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  ‘In any case,’ Attercliffe said, ‘who’s Gavin?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  Elise pushed past him, gazing at the screen from a position which obstructed Attercliffe’s view completely.

  ‘Is he young, old, or medium?’ he added.

  ‘Younger than you.’

  Catherine tossed the remark across her shoulder.

  ‘How much younger?’

  ‘Lots.’

  ‘He’s twenty-six.’ Elise turned, the towel knotted round her head.

  ‘That’s young.’

  ‘Sounds old to me.’

  ‘Your mother’s forty.’ Attercliffe paused. ‘Sheila is almost forty-one.’

  ‘She was thirty-nine last year.’

  He went through to the kitchen: the floor was wet, the draining-board was wet, the wall was wet; Elise’s footprints led out to the hall. Clots of hair hung in the plughole. A comb and a hairbrush, also wet, stood on the kitchen table.

  ‘How did it go?’

  Elise watched him from the door.

  For a moment he thought she’d come in with the intention of clearing up the sink.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Get everything down?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘We saw the result on television.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Mr Fredericks there?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘He rang up after you left.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘He said he’d be late.’

  ‘So I discovered.’

  ‘Why don’t you work on your own?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You always work with him.’

  ‘We write this column together.’

  ‘He doesn’t do any of it, Sheila says.’

  ‘What else has she told you?’

  ‘He leaves most of it to you.’ She ran the comb through the bristles of the brush, collected the strands of hair, opened the lid of the rubbish bin, and dropped them in.

  ‘Did you answer the telephone, or Cathy?’

  ‘Cathy.’

  ‘What did Sheila say about being unhappy?’

  ‘Cathy asked her how she was and she said she wasn’t feeling well.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean unhappy.’

  ‘She asked her what the matter was and Mummy said, “Everything, really,” and when she said, “What’s everything?” she said she hardly ever sees Gavin.’

  ‘I’ve never even heard of Gavin.’

  ‘You don’t have to hear of everyone.’

  In many respects, Attercliffe reflected, it was as if Elise were the child of another father, one who seldom showed up and who, when he did – distressed at what his daughter had become – only succeeded in bawling her out. Also, he reminded himself, living in the circumstances that they did, she had to keep up her guard against encroachments: anything close was fraught with pain.

  ‘Are you going out tonight?’

  ‘With Sandra.’

  ‘Is Cathy going out?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Isn’t she going out with you?’

  ‘No.’

  She turned to the door.

  ‘Have you got a lift home?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘If you’re staying at Sandra’s could you give me a ring?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She went out to the hall; the living-room door was closed; the murmur of voices (‘What did he say?’) was interrupted by the sound of singing.

  Attercliffe took off his overcoat and carried it upstairs.

  A bedroom at the back, once occupied by his youngest daughter, now contained a desk as well as a bed: on the bed he placed his coat and on the desk his notes.

  Through the window the lights of the estate stretched up a slope to a field which interceded between the last of the houses and the silhouetted hulk of a ruined castle: a mist hung in the air, turning each patch of light into a liquid blur.

  In the uncurtained window of the house across the wattle fence at the end of his lawned back garden he watched a woman whom he had watched on numerous occasions before seated in the kitchen talking into a wall telephone.

  ‘Dad?’

  It was Catherine’s call from the foot of the stairs.

  The hair stood up on the back of his neck.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Shall I bring it up?’

  ‘All right.’

  He lifted the typewriter off the floor, got out the Tipp-Ex sheets and a carbon, rolled in the paper, and sat down at the desk.

  ‘Shall I come in?’

  The features of an inquiring child, its head enclosed in a halo of plaited hair, appeared around the door.

  ‘“Shall”, or “can”?’

  She came inside with a cup and a saucer.

  ‘Anything to eat?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You’ll have drunk a bit already.’

  ‘Not much.’

  She rubbed her feet against the carpet. ‘All right if I go out tonight?’

  ‘Usually you tell me,’ Attercliffe said. ‘Not inquire.’

  ‘I might be late.’

  ‘How late?’

  ‘Two or three.’

  ‘In the morning?’

  ‘I could stay at Benjie’s.’

  ‘Who is this Benjie?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Why did he run away?’

  ‘He was frightened.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I’d like to have met him,’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘Another time.’

  ‘I’d prefer you to come back, nevertheless.’

  ‘I’ve stayed at Benjie’s before.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I’ve been staying over at Mum’s.’

  ‘She never told me.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to tell you everything.’

  ‘Isn’t it late for a girl of fifteen?’

  ‘I’m in my sixteenth year, Dad.’

  He paused. ‘Do you have a separate room at Benjie’s?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t Benjie’s parents think it odd their son bringing a girl to spend the night?’

  ‘They’ve invited me to come.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Often.’

  She dug her foot at the carpet.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘A party.’

  ‘Same one as Elly’s?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘You don’t know them.’

  ‘Are they black?’

  ‘Why do they have to be black?’

  ‘Benjie’s black.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She lowered her head.

  ‘Is he still at school?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s out of work,’ Attercliffe suggested.

  ‘He may have to go into Borstal soon.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because he’s been charged.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Attacking a white man.’

  Attercliffe returned his gaze to the window; he examined his daughter’s reflection: dark eyes seethed within a pigtailed head – pale-cheeked, slim-necked, broad-browed, sharp-nosed – pugnaciously featured, he concluded, like himself.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He insulted his brother.’

  ‘Whose brother?’

  ‘Benjie’s.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At a dance hall.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘There were eight, including Benjie and his brother. They attacked this man in the car park.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘A knife.’


  She added, ‘They were originally charged with attempted murder, then with grievous bodily harm with intent, but it’ll only be G.B.H., in the end.’

  Attercliffe’s hand, on the one side, gripped the desk; on the other his hand encountered first the edge of the chair and then its back. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of the provocation.’

  ‘What provocation?’

  ‘He called them names.’

  Attercliffe returned his gaze to his daughter: he examined the division of her hair into plaits.

  ‘Has he been to Borstal before?’

  ‘Only once.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Stealing.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Shops.’

  ‘Anywhere else?’

  ‘Houses.’

  ‘Does Sheila know?’

  ‘I’ve told her.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘“You have to take everyone as you find them.”’

  Attercliffe laughed; the sound was sufficient to prompt Catherine to raise her head.

  ‘It’s nothing but racial prejudice, Dad.’

  ‘What about his friends?’

  ‘The whole of society’s against them. You don’t know what it’s like to be black.’

  ‘Sticking a knife into someone is a cause for legitimate complaint,’ he said.

  ‘It was Benjie’s brother who stabbed him.’

  ‘Do the police know that?’

  ‘No.’ She dug her foot at the carpet again.

  ‘I was brought up in far greater poverty than Benjie’s had to endure. I’ve had to fight harder, and longer, and against greater odds,’ he said.

  ‘Have you had to fight,’ she said, looking up, ‘against the colour of your skin?’

  ‘I’ve fought for what I am,’ he said.

  His own father used to tell him that: an employee of the London and North-Eastern Railway Company, with his furtively acquired supplies of railway coal, his frost-bitten hands, his Neanderthal stoop from standing so many hours of his adult life on the open platform of a steam locomotive. ‘I’d have more sympathy for Benjie if his energies were directed to changing the world he lives in, instead of stealing from shops, breaking into houses, and stabbing a man at the back of a dance hall.’

  ‘He only kicked him once.’

  ‘After he stabbed him?’

  ‘There are other sides to his nature.’

  ‘What sides?’

  ‘He gave me this jersey.’

  ‘How could he afford it?’

  ‘He stole it.’ She added, ‘He cared about me. He wanted me to have it. You’re such a conformist.’

  Attercliffe’s gaze went back to his daughter’s hair: he examined once more its fusillade of plaits, each secured by a check-patterned ribbon.

  ‘What room do you sleep in when you stay overnight?’

  ‘His sisters’.’

  ‘His sister’s, or his sisters’?’

  ‘His sisters’!’

  ‘How many has he got?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Eight!’

  ‘Five of them don’t live at home. Doreen and Sheba share a bed when I go there and I sleep in Sasha’s.’

  ‘How old’s Sasha?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘Does she steal and mutilate?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘She earns a living.’

  ‘She’s still at school.’

  ‘An intellectual.’

  ‘She leaves at Easter.’

  ‘How many brothers?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Ten children.’

  ‘You’ve got five.’

  ‘You don’t have to remind me,’ Attercliffe said. ‘When you were born I thought I was responding to a God-given gift. I thought I was showing an appetite for living.’

  ‘In any case, Mr Foster has two other wives.’

  ‘Two other wives?’

  ‘He has one in Jamaica.’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘Sheila has got two husbands. Three, if you count Gavin.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘He’s a Moslem.’

  ‘Gavin?’

  ‘Mr Foster.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Older than you.’

  ‘How much older?’

  ‘He looks younger, but is five years older.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘In any case, I don’t see the point of all these questions.’

  ‘I’m trying to look, Catherine, for something to tell me when you go out at night that I don’t have to worry, that you’ll be in the hands of people who intend to return you to this house in the same shape, the same physical and mental shape, in which you left it.’

  ‘They will.’

  ‘You see my concern?’

  ‘You never get on at Elise.’

  ‘She spends the night at Sandra’s.’

  ‘And Sandra’s white.’

  ‘Sandra is not a homicidal maniac.’

  ‘Neither is Benjie.’

  ‘His brother is. Benjie has still to prove his potential.’

  ‘If Christ were on earth he’d love Benjie, and he’d love his brother and he’d love the Fosters.’

  ‘They don’t believe in Christ, they’re Moslem.’

  ‘They believe Jesus was a prophet.’

  ‘Have they told you that?’

  ‘I’ve read it in a book.’ The plaits were shaken: it was getting close to the time she would have to go out. ‘Don’t you see that Christ would love Benjie because of his sins? He would see him as a human being, and not through the eyes of racial prejudice.’

  ‘Benjie is like he is, and I react like I do,’ Attercliffe said, ‘because of racial prejudice?’

  The tone of incredulity in his voice was heightened by the ordeal of his having had to compose a match report on his own and because he knew he would have to have ‘Pindar’s Weekend Round-up’ in the hands of the compositors by this time tomorrow.

  ‘You don’t even know him.’

  ‘I’ve seen him.’

  ‘For five seconds.’

  ‘That’s all he’d allow me.’

  ‘He despises the way you live.’

  ‘What does he despise about it?’

  ‘Its emptiness. Its lack of joy. Its lack of meaning.’

  ‘Sticking a knife into somebody outnumbered eight to one is a better advertisement for living?’ Attercliffe asked.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t told you.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. Even if it’s something Benjie doesn’t believe in, telling the truth with me is all that counts. At least when we have the truth we can live like human beings. It’s the truth,’ Attercliffe said, ‘I’m always keen on.’

  ‘In that case, he didn’t stick in the knife.’

  ‘Stealing from shops is a better bargain.’

  ‘He doesn’t know better.’

  ‘He’s a shifty creep.’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘I hate him. I can’t deny it. Not because he’s black, but because of what he’s doing to you.’

  ‘If you’re worried I’ll get pregnant, I’m taking the pill.’

  ‘At fifteen!’

  ‘I’m in my sixteenth year.’

  ‘You never told me,’ Attercliffe said. ‘Haven’t I to be consulted? Doesn’t the doctor have to inform me, if you’re under age?’

  ‘I’ve told Sheila.’

  ‘She never told me.’

  ‘That’s up to her.’

  ‘We live under the same roof, Cathy,’ Attercliffe said. ‘I’m not only responsible for your material welfare but I’m trying to cater for your moral being as well.’

  ‘The way we live?’ his daughter said.

  ‘Do you know the effect of all this chemical ingestion? If you’re imbibing these pills at fifteen, what are you going to look like,’ he said, ‘at the age of forty-five?’

  ‘Elise takes them.’

&nbs
p; ‘She asked her mother. I had no choice. She’s two years older.’

  ‘I care about you,’ his daughter said. ‘So does Elise.’

  ‘I’d prefer you not to go out with Benjie,’ Attercliffe said, after a very long pause.

  ‘That’s blackmail. You only care about your own feelings, I love Benjie.’

  ‘At fifteen?’

  ‘What has age got to do with it? A child can love. I’m older than a child.’

  She paused. ‘Do you want anything else?’

  ‘Will you be coming back?’ he asked her.

  ‘That’s right.’ She turned to the door.

  ‘Is Elise coming back?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Her feet thudded along the landing; her voice, singing, came from the bathroom: she was standing in front of the mirror, he imagined, taking out her plaits.

  What did it matter, Attercliffe reflected, as long as he loved her? (Love encompasseth all things, Dad.) Can anything in life be stronger than that – the pain she caused, the anxiety he felt, the torment of knowing she was in other hands (criminality countenanced by race)?

  If Christ loves Benjie why can’t I?

  He sat at the typewriter and tapped the keys; Elise, too, was getting dressed: at some point during the argument she had come upstairs, for he could hear her voice calling from her bedroom, describing the merits of a record she had bought that afternoon.

  They (he) had brought up their (his) daughters without a hint of sexual prejudice, only to see them take to dolls almost before they were able to walk, to pass on to lipstick, rouge and dresses, squirming, giggling, digging in their toes, transferring their affections from horses to men, from men to pimply youths.

  Boys were different (he had two sons – eleven and thirteen – and one remaining daughter – seven): boys were not inclined to come home pregnant, to dissolve in tears when things went wrong – though they were, he recalled, in other families, inclined to thieve, to mutilate, and to make their lovers, wherever possible, accomplices after the fact.

  ‘Are you ready, Elly?’

  ‘I shall be in a minute.’

  Suspicious that, if one of them were left behind, Attercliffe might be tempted to change his mind, they were going out together.

  ‘Do you want some of this?’

  Hallucinogens, narcotics, deodorant?

  ‘No thanks.’

  Had they taken their pills? How many times had he passed Elise’s bed only to see ‘sun’’s pill untouched on ‘mon’ morning, or ‘fri’’s still there on ‘sat’ afternoon? Was this too intimate a part of the feminine mystique to permit intrusion, incurring the same displeasure as if, for instance, he had inquired about the goings-on of the previous night?

  Having tapped the typewriter keys he went downstairs; he gazed at the television set, and turned it off.