The Itinerant Lodger

On this occasion he did know what had interrupted it. It was Mrs Pollard, coming in to tell him: “It’s about the stew. It’s not coming along too well.”

“What?”

“It’s about the stew. It’s not coming along too well.”

“Oh, dear.”

“There are things in it that I wouldn’t advise. You know how it is. I thought it was going to be one kind of stew and then I realised that it was going to be a completely different sort. And now it’s got stuck at the awkward stage, and I don’t quite know what to do.” She paused, and then, when nothing happened, she went on: “I wondered if you’d come and have a look. It takes a man to understand these things.”

A ruse, to secure him to her boudoir! Well, why not go? It would be nice to sit by her fire. These coal ranges were quite delightful, and there was no time to lose. Soon they would be making it into a smokeless zone. Go then. Blossom forth. Old smokeless Fletcher, thirty-nine, of no fixed coal fire, be off with you.

But after all he had only known her for a matter of a few weeks. And it might be that she really did want his advice on the stew. A fine fool he’d look, in that case. What advice could he possibly give?

On the other hand if it was just to give some advice, well, there was no harm in that. Wise old Fletcher, what advice you could give if you put your mind to it!

No. She would make demands on him. He would be drawn in, closer and closer. He would become a part of her hearth, and of her life. He had not had time to think much of Mrs Pollard since his work had begun, but now there was time and as he thought about her his uneasiness returned. He wanted to be away from her, safe and free, out of the house, out of her reach, out on the open road, far from the open fire.

And yet to accept an invitation to advise her on a stew could hardly be said to commit him to anything. There would be no question of intimacy. A curt piece of advice, an ingredient or two suggested, and ta-ta for now. It would be churlish to refuse, and besides, it would suggest that he had read into the invitation more than was there.

So he decided that he would go. He thought he would rise from his chair, but he didn’t. He thought that perhaps if he applied an absence of pressure to his buttocks and raised the top of his head towards the ceiling, he might stand up. But it was not to be, and for about forty minutes he remained seated. Mrs Pollard left long before the end.

And then, just when he had given up all hope, he was on his feet. He was at the door, opening it. He was in the corridor, and once there he had either to walk down it or to return to his room, which seemed foolish. So he walked down it, and knocked on the kitchen door.

“Come in,” said Mrs Pollard. She was standing over the casserole, and she smiled when she saw him. “I thought you were never coming,” she said.

Stiff with self-consciousness, Fletcher walked over to the bubbling, aromatic cauldron and gazed into its depths. “It looks very good,” he said.

“But it isn’t finished.”

“I’m hungry.”

“It needs improving.”

“No. It’s all right.”

“It would have been such a lovely stew,” said Mrs Pollard, with an air of grumpy wistfulness more suited to a schoolgirl.

“I know.” For a moment their eyes met, but Fletcher quickly lowered his and the moment was gone. His heart was beating fast and he was on the verge of panicking.

“I’ll get my table ready,” he said, and he walked towards the door.

“Won’t you have it in here, then?”

“No, I—really.” He left the room as slowly as he dared, and rushed to his room. His hands were shaking.

Mrs Pollard followed with the stew, and to his annoyance she once again remained in his room.

“You aren’t happy, are you?” she asked with startling suddenness.

“Well, I’ve just lost my job.”

“There are plenty more.”

“I had hopes. Little hopes, you know. It’s always a shock when they come to nothing.”

“If there’s anything I can do…”

“No. That’s all right. It’s very kind of you. I just need a bit of quiet, that’s all.”

“What you need is another job. It’s no use moping.”

“Not yet. A bit of quiet makes a new man of me. I’ll just stay here for a while, being quiet, if you don’t mind. Nothing serious, you know. Just a week or two.”

“Well, you know best, I suppose. Though there are some that don’t. Some of you bachelors. If you ask me you ought to be out and about a bit, even if it’s only the pictures. It’s not right for a grown man like you to just sit there.”

“I shan’t be just sitting. I’d rather call it a period of recreation.”

“You call it what you like, and I’ll listen. Well, I’ll leave you in peace, then, if you’ve finished your meal.”

Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t fluster me. Go.

“Yes,” said Fletcher.

“I’ll be off and see to Mr Veal.” She walked slowly to the door with the casserole. “Anyway,” she said awkwardly, “you’ll know where to find me, if you want me. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Left to himself, Fletcher found that he was thinking of Veal. He wondered why he never saw the man, and he felt jealous. Why were they never allowed to meet? What did Mrs Pollard do on her visits to him?

It was only when he caught sight of himself in the hexagonal glass mirror which hung above the mantelshelf that he managed to forget these questions. The mirror had cut-glass borders, and in the borders he could see a thousand faces, long, short and twisted, faces with five mouths and four chins, square mouths and round mouths and oval mouths and some with no mouths at all, all staring back at him with looks of grotesque horror.

He stood up, and placed himself in front of the mirror, with his eyes shut. All he had to do was to open those eyes of his and gaze straight into the centre of the mirror. He began to lower the pressure on his lids, and the black became tinged with red. Open them! He felt his brain giving out the order. He could feel an opening of his eyes travelling slowly from his brain towards his eyes, but before it could reach them a hasty command was issued to them to remain shut. A series of commands followed, and each time he could feel the command to remain shut catching up with the command to open. He was blind.

And then his eyes were open, as if they had never been shut. They were gazing at the centre of the mirror, and the face that met them was his own. The cheeks were pale and rather hollow, he had not shaved well, his hair was receding, there were a few blackheads on his nose, and in the centre of his chin there was one white-headed pimple.

There were signs of approaching age in the lines on his face. Soon he would be too old to be mothered, as in the past he had been mothered by all those mothers of his. All of them, all except one, they had all been mothering him. Just one there had been who had not been mothering him, who had threatened him with something more than that. It had been fifteen years ago, when he was Lewis. He’d been fifteen years younger then.

He sat down again. Separated from him only by two doors sat Mrs Pollard with her memories, and with her expectations. The logs glowed. Now she rose and bent over the fire, her outline illuminated for nobody to see by the sudden jumping of the flames she had disturbed as she heaped the wood. Then she sat again, with her knitting and her thoughts. What did she think of? What could she possibly knit? She threatened him, there could be no escaping the fact. She wanted him to be more than a son. How desirable all those past years seemed to Fletcher, with all those mothers. He began again to think about his mothers, and of that night, long ago, when he was Lewis.