A BIT SINGING AND DANCING, Apuntes de Idioma Inglés

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116 From the Cradle tu the Grave them. How many of these are direct untruths, and how many are open to misinterpretation, and so becorne untrurhfel only because of the way Mz Thornhill interprets them? Mr Thorahil's ring is mentioned scveral times during the story — “the butterfly imprisoned in ice”. Mr Thornhill explains it is a “symbol of the resurgence of spring over winter. Whar else in the story do you shink it could symbolize? ACTIVITIES 1 Imagine thar Miss Treadwell and Mr Thormhill meer by chance a year after the story. What do they say to cach other? Write thoir dialogne, 2. Suppose Miss Treadwell had accepted Mr ThornhilP's proposal, Write a new ending for the story. What does Mr Thornhills sister do) Do Mr Thornbill and Miss Treadwell Live happily ever aíter, or does the story have a rragic ending? A BIT OF SINGING AND DANCING The AurHor Susan Hill was born in Scarborough in 1942. She is a novelist, playwright, and critic, who has also written several radio plays and broadcasts frequently. Some of her novels are Dm the King of the Castle, Strange Meeting, The Bird of Night. The Albatros and A Bit of Singing and Dancing are both collections of short stories. Most of her novels and short stories are about dificult emotional relationships, but she writes with delicacy and compassion. The Srory Tyranny dan take many forms: the tyranny of rulers over people, the tyranny of one individual over another, the tyranny of unjust imprisonment, military force, psycha- logical or emotional domination. Most people want to escape from tyramny of any kind — to be free, free to make their own choices, theic own decisions. But when you are not used to it, freedom can he difficult to live with. “Liberty ls a different kind of pain from prison, wrote T.S. Elior in his play The Farrily Rennion. Esme Fanshaw has suddenly been relcased into longed-for liberty by the death of her tyranuical mother. Now she can do, say, think what she likes. She can Please herself about everything and anything; the choices are cadless - and bewildering, lt is not casy to shake off fify years of domination ... A BIT OF SINGING AND DANCING here was no one else on the beach so late in the afternoon, She walked very close to the water, where there was a rim of hard, flat sand, easier on her feet than the loose shelves of shingle, which folded one on top of the other, up to the storm wall. She thought, 1 can stay out here just as long as 1 like. T can do anything 1 choose, anything at all, for now 1 am answerable only to myself. But it was an unpromising afternoon, already half dark, an afternoon for early tea and banked-up fires and entertainment on television. And a small thrill went through her as she realized that that, too, was entirely up ta her, she could watch whichever programme she chose, or not watch any at all. There had not been an evening for the past eleven years when the television had stayed off and there was silence to hear the ticking of the clock and the central heating pipes. It is her only pleasure,” she used to say, She sees things she would otherwise be quite unable to see, the television has given her a new lease of life. Yowre never too old to learn.” But in truth her mother had watched variety shows, Morecambe and Wise and the Black and White Minstrels", whereas she herself would have chosen BBC 2” and something cultural or educational. T like a bit of singing and dancing, ir cheers you up, Esme, it takes you out of yourself. 1 like a hit of spectacular. But tonight there might be a play or a film about Arabia or the Archipelagoes, or a master class for cellists, tonight she would please herself for the first time. Because it was two weeks now, since her mother's death, a decent interval. It was February, lt was a cold evening. As far as she could see, 122 Brom tbe Cradle to the Grave hear, now, what was going on inside her head, just as, in life, she had known her thoughts from the expression on her face. She had reached the steps leading up from the beach. li was almost dark. She shivered, then, in a moment of fear and bewilderment at her new freedom, for there was nothing she had to do, she could please herself about everything, anything, and this she could not get used to, Perhaps she ought not to stay here, perhaps she could try and sell the house, which was really far too big for her, perhaps she ougbt to get a jub and a small flat in London. London was the city of opportunity ... She felt fiushed and a little drunk then, she felt that all things were possible, the furure was in her power, and she wanted to shout and sing aud dance, standing álone in the February twilight, looking at the deserted beach. All the houses along the scafront promenade had blank, black windows, for this was a summer Place, in February £ was only balf alive. She said, “And thar is what I have been. But l am fifry-one years old and look at the chances before me.” Far out on the shingle bank the green warning light flashed on-on-off, on-on-off, lt had been flashing the night of her mother”s stroke, she had gone to the window and watched it and felt comforted at three a.m. in the aftermarh of death, Now, the shock of that death came to her again like a hand slapped across her face, she thought, my mother is not here, my mother is in a box in the earth, and she began to shiver violently, her mind crawling with images of corruption, she started to walk very quickly along the promenade and up the hill towards home. When she opened the front door she lisrened, and everything was quite silent, quite still, There had always heen the voice from upstairs, “Esme?” and each time she had wanted to say, “Who else would it be?” and birten back the words, only said, "Hello, ¡ts A Bit of Singing and Dancing 123 me.” Now, again, she called, T's me, Bello, and her voice echoed sottly up the dark stair well, when she heard it, lt was a shock, for what kind of woman was it who talked to herself and was afraid of an empty house? What kind of woman? She went quickly into the sitting-room and drew the curtains and then poured herself a small glass of sherry, the kind her mother had preferred. It was shock, of course, they had told her, all of them, her brother-in-law and her Uncle Cecil and cousin George Golightly, when they had come back for tea and ham sandwiches after the funeral. “You will feel the rea] shock later, Shock is always delayed. Because she had bcen so calm and self-possessed, she had made all the arrangements so neatly, they were very surprised. Tf you ever feel the need of company, Esme — and you will — of course you must come fo us. Just a telephone call, that's all we need, just a little warning in advance. You are sure to feel strange.” Strange. Yes. She sat by the electric fire, Well, the truth was she had got herself thoronghily chilled, walking on the beach like thar, so late in the afternoon, lt had bcen her own fault. After a while, the silence of the house oppressed her, so that when she had taken a second glass of sherry and made herself a poached egg on toast, she turned on the television and watched a variety show, because it was something cheerful, and she needed taking out of herself. There would be time enough for the educational programmes when she was used to this new life, But a thought went through her head, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, irwas as though she were reading from a tape, “She is upstairs. She is still in her room. If you go upstairs you will see her, Your mother.” The words danced across the television screen, intermingling with the limbs of dancers, issuing like spume out of the mouths of comedians and She jabbed at the push hutton on top of the set and the pictures shrank and died, there was silence, and then she heard her own heart bcating and the breath coming out of her in little gasps. She scolded hersclf for being morbid, neurotic. Very well then, she said, go upstairs and see for yourself. Very deliberately and calmly she went out of the room and climbed the stairs, and went into her mothers bedroom. The light from the street lamp immediately outside the window shone a pale tciangle of light down onto the white runner on the dressing table, the white lining of the curtains and the smouth white cover of the bed. Everything had gone. Her mother might never have been here. Esme had been very anxious not to hoard reminders and so, the very day after the funeral, she had cleared out and packed up clothes, linen, medicine, papers, spectacles, she had ruthlessly emptied the room of her mother. Now, standing in the dourway, smelling lavender polish and dust, she felt ashamed, as though she wanted to be tid of all memory, as though she had wanted her mother to die. She said, but that is what 1 did want, to be rid of the person who bound me to her for fifty years. She spoke aloud into the bedroom, “1 wanted you dead. She felt her hands trembling and held them tightly together, she thought, 1 am a wicked woman. Bur the sherry she had drunk began to have some effect now, her heart was heating more quietly, and she was able to walk out into thc room and draw the curtains, even though it was now unnecessary to scold herself for being so hysterical. In the living room, she sat beside the fire reading a historical biography until eleven o'clock — when her mother was alive she A Bit of Singing and Dancing 125 had always been in bed by ten — and the fears had quite left her, she felt entirely calm. She thought, it is only natural, you have had a shock, you are bound to be affected. That night she slept extremely well, When she answcred the front doorbell at eleven fiftecn the following morning and found Mr Amos Curry, hat ín hand, upon the step, inquiring about a room, she remembered a remark her Uncle Cecil had made to her on the day of the funeral. “You will surely not want to be here all on your own, Esme, in this great house. Yon should take a lodger.> Mr Amos Curry rubbed his left eyebrow with a nervous finger, a gesture of his because he was habitualiy shy. “A room to let, he said, and she noticed that he wore gold cuff links and very well-polished shoes, T understand from the agency... a room tu let with breakfast? “T know nothing of any agency. 1 think you have the Wrong address.” He took out a smail loose-teaf notebook. Number 23, Park Close.* “Oh no, Pm so sorry, we are ...* she corrected herself, l am twenty-three Park Walk.* A flush of embarrassment began to seep up over his face and neck like an ink stain, he loosened his collar a little until she fele quite sorry for him, quite upset, “An easy mistake, a perfectly understandable mistake. Mr .. . Plcase do not feel at all .. > *... Curry, Amos Curry.* *.... embarrassed.* T am looking for a quiet room with breakfast. lt seemed so hopeful. Park Close. Such a comfortable address.” She thought, he is a very clean man, very neat and spruce, he 128 From the Cradle to tbe Grave unhappy homes? 1 know nothing of that: 1 count myself fortunate. I like to think 1 have made the best of my circumstances.” His education, he said, had been rather elementary, he had a good brain which had never been taxed to the full. “Untapped resources,” he said, pointing to his forehead. They talked so easily, she thought she had never found conversation flowing along with any other stranger, any other man. Mr Curry had exactly the right amount of formal politeness, mixed with informal ease, and she decided that he was destined to live here, he had style and he seemed so much at home. He had an ordinary face, for which she was grateful, but there was something slightly unreal about it, as though she were seeing it on a cinema screen. All the same, it was very easy to picture him sitting in this kitchen, eating breakfast, before putting on his hat, which had a small feather in the band, each morning and going olf to work. 1 do have some rather bulky equipment? “What exactly ...* T have two jobs, Miss Fanshaw, two strings to my bow, as it were. That surprises you? But 1 have always been anxious to fill up every hour of the day, I have boundless energy.* She noticed that he had some tufts of pepper coloured hair sprouting from his ears and nostrils and wondered if, when he visited the barber for a haircut, he also had these trimmed. She knew nothing about the habits of men. “Of course, it is to some extent seasonal work.” “Seasonal? “Yes, For those odd wet and windy days which always come upon us at the English seaside, and of course during the winter, 1 travel in cleaning utensils.? A Bh of Singing and Dancing 129 He looked around him quickly, as though to see where she kept her polish and dusters and hrooms, to make note of any requirements. “Perhaps you would require some extra storage space? Other than the room itself. Mr Curry gor np from the table and began to clear away dishes, she watched him in astonishment. The man on the doorstep with a note of the wrong address had become the lancheon visitor, the friend who helped with the washing up. “There is quite a large loft.* “Inaccessible.” “Oh? “And L do have to be a little careful. No strain on the back. Not that Tam a sick man, Miss Fanshaw, 1 hasten to reassnre you, you will not have an invalid on your hands. Oh no. 1 am extremely healthy for my age. It is because 1 lead such an active life.* She thought of him, knacking upon all the doors, walking back down so many front paths. Though this was not what he did in the summer, “Sound in wind and fimb, as you might say.* She thought of racehorses, and tried to decide whether he had ever been married. She said, *Or else, perhaps, the large cupboard under the stairs, where the gas meter *Perfect.* He poured just the right amount of washing up liquid into the bowl; his sleeves were already unburtoned and rolled up to the elbows, his jacket hung on the hook behind the back door. She saw the hairs lying likc thatch on his sinewy arms, and a dozen questions sprang up into her mind, then, for although he seemed to have told her a great deal about himself, there were many gaps. He had visited the town previously, he told her, in the course of his work, and fell for it. T never forgot it, Miss Fanshaw, 1 150 From the Cradle to the Grave should be very happy here, 1 told myself. lt is my kind of place, Do you sec?” “And so you came back.” *Certainly. 1 know when Y am meant to do something. Í never ignore that feeling. I was intended ro rerurn here.” Tr is rather a small town.” But select.” “was only wondering — we do have a very short season, really only July and August .. Yes? “Perhaps it would not be suitable for your — er - summer work?” “Oh, 1 think it would, Miss Fanshaw, 1 think so, Í size these things up rather carefully, you know, rather carefully.? She did not question him further, only said, Well, it is winter now.? “ndeed. I shall, to coin a phrase, be plying my other trade. In a town like this, full of ladies such as yonrself, in nice houses with comfortable cirermstances, the possibilities are endless, endless.* “For — er — cleaning materials?” “Quite so.? * do see that.* “Now you take a pride, don't you? Anyone can see that for himself? He waved a hand around the small kitchen, scattering litrle drops of foamy water, and she saw the room through his eyes, the clean windows, the shining taps, the immaculate sinks. Yes, she took a pride, that was true. Mer mother had insisted upon it, Now, she heard hersclf saying, “My mother died onty a fortnight ago,' forgetting that she had told him already and the shock of the fact overcame her again, she could not believe in the empty room, which she was planning to give to Mr Curry, and her eyes filled up with tears of guilt. And what would her mother have said A Bit of Singing and Dancing 131 about a strange man washing up in their kitchen, about this new, daring friendship. *You should have consulted me, Esme, you take far too much on trust. You never think. You should have consulted me.” Two days after her mother's funeral, Mrs Bickerdike, from The Lilacs, had met her in the pharmacy, and mentioned, in lowered voice, that she “did work for the bereaved”, which, Esme gathered, meant that she conducted seances. She implied that contact might be established with the deceased Mrs Fanshaw. Esme had been shocked, most of all by the thought of that contact, and a continuing relationship with her mother, though she had only s: that she believed in lerting the dead have their rest. T think, if you will forgive me, and wirh respect, that we are rot meant to inquire abour them, or to follow them on.* Now, she heard her mother talking about Mr Curry. “You should always take particular notice of thu eyes, Esme, never trust anyone with eyes set too closely together.” She tried to sec his eyes, but he was turned sideways to her. “Or else too widely apart. Thar indicates idleness.” She was ashamed of what she had just said about her mother's recent death, for she did not at all wish to embarrass him, or to appear hysterical. Mr Curry had finished washing up and was resting his reddened wet hands upon the rim of the sink. When he spoke, his voice was a little changed and rather solemn. T do not believe in shutting away the dead, Miss Fanshaw, 1 believe in the sacredness of memory. 1 am only glad that you feel able to talk to me about the guod lady.* She felt suddenly glad to have him here in the kitchen, for his presence took the edge off the emptiness and silence which lately had seemed to fill up cvery corner of the house. She said, "It was not always easy ... My mother was a VOY... forthright woman.” 134 From the Cradle to tbe Grave. had seen Mr Curry standing on her doorstep, paper in hand, whether, when he went from house to honse selling cleaning utensils, they would recognize him as Miss Fanshaw's lodger and disapprove. There was no doubt that her mother would have disapproved, and not only because he was a “stranger off the streets”, “He is a salesman, Esme, a doorstep pedlar, and you do not know what his employment in the summer months may turn out to be,” “He has impeccable manners, mother, quite old-fashioned ONES, and a most genteel way of speaking.” She remembered the gloves and the raised hat, the little bow, and also the way he had quietly and confidently done the washing up, as though he were already Living here, “How da you know where things will lead, Esme?" Tam prepared to take a risk. I have taken too few risks in my Efe so far.” She saw her mother purse her lips and fold her hands together, refusing to argue further, only certain that she was in the right. Well, it was her own life now, and she was mistress of it, she would follow her instincts for once. And she went and got a sheer of paper, on which to write a list of things that were needed to make her mother's old bedroom quite comfortable for him. After that, she would buy cereal and bacon and kidneys for the weeks breakfasts, She was surprised at how little time it took for her to grow quite accustomed to having Mr Curry in the house. lt helped, of course, that he was a man of very regular habits and heat, too, when she had first gone into his room to clean it, she could have helieved that no one was using it at all. The bed was neatly made, clothes hung out of sight in drawers — he had locked the wardrobe, she A Bit of Singing and Dancing 135 discovered, and taken away the key. Only two pairs of shoes side by side, below the washbasin, and a shaving brush and razor on the shelf above it, gave the lodger away. Mr Curry got up promptly at eight — she heard his alarm clock and then the pips of the radio news. At eight owenty he came down to the kitchen for his breakfast, smelling of shaving soap and shoe polish. Always, he said, “Ah, good morning, Miss Fanshaw, good morning to you,” and then commented briefly upon the weather. lt was “a bit nippy" or 'a touch of sunshine, 1 see* or “bleak”. He ate a cooked breakfast, followed by toast and two cups of strong tea. Esme took a pride in her breakfasts, in the neat way she laid the table and the freshness of the cloth, she warmed his plate under the grill and waited until the last minute before doing the toast so that it should still be crisp and hot. She thought, it is a very bad thing for a woman such as myself to live alone and become entitely selfish. 1 am the sort of person who needs to give service. At ten minutes tu nine, Mr Curry got his suitcase from the downstaixs cupbuard, wished her good mori g again, and left the house. After that she was free for the rest of the day, to live as she had always lived, or else to make changes — though much of her time was taken with cleaning the house and especially Mr Curry's room, and shopping for something unusual for Mr Curry's breakfasts. She had hoped ta enrol for lampshade-making classes at the evening institute but it was too late for that year, they had told her she must apply again after the summer, so she borrowed a hook upon the subject from the public hibrary and bought frames and card and fringing, and raught herself. She went to one or two bring-and-buy sales and planned to hold a coffee morning and du a litele voluntary work for old people. Her life was full. She enjoyed having Mr Curry in the house. Easter came, and she began to 136 Prom the Cradle to the Grave A Bit of Singing and Dancing 137 wonder when he would change to his summer work, and what thar work might be. He never spoke of it, To begin wish he had come in between five rhirty and six every evening, and gone straight to his room. Sumetimes he went out again for an hour, she presumed to buy a meal somewhere and perhaps drink a glass of beer, but more often he stayed in, and Esme did not see him again until the following morning. Once or twice she heard music coming from his room - presumably from the radio, and she thought how nice it was to hear that the house was alive, a home for someone else. One Friday evening, Mr Curry came down into the kitchen to Eive her the four pounds rent, just as she was serving up lamb casserole, and when she invited him to stay and share it with her, he accepted so quickly that she fett guilty, far perhaps, he went sighe of him in the opposite armchair. From time to time he would without an evening meal altogcther. She decided to ofter him the read out to her some curions or entertaining piece of information. use of the kitchen, when a moment should arise which seemed His mind soaked up everything, but particularly of a zoological, suitable. geographical or anthropological nature, he said that he never forgot a fact, and that you never knew when something might prove of usc. And Esme Fanshaw listened, her hands defely tringing a lampshade — it was a skill she had acquired easily - and continued her education. “One is never too old to learn, Mr Curty.? “How splendid that we are of like mind! How nice? She thought, yes, it is nice, as she was washing up the dishes the next morning, and she flushed a little with pleasure and a curious kind of excirement. She wished that she had some woman friend whom she'could telephone and invite round for coffee, in order to say, “How nice it is to have a man about the house, really, I had no idea what a difference it could make.' But she had no close friends, she and her mother had always kept themselves to themselves. She would have said, 1 feel younger, and it is all thanks to Mr Curry. ] see now that 1 was only half-alive.? He said, “Well, it will not be for much longer, Miss Fanshaw, the summer is almost upon us, and in the summer, of course, 1 am self-employed.” But when she opened her mouth to question him more closely, he changed the subject. Nor did she like ro inquire whether the firma who supplicd him with the cleaning ntensils to sell, nbjected to the dearth of summer orders. Mr Curry was an avid reader, “in the winter”, he said, when he had the time. He read not novels or biographies or war memoits, but his encyclopedia, of which he had a handsome set, bound in cream mock-leather and paid for by monthly instalments. In the evenings, he took to bringing a volume down to the sitting-rcom, at her invitation, and keeping her company, she grew used to the But a moment did not arise. Instead, Mr Curry came dawn two Or three cvenings a week and shared her meal, she got used to shopping for two, and when he offered her an extra Pound a week, she accepted, it was so nice to have company, though she felt a little daring, a little carefrec. She heard her mother telling her that the meals cost more than a pound a week. “Weil, 1 do not mind, they give me pleasure, it is worth it for that? One evening, Mr Curry asked her if she were good at figures, and when she told him that she had studied book-keeping, asked her help with the accounts for the kitchen utensil customers. After that, two or three times a month, she helped him regularly, they set up a temporary office on the dining-room table, and she remembered how guad she had bcon at this kind of work, she began to feel useful, to enjoy herself. 140 From the Cradle to the Grave hac, into which people dropped coins, and when the record ended, he bent down, turned it over neatly, and began to dance again. At the end of the second tune, he packed the gramophone up and moved on, farther down the promenade, to begin his performance all over again, She sar on the green bench fecling a lietle faint and giddy, her hcart pounding. She thought of her mother, and what she would have said, she thought of how foolish she had been made to look, for surely someone knew, surely half the town had scen Mr Curry? The strains of his music drifted up the promenade on the evening air. lt was almost dark now, the sea was creeping hack up the shingle. She thought of going home, of turning the contents of Mr Curry's room out onto the pavement and locking the front door, she thought of calling the police, or her Uncle Cecil, of going to a neighbour. She had been haniliated, taken in, disgraced, and almost wept for the shame of it. And then, presently, she wondered what it was she had meant by “shame”. Mr Curry was not dishonest. He had not told her what he did in the summer months, he had not lied. Perhaps he had simply kept it from her because she might disapprove. lt was his own business. And certainly there was no doubt at all that in the winter months he sold cleaning utensils from door to door. He paid his rent. He was neat and tidy and a pleasant companion. What was there to fear? All at once, then, she felt sorry for kim, and ar the same time, he became a romantic figure in her eyes, for he had danced well and his singing had not been without a certain style, perhaps he had a fascinating past as a music hall períormer, and who was she, Esme Fanshaw, to despise him, what talent had she? Did she earn her living by giving entertainment to others? Ttold you so, Esme. What did 1 tell you? A Bit of Singing and Dancing 141 “Told me what, mother? What is it you have to say to me? Why do you not leave me alone? Her mother was silent. Quictly then, she picked up her handbag and left the green bench and the promenade and walked up through the dark residential streets, past the gardens sweet with stocks and TOSES, past open windows, towards Park Walk, and when she reached her own house, she put away the straw hat, though she kept on the dress of white piqué, because it was such a warm night. She went down into the kitchen and made coffee and set it, with a plate of sandwiches and a plate of biscuirs, on a tray, and presently Mr Curry came in, and she called out to him, she said, 'Do come and have a little snack with me, lam quite sure you can do with it, 'm quite sure you ate tired? dl And she saw from his face that he knew that she knew. But nothing was said that evening, or until some weeks later, when Mr Curry was sitting opposite her, on a cold, windy August night, reading from the volume cow to 111, Esme Fanshaw said, louking az him, “My mother used to say, Mr Curry, “T always like a bic of singing and dancing, some variety. lt takes you out of yourself, singing and dancing.” > Mr Curry gave a little bow. 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