ENTR'ACTE

New Zealand Listener, Volume 20, Issue 516, 13 May 1949, Page 14

ENTR'ACTE

A Short Story, written for "The Listener"

by

S. C.

ARLINGTON

T seven o'clock on the morning of August 23, Marion Downes opened the door of the Roadside Tearooms and looked out upon a landscape dusted with frost. From the bare wooden steps of the tearooms to the bleak hills etched against the morning sky sprawled a patchwork of farmland and reedy swamp. Across the road stood the deserted railway station, stark and silent, its soot-darkened windows coated with a thin layer of frost. A luggage truck leaned angularly against the station wall and a spider's web, with each filament etched in frost, hung like a gossamer net from the wire rubbish basket. The whole valley was chilled into immobility. Nothing stirred. Marion leaned her shoulder against the door jamb.and looked down the rails for some sign of the train. Sometimes, on clear mornings, the beating of the crank-rods or the low moaning wail of the whistle could be heard long before the train snaked out from _ behind the hills. She listened intently,. but there was no sound. The train was half-an-hour late already. The chill air had begun to faise goose-skin on her bare white legs. She shouldered herself away from the door. Soon the early-morning tourists would be passing through, complaining of the cold and clamouring for hot tea and toast. And Jim, would. be here soon, too.

She propped open the door of the tearooms with the old flatiron, and then went back inside. The carnations Jim had sent her were dead. She looked at them wearily for some moments, then she took them from their vase and threw them out on to the road. It wasn’t really strange that Jim had brought her flowers for the very first time in her life. Jim was in love with her and wanted to ask her to marry him, and these carnations with their spicy scent of cloves were his idea of expressing his love. Jim would be here soon, driving his rattling cream-lorry right up to the door, and stamping into the tearooms, and neafly lifting off the roof with his loud jovial voice. And he would see the dead flowers lying on the road. She went outside and gathered them up. She didn’t want to hurt him

any more than she hadito. She didn’t want to hurt him at all. But she wasn’t going to marry him. ER mother came floundering irito the room then, heavy-eyed from sleep and still damp around her face from the hurried wash. "Have you got the fire alight?" she asked, brusquely, "You'll have to hurry, girl." ’ Marion went through to the kitchen adjoining the tearooms, The frost had drawn a pattern of rime on the window panes, and the curtains hung motionless, The big black stove, cold and unfriendly, crouched back in the gloom. She set a match to the kindling and watched it swell into flame. The crackling flames reached out tiny fingers of heat which caressed her white throat and made it tingle. She put her arm across the mantelpiece and leaned her forehead on it. The smoky clock ticked heavily and untiringly, close to her ear. She was going to have trouble with her family. She knew it. Her mother and father had become so used to this existence in the country that they would never be able to understand why she wanted to leave it and go to a job in the city. She would tell them she was going to share a flat in Aucklatid with her old school friend, Lynette, who was working in a clothing factory and earning big money; that she could get a job in the same factory. And they would start talking about city life having a bad influence on girls, with its undesirable company, and its sinful pleasures, and its temptations-and all the time they would be wanting to know, why. Why do you want to leave here? Why do you want to leave your friends? Why do you want to leave Jim? Marion suddenly felt very weary. The thought of trying to explain that she was tired of being anchored. in this quiet

backwater had become almost a nightmare. She didn’t really want to leave her family, she didn’t want to leave Jim. She just wanted to get away for a while-away from this pinch-penny existence and solitude. RS. DOWNES stood watching her daughter ‘strangely. Marion was an unfathomable girl. Sometimes she was gay, and then her brown eyes would glow with light; and sometimes she was ‘silent, and her eyes would be veiled by her heavy lashes, as though a blind had been drawn over a lighted window. "What’s the matter with you this morning, girl?" she asked. Marion shrugged her shoulders and said: "Oh, nothing." What was the use? They would never understand. After a while, Marion looked across at her mother, who had begtin to wash the dishes from last night’s supper. Poor old. Mum-struggling along to help Dad make a fortune with the few shillings they earned by selling tea and cakes to passing motorists, and as proud as could be because the tearooms were their own, bought and paid for. She didn’t ‘really blame her parents for watching every penny they spent-both of them had known the grinding poverty of the depression years and both of them knew the value of money. Mum ‘would miss her when she had gone. They might have to pay a girl to take her place, and that would hurt them. And Jim would miss her, too, He loved her and that would hurt him, Four years ago she had started riding with Jim over to her uncle’s farm at the other end of the valley. The cab of the truck would be filled with all his gear-his leather jacket and his spare pait of boots, and yards of rope, and his pipe and tobacco — and he would bundle them all over beside him on the seat to make room for her. When

ca the weather was cold he would wear his leather jacket and have the cab windows open to the icy wind, and he would look queerly at her if she said she was cold. She smiled ruefully as the memories flooded back. She had been fifteen then. She remembered the time he dropped the cream can off the tail of his truck on to his foot, and then kicked it violently with ‘his other foot and made. that sore, too. ° As her thoughts weaved on: through the years she could trace the changing pattern, This last year, Jim had managed to stow all the gear away somewhere when she wanted to ride with him, and sometimes, when he was driving, his arm would brush against hers. ER sister, Lynda, came into the kitchen then, slopping across the floor in down-trodden ‘slippers and breaking across Marion’s thoughts. Lynda didn’t say anything; but every swirl of her skirt was a protest at being dragged out of bed so early in the morning. Lynda was fourteen, and lumpy. The sound of Jim’s lorry, as yet an indefinite rumble in the distance, crept into the quietness of the kitchen. Marion heard it, and tautened. She was glad everyone liked Jim and that they would all go through into the tearooms to greet him. Her mother would smile benevolently at himusually it was the first time she smiled in the mornings. And Lynda would go close enough to be given a boisterous, brotherly hug. She would squeal and tell him not to be such a big bully. It was becoming monotonous, Marion stood motionless as the rattling cream-lorry braked at the door. Lynda started to go through to the tearooms. Her mother hesitated a moment, then she said: "Oh, Lynda. Get me some sugar from the pantry." Lynda stopped; amazed. She couldn’t understand. Her mother said: "Well, hurry up!" and gave her an impatient push. When Lynda had gone, Marion turned and looked questioningly at her mother. Jim’s heavy-booted footsteps sounded loud on the wooden floor of the tearooms. "Jim’s there, Marion," said her mother, "You'd better go through and see what he wants." Marion hesitated. Then slowly she eased herself away from the mantelpiece and went through into the other room. FTER the stove-warmed kitchen, the tearoom was cold. A shaft of pale sunlight streamed through the window and cast a patch of brightness on the little counter by the door. Marion folded her arms to keep them warm. The man who stood on the other side of the counter had become almost a stranger to her. He was no longer the Jim who was good fun at picnics, who came to the Federated Farmers’ dances in his working boots and stood with folded arms at the door all night-he was a new Jim: a Jim who wanted to marry her. For the first time in her life she looked at him critically. He was above normal height, but his broad shoulders and thick arms made him seem shorter. Until she stood beside him, she did not realise just how tall he really was. He put his arms on ned counter in the little patch of sunlight.

Marion could remember the times she had hoped Jim would ask her to marry him. Before Lynette had asked her to come to Auckland. "Marion," said Jim, hesitantly, "there is something I want to say to you. I’ve been thinking about it for some weeks." Marion had never noticed before that the hair on his freckled arms shone like gold in the sunlight. They were the strong arms of a working man-of a man who loved work. She knew that if they were married he would spend his week-ends in his oldest clothes, growing vegetables in the backyard which would be the pride of his life. Perhaps he would even train a creeper over that inevitable latticed structure (continued on next page)

SHORT STORY : (continued from previous page) |'they would ‘have in, the backyard. | Marion started to grin at the thought, | then she remembered that she wasn’t | going to marry Jim. Jim looked hard at the counter, "I | was talking to your mother the other |day. .. The. square, blunt nail of his thumb began picking at a blob of varnish on the counter. Her father had varnished it himself to save expense, and he | hadn’t made a very good job of it. Marion looked along the counter and noticed a circular mark where her father had put down the tin on the wet varnish. "? "Mum is making you a cup of tea," she said. "I suppose you’re in a hurry for it." Jim looked up at her quickly and the furrows in his forehead deepened. "I’m not in a hurry," he said. Now that Jim was here with her and was looking so earnest and troubled, Marion began to feel sorry. He was usually so calm. She could imagine the two of them sitting on their verandah in the quiet of the evening, with Jim smoking his smelly pipe-he would be at peace with the world. That was what she liked about him-his air of calm strength. She stopped herself suddenly. If she went on thinking about Jim like that she would never get to Auckland. "The Limited hasn’t gone through yet," she said. _He hesitated a moment, then he said: "Hasn’t it?" They remained motionless, looking at each other. Then Jim took out his pipe and cupped it in his hand. Marion said: "I wonder what’s made it late.’ "Does it matter?" he asked; impatiently. She looked up at him quickly. He had never been impatient with her before, and she didn’t like it. And then she began to think that perhaps after all it would be better if he became angry. It would be better if he started to swear at her, like he’d sworn at the cream can. But she knew he wouldn’t do that-the cream can had hurt him in a different way. He had averted his eyes and was tamping down the stiff black tobacco. "I wanted to ask you to marry me," he said. ‘ The crisp morning air carried into

the room the hoarse moan of the express whistle. "Here it is now," said Marion, Jim straightened his back. His face was drawn and his eyes had become hard. He watched Marion walk slowly across the room and lean against the door. A second low wail drifted ‘across ‘the stillness of the morning as the

express came into view, curving out from behind the low hills and tossing its plume of steam and smoke into the air. Slowly it snaked out from the hills and straightened itself, arrow-straight, for the hurtling rush through the lonely station. The ground began to rumble as the thundering engine approached. The thought of being a passenger on the train, of arranging her luggage in the rack and of hanging her coat on the hook by the window, began to take shape in Marion’s mind. Every pulsing beat of the wheels would be taking her nearer to Auckland, and further away from home. She }would be leaving everything behind her. Everything. The rearing head of the engine, with its foOssing mane of smoke, thundered up to the little station, plunged behind it, and then burst out on the other side with a roaring, gusty blast. The confused hurtling roar of the engine changed to a steady clatter of iron wheels as the carriages beat past the station. Bursts of steam hung twisting over the train. The pillows of sleepy ‘passengers glowed brightly against the smoky red of the carriages, and one or two blurred faces appeared at the windows. Marion began to see that life in a city would be very much like a train -divided up into compartments. The people in one carriage get to know each other. on the journey; talking and joking with each other. But seldom knowing the people in the other carriages. Of course, she would be lonely when she .went to Auckland-until she became acquainted with the other people in their compartment. She didn’t know anybody: there except Lynette, and Lynette was engaged to be married, and busy with her trousseau. HE clattering rhythm of noise changed abruptly to a rumbling roar as the guards-van cleared the end of the platform. The train became smaller and smaller as the engine drew it down the line. Relentlessly, it was drawn into the cutting and was gone. The last banners of billowing smoke thinned out and melted into the ‘air. Just as abruptly, she would be leaving Jim behind. And she didn’t want to leave him behind. She should have known it all along. She loved him. It was this dead-and-alive valley she hated. And she didn’t have to stay here. When she and Jim were married they wouldn't have to stay here at all. Jim was a good truck driver and could get a job anywhere. And even if they decided to live here, they could spend

their honeymoon in Auckland. Jim’s voice broke across her reverie. wes ig S| be getting along," he said. He brushed ‘past her, climbed into the truck and. slammed the door. Marion was suddenly. aware of an angry crash of gears, of a truck moving away from the door and then accelerating yp the toad in a slither of road-metal, :