No More Learning

’

‘Yes. Get back to bed, now. You’ll be catching cold. ’

‘But where’s our presents, Daddy? ’

‘What presents? ’

‘The presents you’ve bought us from Birmingham. ’

‘You’ll see them in the morning,’ I said.

‘Oo, Daddy! Can’t we see them tonight? ’

‘No. Dry up. Get back to bed or I’ll wallop the pair of you. ’

So she wasn’t ill after all. She HAD been shamming. And really I hardly knew whether to
be glad or sorry. I turned back to the front door, which I’d left open, and there, as large as
life, was Hilda coming up the garden path.

I looked at her as she came towards me in the last of the evening light. It was queer to
think that less than three minutes earlier I’d been in the devil of a stew, with actual cold
sweat on my backbone, at the thought that she might be dead. Well, she wasn’t dead, she



was just as usual. Old Hilda with her thin shoulders and her anxious face, and the gas bill
and the school-fees, and the mackintoshy smell and the office on Monday — all the
bedrock facts that you invariably come back to, the eternal verities as old Porteous calls
them. I could see that Hilda wasn’t in too good a temper. She darted me a little quick
look, like she does sometimes when she’s got something on her mind, the kind of look
some little thin animal, a weasel for instance, might give you. She didn’t seem surprised
to see me back, however.

‘Oh, so you’re back already, are you? ’ she said.

It seemed pretty obvious that I was back, and I didn’t answer. She didn’t make any move
to kiss me.

‘There’s nothing for your supper,’ she went on promptly. That’s Hilda all over. Always
manages to say something depressing the instant you set foot inside the house. ‘I wasn’t
expecting you. You’ll just have to have bread and cheese — but I don’t think we’ve got
any cheese. ’

I followed her indoors, into the smell of mackintoshes. We went into the sitting-room. I
shut the door and switched on the light. I meant to get my say in first, and I knew it
would make things better if I took a strong line from the start.

‘Now’, I said, ‘what the bloody hell do you mean by playing that trick on me? ’

She’d just laid her bag down on top of the radio, and for a moment she looked genuinely
surprised.

‘What trick? What do you mean? ’

‘Sending out that S. O. S. ! ’

‘What S. O. S. ? What are you TALKING about, George? ’

‘Are you trying to tell me you didn’t get them to send out an S. O. S. saying you were
seriously ill? ’



‘Of course I didn’t! How could I? I wasn’t ill. What would I do a thing like that for? ’

I began to explain, but almost before I began I saw what had happened. It was all a
mistake. I’d only heard the last few words of the S. O. S. and obviously it was some other
Hilda Bowling. I suppose there’d be scores of Hilda Bowlings if you looked the name up
in the directory. It just was the kind of dull stupid mistake that’s always happening. Hilda
hadn’t even showed that little bit of imagination I’d credited her with. The sole interest in
the whole affair had been the five minutes or so when I thought she was dead, and found
that I cared after all. But that was over and done with. While I explained she was
watching me, and I could see in her eye that there was trouble of some kind coming. And
then she began questioning me in what I call her third-degree voice, which isn’t, as you
might expect, angry and nagging, but quiet and kind of watchful.

‘So you heard this S. O. S. in the hotel at Birmingham? ’

‘Yes. Last night, on the National Broadcast. ’

‘When did you leave Birmingham, then? ’

‘This morning, of course. ’ (I’d planned out the journey in my mind, just in case there
should be any need to lie my way out of it. Left at ten, lunch at Coventry, tea at
Bedford — I’d got it all mapped out. )

‘So you thought last night I was seriously ill, and you didn’t even leave till this
morning? ’

‘But I tell you I didn’t think you were ill. Haven’t I explained? I thought it was just
another of your tricks. It sounded a damn sight more likely. ’

‘Then I’m rather surprised you left at all! ’ she said with so much vinegar in her voice that
I knew there was something more coming. But she went on more quietly: ‘So you left
this morning, did you? ’


‘Yes. I left about ten. I had lunch at Coventry — ’



‘Then how do you account for THIS? ’ she suddenly shot out at me, and in the same
instant she ripped her bag open, took out a piece of paper, and held it out as if it had been
a forged cheque, or something.

I felt as if someone had hit me a sock in the wind. I might have known it! She’d caught
me after all. And there was the evidence, the dossier of the case. I didn’t even know what
it was, except that it was something that proved I’d been off with a woman. All the
stuffing went out of me. A moment earlier I’d been kind of bullying her, making out to be
angry because I’d been dragged back from Birmingham for nothing, and now she’d
suddenly turned the tables on me. You don’t have to tell me what I look like at that
moment. I know. Guilt written all over me in big letters — I know. And I wasn’t even
guilty! But it’s a matter of habit. I’m used to being in the wrong. For a hundred quid I
couldn’t have kept the guilt out of my voice as I answered:

‘What do you mean? What’s that thing you’ve got there? ’

‘You read it and you’ll see what it is. ’

I took it. It was a letter from what seemed to be a firm of solicitors, and it was addressed
from the same street as Rowbottom’s Hotel, I noticed.

‘Dear Madam,’ I read, ‘With reference to your letter of the 18th inst. , we think there must
be some mistake. Rowbottom’s Hotel was closed down two years ago and has been
converted into a block of offices. No one answering the description of your husband has
been here. Possibly — ’

I didn’t read any further. Of course I saw it all in a flash. I’d been a little bit too clever
and put my foot in it. There was just one faint ray of hope — young Saunders might have
forgotten to post the letter I’d addressed from Rowbottom’s, in which case it was just
possible I could brazen it out. But Hilda soon put the lid on that idea.

‘Well, George, you see what the letter says? The day you left here I wrote to
Rowbottom’s Hotel — oh, just a little note, asking them whether you’d arrived there. And
you see the answer I got! There isn’t even any such place as Rowbottom’s Hotel. And the



same day, the very same post, I got your letter saying you were at the hotel. You got
someone to post it for you, I suppose. THAT was your business in Birmingham! ’

‘But look here, Hilda! You’ve got all this wrong. It isn’t what you think at all. You don’t
understand. ’

‘Oh, yes, I do, George. I understand PERFECTLY. ’

‘But look here, Hilda — ’

Wasn’t any use, of course. It was a fair cop. I couldn’t even meet her eye. I turned and
tried to make for the door.

‘I’ll have to take the car round to the garage,’ I said.

‘Oh, no George! You don’t get out of it like that. You’ll stay here and listen to what I’ve
got to say, please. ’

‘But, damn it! I’ve got to switch the lights on, haven’t I? It’s past lighting-up time. You
don’t want us to get fined? ’

At that she let me go, and I went out and switched the car lights on, but when I came back
she was still standing there like a figure of doom, with the two letters, mine and the
solicitor’s on the table in front of her. I’d got a little of my nerve back, and I had another
try:

‘Listen, Hilda. You’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick about this business. I can
explain the whole thing. ’

‘I’m sure YOU could explain anything, George. The question is whether I’d believe you. ’

‘But you’re just jumping to conclusions! What made you write to these hotel people,
anyway? ’


‘It was Mrs Wheeler’s idea. And a very good idea too, as it turned out. ’



‘Oh, Mrs Wheeler, was it? So you don’t mind letting that blasted woman into our private
affairs? ’

‘She didn’t need any letting in. It was she who warned me what you were up to this week.
Something seemed to tell her, she said. And she was right, you see. She knows all about
you, George. She used to have a husband JUST like you. ’

‘But, Hilda — ’

I looked at her. Her face had gone a kind of white under the surface, the way it does when
she thinks of me with another woman. A woman. If only it had been true!

And Gosh! what I could see ahead of me! You know what it’s like. The weeks on end of
ghastly nagging and sulking, and the catty remarks after you think peace has been signed,
and the meals always late, and the kids wanting to know what it’s all about. But what
really got me down was the kind of mental squalor, the kind of mental atmosphere in
which the real reason why I’d gone to Lower Binfield wouldn’t even be conceivable.
That was what chiefly struck me at the moment. If I spent a week explaining to Hilda
WHY I’d been to Lower B infield, she’d never understand. And who WOULD
understand, here in Ellesmere Road? Gosh! did I even understand myself? The whole
thing seemed to be fading out of my mind. Why had I gone to Lower Binfield? HAD I
gone there? In this atmosphere it just seemed meaningless. Nothing’s real in Ellesmere
Road except gas bills, school-fees, boiled cabbage, and the office on Monday.

One more try:

‘But look here, Hilda! I know what you think. But you’re absolutely wrong. I swear to
you you’re wrong. ’

‘Oh, no, George. If I was wrong why did you have to tell all those lies? ’

No getting away from that, of course.

I took a pace or two up and down. The smell of old mackintoshes was very strong. Why
had I run away like that? Why had I bothered about the future and the past, seeing that
the future and the past don’t matter? Whatever motives I might have had, I could hardly



remember them now. The old life in Lower Binficld, the war and the after-war, Hitler,
Stalin, bombs, machine-guns, food-queues, rubber truncheons — it was fading out, all
fading out. Nothing remained except a vulgar low-down row in a smell of old
mackintoshes.

One last try:

‘Hilda! Just listen to me a minute. Look here, you don’t know where I’ve been all this
week, do you? ’

‘I don’t want to know where you’ve been. I know WHAT you’ve been doing.
That’s quite enough for me. ’

‘But dash it — ’

Quite useless, of course. She’d found me guilty and now she was going to tell me what
she thought of me. That might take a couple of hours. And after that there was further
trouble looming up, because presently it would occur to her to wonder where I’d got the
money for this trip, and then she’d discover that I’d been holding out on her about the
seventeen quid. Really there was no reason why this row shouldn’t go on till three in the
morning. No use playing injured innocence any longer. All I wanted was the line of least
resistance. And in my mind I ran over the three possibilities, which were:

A. To tell her what I’d really been doing and somehow make her believe me.

B. To pull the old gag about losing my memory.

C. To let her go on thinking it was a woman, and take my medicine.

But, damn it! I knew which it would have to be.