And I paid him compensation, though I wasn’t damn well liable, and he’s been swinging the lead ever since, and making trouble. That’s Sid.’

‘Am I saying it isn’t?’ the woman said. ‘I should know what the bleeder’s like.’

‘And you’re just the mate for him,’ French said.

‘Oh, bloody stick it,’ the woman said.

She swallowed the second half of her drink and set the glass on the linoleum. Then she uncrossed her legs, hoisted them on the settee, lay back. Reuben’s Cakewalk had closed down. Some distant pub turnouts were yelling. After that it was quiet. The river flowed without sound.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘You’re making a hell of a lot of fuss about nothing. Some time your son was going after it, and he might have done a damn sight worse than me. And you don’t like Sid. So bloody what? He doesn’t slay me either. But you’ve got him wrong about pinching the kid’s money, he isn’t a rogue. It’s a bit of business.’

‘Business,’ French said.

‘What’s the use of being so bloody sour?’ she said. ‘The kid gets on with Sid if you don’t, and it’s all fair and above board.’

French looked at her.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘you want to know what it is? You don’t trust Sid and me, do you, but I’ll show you we can trust you. It’s Jimpson’s dance hall, that’s what, over the other side of the bridge.’

‘What about the dance hall?’

‘That’s the idea,’ she said. ‘Running the dance hall again.’

‘That wreck?’

‘It wants doing up,’ she said. ‘But it’ll pay, don’t you worry.’

After a pause, French said: ‘I’ll buy it. I’ll tear it down and make a car park.’

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ the woman said. ‘Sid’s got an option. Molly Jimpson’s his cousin.’

‘I’ll buy the option,’ French said. ‘Is that what you’re after? How much?’

‘We’re not bloody selling,’ the woman said. ‘So you can stick that idea. This is business, like I said. And your son’s coming in on it. Why the hell shouldn’t he branch out if he wants to? He doesn’t give a frig for the boats.’

French closed his eyes, said: ‘I’ll find a way to fix that. Option or not, I’ll fix it. I’ll get my son clear of you.’

‘Be your age,’ the woman said. ‘Didn’t I trust you, telling you about it?’

‘Your mistake,’ French said. ‘You whore. I’m glad I let you talk.’

‘Now look here,’ the woman said. She sat up. ‘I’ve been straight with you, Harry. I told you that in bloody confidence. Sid would knock me about if he knew. So why not play ball?’

French came to his feet.

‘You might as well as not,’ the woman said. ‘The kid’ll hate you if you bugger it up, and he’ll perhaps do worse, just to spite you. Can’t you be a bit bloody human? Let other people live too? I should think a woman would do
you
good, living alone in that damn great house.’

‘You?’ French said.

‘What’s wrong with me?’

French put down his glass on the table.

‘I’d sooner take a bath in a cesspit,’ he said.

‘You’d smell about the same if you did,’ the woman said.

They looked at each other.

‘Sid’s sacked,’ French said. ‘He needn’t come in. I don’t want to see him. I’ll send his money and cards round.’

‘Get stuffed,’ the woman said. ‘I hope a bus runs over you.’

He turned, went straight through the door, down the hallway, out of the bungalow. When the gate slammed behind him he took a few steps down the cinder path, came to a stand. He was trembling. A faint night breeze pressed over the marshes from the direction of the Sounds, very soft, not enough to stir the leaves of a bush willow. Reuben’s blaze had been dipped. The traffic lights were switched off. Only Spelton Bros.’ shed showed a dim panel of light. French took several steady breaths, feeling the pulses beat in his temples. The trembling didn’t decrease. His bruised arm and stomach ached. The little breeze carried a fragrance of reeds, water, marsh-litter, forcing an image of the Sounds through the obsession in his mind. He let it lay there as he breathed. Then the pulsing, trembling, receded. He walked on down the path and across the rough ground to the staithe. The launch lay downstream, streamed on the ebb. He loosed the painter, reached for the coaming. The Sounds were still in his mind. When everything vanished.

Everything: the Sounds, the obsession underlying them, French’s body, the launch, the river, the night; the ninety-six craft, all let, the quays, the bridge, Reuben’s Cakewalk, the yard, the memory of his wife, his house, his son, the big sky. Out, out, out, out. Not even distant memories left. Not the wide country nor the ocean nor the world’s rim nor the stars. Thou art That was so no longer, the stubborn deception resolved: the one appearing two now the one appearing one. And the appearance of the two vanished, vanished, vanished, vanished.

The launch went down on the ebb and found its way through the bridge, touched gently at dark quays, at the boats moored to them. It moved slantways and sideways, but never directly ahead; strayed small and soundless among the tall-sided cruisers. By the slack, which was near dawn, it was down below the bungalows, the downstream bungalows which stretched for a mile. A white mist was on the river. The launch was wet, dark, still. It had its stem to the reeds as though come to a mooring. Then the sun rose, at first redly, spilling into the wide marshes, thinning the swirling smoke vapour, warming the tones of the reeds; touched the launch’s deep mahogany and its smart red plastic-covered cushions and its terylene painter hanging down in the water. The reed birds began to sing. A heron heaved up with broad slow wings. The heron wheeled to inspect the launch, carried its legs across the river. The mist collapsed, lower, lower, rolled along the surface, flattened, dissolved; the launch lay sharp and hard on the film of pale water. At half past five an angler rowed by. He stared at the launch, sat letting his blades drip. Then he pulled over, came alongside, saw the launch was empty, tied on to it.