by his mother. ‘Bye-bye, Laurie,’ the young lady had said. She kissed Len’s mother, and she and Len went out to the back-door to say goodbye. They were a long time gone and Len loafed back, scratching his head, smiling to himself. Laurence, trying not to show curiosity, had become grumpy and silent. He would dearly have liked a young lady of his own, even if like Len’s she said only ‘So what?’ and ‘
I
should care!’ He could not imagine ever having anyone of his own who would have such an easy relationship with his mother, kissing her goodbye, winking at her, joining that confederacy against the foibles, the conceits of men. The idea staggered him: yet it was not impossible to see his mother playing much that kind of role – chiding, affectionate, woman-to-woman. The imaginaryyoung lady assumed any part he liked to allot her; only he himself was intractable.
The most bitter thing for a child is to see in another just the kind of son his mother deserved, and Laurence was always doing this. Whenever boys teased their mothers, flung about their homely banter (American youths in films did it most of all), he realised how exactly they complemented Isabella, and he mourned for her; then longed to leave her, before some terrible and alien phrase was forced from him in pity.
All of his friends made better efforts – unless it was no effort at all – the Lens and Syds and Rons, whose names sounded so strangely to Isabella, used until now to Hay-Hardy and Ross-Amberley and Bagshot-Hepburn Minor. (‘Surely, dear, you don’t call them by their Christian names?’) At no cost to themselves that he, Laurence, could see, they fell into the necessary chiding, rallying and rudenesses required of them. This rather contemptuous attitude which mothers seemed to delight in from their sons, was strongly resented when coming from their daughters. ‘Don’t you speak to me like that, miss!’ Laurence had been interested to hear Len’s mother snapping at her daughter. ‘Fancy wearing red at your age!’ the girl had said – a remark which, when made by Len a little earlier, had elicited chuckles, mock fury, and a flustered: ‘Oh, get along with you,’ when he had tried to kiss her. Laurence was fascinated by this scene and wondered if a sister of his own would have eased his lot and made him behave more naturally.
He stopped outside the cinema. He saw so many films that he could never remember them. The poster of a girl in a topee and breeches, with blonde hair to her waist and an unbuttoned shirt, seemed familiar, but the warm puffs of air coming from the foyer enticed him. He liked the smell of carpet and smoke and disinfectant. The film was half-way through; but, like so many of his generation, he was adept at piecing together two parts of astory offered in the wrong order. No difficulty occurred to him. It was only a matter of ‘seeing it round’. ‘I stayed to see the film round,’ he would explain to his mother.
He followed a girl in a turquoise-blue coat and stood behind her at the ticket-office. Len would have thought her a fine young lady, and when she asked for one two-and-fourpenny, Laurence did the same.
He trod clumsily after her, tripping on carpets as yielding as feather-beds, into the darkness which a great, vibrating film-voice dominated. Unaccountable (since he could not look at the screen without stumbling) silences fell, followed by gusts of laughter. He plunged steeply downhill after the girl, drawn forward by wavering torchlight, then brushed past a row of resentful people, who put their knees sideways, or half rose, clutching bundles to them. He sat down next to the girl, who immediately untied her silk head-scarf and smoothed her blonde hair with her hands. She settled down in a businesslike way, unbuttoning her coat, combing her hair and putting her gloves into her handbag. All the time, she stared ahead. He stared at her, until the smart click of her bag when she shut it brought him to his
I
should care!’ He could not imagine ever having anyone of his own who would have such an easy relationship with his mother, kissing her goodbye, winking at her, joining that confederacy against the foibles, the conceits of men. The idea staggered him: yet it was not impossible to see his mother playing much that kind of role – chiding, affectionate, woman-to-woman. The imaginaryyoung lady assumed any part he liked to allot her; only he himself was intractable.
The most bitter thing for a child is to see in another just the kind of son his mother deserved, and Laurence was always doing this. Whenever boys teased their mothers, flung about their homely banter (American youths in films did it most of all), he realised how exactly they complemented Isabella, and he mourned for her; then longed to leave her, before some terrible and alien phrase was forced from him in pity.
All of his friends made better efforts – unless it was no effort at all – the Lens and Syds and Rons, whose names sounded so strangely to Isabella, used until now to Hay-Hardy and Ross-Amberley and Bagshot-Hepburn Minor. (‘Surely, dear, you don’t call them by their Christian names?’) At no cost to themselves that he, Laurence, could see, they fell into the necessary chiding, rallying and rudenesses required of them. This rather contemptuous attitude which mothers seemed to delight in from their sons, was strongly resented when coming from their daughters. ‘Don’t you speak to me like that, miss!’ Laurence had been interested to hear Len’s mother snapping at her daughter. ‘Fancy wearing red at your age!’ the girl had said – a remark which, when made by Len a little earlier, had elicited chuckles, mock fury, and a flustered: ‘Oh, get along with you,’ when he had tried to kiss her. Laurence was fascinated by this scene and wondered if a sister of his own would have eased his lot and made him behave more naturally.
He stopped outside the cinema. He saw so many films that he could never remember them. The poster of a girl in a topee and breeches, with blonde hair to her waist and an unbuttoned shirt, seemed familiar, but the warm puffs of air coming from the foyer enticed him. He liked the smell of carpet and smoke and disinfectant. The film was half-way through; but, like so many of his generation, he was adept at piecing together two parts of astory offered in the wrong order. No difficulty occurred to him. It was only a matter of ‘seeing it round’. ‘I stayed to see the film round,’ he would explain to his mother.
He followed a girl in a turquoise-blue coat and stood behind her at the ticket-office. Len would have thought her a fine young lady, and when she asked for one two-and-fourpenny, Laurence did the same.
He trod clumsily after her, tripping on carpets as yielding as feather-beds, into the darkness which a great, vibrating film-voice dominated. Unaccountable (since he could not look at the screen without stumbling) silences fell, followed by gusts of laughter. He plunged steeply downhill after the girl, drawn forward by wavering torchlight, then brushed past a row of resentful people, who put their knees sideways, or half rose, clutching bundles to them. He sat down next to the girl, who immediately untied her silk head-scarf and smoothed her blonde hair with her hands. She settled down in a businesslike way, unbuttoning her coat, combing her hair and putting her gloves into her handbag. All the time, she stared ahead. He stared at her, until the smart click of her bag when she shut it brought him to his
Similar Books
