The Likes of Us (42 page)

‘You've set yourself a problem, haven't you?'

‘Oh, it's happened before,' Otterburn said airily. ‘It'll work itself out if I hang on and be patient.' He was sure he'd read this in an interview with a writer, somewhere. It sounded to him to have the ring of truth.

‘Well, I wish you luck with it,' the girl said. She ate the last scraps of spaghetti, put down her fork and spoon and wiped her mouth with her paper napkin. Otterburn pushed aside the remaining third of his pizza. ‘You've not made much of that.'

‘It's very filling. Are you having a sweet, or just coffee?'

‘What about you?'

‘Just coffee, I think. I'd like to buy you a sweet, though, if you could enjoy one.'

‘No, thanks,' the girl said. ‘I'll accept a coffee, though.'

Otterburn signalled a waitress. To his surprise, one noticed him and came immediately.

‘Well,' Dawn said, ‘this is very pleasant.'

‘I'm glad you think so. Tell the truth, I was feeling, well, a bit down, before you joined me.'

‘Because your story's not going well?'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you married?'

‘I was,' Otterburn said. ‘Still am, actually,' he admitted, ‘but separated. What about you?'

She shook her head. ‘No.'

‘Not had the time, with all that travelling?'

‘I suppose so.'

She reached down and brought up her shoulder bag.

‘I'm sorry I can't offer you a cigarette,' Otterburn said, ‘but I don't use them.'

‘Me neither.' She took the small handkerchief and touched it to her nose. ‘There's only one thing wrong with this town. The damp air gives me the perpetual sniffs.'

‘There's always a snag to everything.'

‘Yes.' She put the bag down again. ‘You must live alone, then?'

‘Yes.'

‘Like the man in the story.'

‘Yes. What about you?'

‘With an aunt. When I'm here.'

‘It's good to have a base. Somewhere you can call home. Will you be off on your travels again soon?'

‘It depends. You never seem to get anywhere; always moving about. You see a lot, but you don't get anywhere.'

‘And with jobs so hard to come by just now.'

‘Yes. My timing hasn't been so good, coming back to England in the middle of a recession.'

‘You're young enough to see it through.'

‘I'm perhaps older than you think.'

‘I wasn't asking,' Otterburn said.

The coffee came. Otterburn, drinking through the froth, found scalding liquid underneath.

‘Damnation! I'm either burning my mouth or scalding it tonight.'

‘Do you feel better, though?'

‘In what way?'

‘You said you were down before.'

‘Oh, I feel much better now.'

He did. He had never met anybody like Dawn Winterbottom before. Here they were, total strangers, chatting as easily as if they'd known each other for years. He was wondering how he might prolong this evening – could he venture to offer to buy her a drink? – when she said: ‘I've just remembered. There is a pub called the Ferryboat, down by the river, isn't there?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you always use real places in your work?'

‘It depends.'

‘But couldn't that lead to complications?'

‘Not until someone reads it. Maybe I'll give it a fictitious name before then.'

‘You said he went to the pub but you didn't know what happened when he got there.'

‘Yes.'

‘Hmm. I never knew writers worked like that. I thought they had it all planned before they started.'

‘Well, now you know different.' An idea came to him. ‘Look, if you don't mind my asking, what are you going to do now?'

‘You mean when I leave here?'

‘Yes.'

‘I suppose I was going home. I was supposed to meet someone, but it fell through at the last minute.'

‘Well, what I was wondering,' Otterburn said, ‘was if you'd like to join me for a drink at the Ferryboat. It's just a stroll from here. Perhaps you could help me to see what happens.'

‘In the story, you mean?'

‘Yes. Being there with somebody else might just spark it off.'

She smiled. ‘I must say, I've never been picked up with such an unusual come-on.'

‘Oh, please,' Otterburn said. ‘Please, you mis-understand me.'

‘Don't worry. I've defended my honour in tougher places than this.'

‘You're making it difficult for me,' Otterburn said. ‘And it's all been so pleasant and natural, so far.'

‘I was joking.'

‘On the other hand,' Otterburn said, ‘there are some strange men at large, and if you'd rather not.'

She looked at him. ‘I think I'd like to.'

‘You'll come?'

‘Yes. Thank you.'

Their bills were already on the table. As the girl reached again for her bag, Otterburn picked up both of them.

‘Let me get this.'

‘Oh, I couldn't do that.'

‘Of course you can. It's not a fortune, and it's my pleasure.'

 

Outside, as they strolled towards the pub, she slightly ahead of him on the narrow pavement, Otterburn could not bring her face to mind. It was, he thought, one of those faces which seem to change with the light, one whose features would fix themselves only after another meeting. While her clothes were neat and clean, like her hair and hands, she didn't dress for effect either. She was a tall girl and her heels were not high. Over her jumper and skirt she wore a lemon-coloured light-weight raincoat which she had not taken off during the meal. And what an awkward business it was, Otterburn reflected, simply walking along pavements like this with anybody one didn't know well. The naturalness and ease of the caf
é
had gone, leaving him self-conscious, casting about for something to say. She was silent too, now. He took her elbow and turned her as she would have passed the mouth of the alley which led to the river.

‘Down here.'

The American car had gone. Otterburn hoped it meant that his wife was no longer inside. He went up on his toes and looked in through the small-paned window. He couldn't see her.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Looking to see how full it is.'

He would have to risk it. He went in first, then held the door so that she could pass him. The pub's evening was in full swing. All the seats looked taken. The girl followed Otterburn to the bar.

‘What will you have?'

‘What are you having?'

‘I don't know. A Scotch, perhaps.'

‘I'd like that. On the rocks, please.' She turned and looked round the room as Otterburn ordered. ‘Is this your local?'

‘It's the nearest.'

‘You live here, by the river?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is that where the man in the story lives?'

‘Er, yes, it is.'

‘How many of these people do you know?'

‘Just one or two I'd pass the time of day with.'

‘Which one would you choose as the writer of the letter?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Is it a man or a woman?' she asked him, for the third time.

‘I don't know.'

‘It's really got to be a woman, hasn't it? Cheers.'

‘Cheers,' Otterburn said. ‘Yes, I suppose it has.'

‘Unless you're building up to some kind of homosexual situation.'

‘Oh, no,' Otterburn said. ‘Nothing like that.'

‘Why not?'

‘I hadn't thought of that.'

‘It might be worth thinking about, though, mightn't it?'

‘Hmm,' Otterburn said. He thought about it now as his glance flickered round the room. Could the author of the note still be here, patiently waiting for him but unable to make a move now because he was with someone else?

‘Your character's not gay, then? The one who gets the letter.'

‘No.'

‘You could always make him gay.'

‘Hmm.'

‘Perhaps he's got latent homosexual tendencies that he's never known about, or kept firmly suppressed.'

‘Ye-es…'

‘And the writer of the letter recognises that.'

Otterburn felt uneasy and offended.

‘I don't think I'd like that.'

‘Do you find it distasteful? I thought writers were men of the world.'

‘It's just that I know very little about all that.'

‘Did you imagine it as some woman who secretly fancies him?'

‘I've told you, I haven't thought it through yet.'

‘I'm only trying to help you, like you said.'

‘Of course, but –'

‘If it's a woman, why doesn't she simply make it in her way to bump into him and get to know him?'

‘Perhaps she's shy and repressed.'

‘She's going to be awfully disappointed if she arouses his interest with mysterious letters and then he doesn't take to her.'

‘Perhaps she doesn't intend to reveal herself.'

‘Then why make an assignation?'

‘I don't know. He's only had the one letter. Perhaps she'll tell him more in a later one.'

‘It's not much of a story, is it?'

‘Well, not so far.'

‘If you did it the way I suggested, you could make it really strong. You could bring in homosexual jealousy and revenge. Perhaps suicide, or even murder.'

‘You've got a very lurid mind.'

‘Do you think so?'

There was a glint in her eye. It occurred to Otterburn to wonder if she was pulling his leg.

‘Anyway,' he said, ‘it's not the kind of story I write.'

‘Not so far, perhaps. But perhaps you should widen your scope. Perhaps that's why you're not better known.'

‘I'll think about it,' Otterburn said. ‘Let's have another drink.'

‘Thank you.' She gave him her glass.

When he turned with the refills she waved to him from a table.

‘If you don't know any homosexuals,' she said as he sat down, ‘I could introduce you to some.'

‘Here?'

‘Yes. There are one or two in the company at the theatre, to begin with, and some others who live here. They're not all madly camp,' she went on, as Otterburn frowned.

‘Some of them you might never guess at, unless you were that way inclined yourself.'

It would mean, Otterburn thought, that he could see her again. He had never met anyone like her. He couldn't read her. She seemed in control of every situation. He had seemed in charge for a time, in the pizza place; but not now.

‘Well,' he said, ‘I'll try anything once.'

She smiled. ‘Be careful. I only suggested you meet them.'

Otterburn blushed. ‘How long are you staying in town?'

‘Until I get bored. Or the money runs out.'

‘What do you do when you've got a job?'

‘I've done all kinds of things. I was teaching English as a foreign language in Italy. But I was foolish enough to have an affair with the man who owned the school and when his wife found out he ran back to her bosom and I had to move on.'

Otterburn, flabbergasted by her candour, looked at her with renewed interest and said nothing.

‘Then I've been a waitress and a barmaid. I've lugged a guitar about and sung at folk clubs and done seasonal work at holiday camps. I worked for six months as a secretary in
Australia. I did a stint at a summer camp for children in America;
your keep and some spending money and a chance to see
a bit of the country.' She shrugged. ‘Now I'm here for a while. Till something turns up.'

‘You don't sound the type to bring a man his pipe and slippers in an evening.'

‘Is that the kind of woman you like?'

‘I suppose I've always been used to knowing where I am.'

‘You left your wife, though. Or did she leave you?'

‘Oh, I left.'

‘Were you in a rut?'

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I was.'

‘But with your work, and your private means, you could go anywhere you like.'

‘I suppose I could.'

‘Why don't you?'

‘I suppose you think of writers like yourself: restless, always on the move.'

‘Perhaps I do.'

‘They're not all like that. Haven't you heard of the country cottage, with roses round the door?'

‘I'd love to read something you've written. Could you lend me something?'

‘I left everything behind when I moved out. It was rather sudden and I wanted to travel light.'

‘Perhaps I'll look in the public library.'

‘I doubt if you'll find anything. My early books are out of print and I've mostly published in magazines since.'

‘You need a really good shake-up and a change of direction.'

‘That's what I had in mind when I left my wife and came here.'

‘It's a start, anyway.'

The whisky was going down very quickly. Otterburn thought he perhaps should have stuck to beer.

‘Could you enjoy another?'

‘Yes, I could,' Dawn said. She opened her bag. ‘But let me get them.'

‘No, no,' Otterburn said. ‘I'll go.'

‘You can go,' the girl said, ‘but I'll pay.' She put a pound note on the table.

Otterburn hesitated, then picked up the note. ‘Same again?'

‘Unless you'd like something different.'

‘I hardly like to mention it,' Otterburn said, ‘but the prices they charge here, this won't cover it.'

The girl laughed out loud as she put some coins on the table. Otterburn took to the bar the image of her laughing. Now he knew what her face was like.

‘How do I get in touch with you?' he asked when he came back. ‘If I want to take you up on your offer.'