§ 9
Freddie McKellar and Catherine Weston were seated side by side in the back bench of the Duke Street Schoolroom. The occasion was a Band of Hope entertainment. Mr. Weston was on the platform, surrounded by weird articles of glass and metal.
“I want you all to notice carefully,” he said. “Here I have a jar of clean pure water. The little fellow who is gambolling about so playfully inside it is a stickleback. He is having a fine time because the water is so pure and fresh.... Now watch ... here I have a flask of whisky.... I pour it into the water ... so.... I want you to watch very carefully....”
Freddie McKellar, aged fifteen, bent his head slightly to the left in order to see round the corner of Mrs. Mole’s hat. In doing so he felt the soft spray-like touch of Catherine’s hair against his ear.... It was not unpleasant.
Catherine was dreamily conscious that something tense was going to happen.
“It doesn’t always work,” she whispered, vaguely, “some sticklebacks like it.” ... She bent her head slightly to the right to circumvent the obstruction of Mr. Mole’s shiny hairless head. To Freddie McKellar it seemed that this time, instead of his ear touching her hair, her hair had performed the more positive act of brushing against his ear. The difference, though subtle, was not to be ignored.
“Now,” cried Mr. Weston, brandishing aloft his jar with the stickleback inside it either dead or drunk or in some way incapacitated for further movement, “if the effect of this foul spirit upon this tiny animal is ...”
“There’s refreshments afterwards, ain’t there?” said Freddie, sotto voce.
“Yes,” she whispered, hoarsely. The tragedy of the dying stickleback, “butchered to make a Roman holiday,” had made her unwontedly solemn.
... “Now,” proceeded Mr. Weston, “if somebody will kindly lower the lights, I will show you on the screen some of the effects of strong drink.... First of all, perhaps you would care to have a look at a drop of whisky as it is seen through the lens of a microscope....”
The lights went out in successive “pops.”
Freddie McKellar’s left hand slowly closed over Catherine’s right one.
“Ugh,” said Catherine, presumably at the horrible picture on the screen. Then the thought came to her (she had had no experience of such matters)—“He must be flirting with me.”
Simultaneously there came to Freddie McKellar (who, for his age, had had considerable experience of such matters) the thought: “She must be flirting with me.”
And at the same time Gladys Stockwell nudged Bessie Millar and whispered: “Just look at Cathie Weston and Freddie McKellar ... at their age, too....” (Gladys was twenty-three and unbeautiful.)
In the refreshment room afterwards Catherine and Freddie sat together on a bench munching ham-sandwiches. You were only expected to take one ham-sandwich, but Catherine had already taken three and Freddie five. The caretaker was stoking up the fire at the other side of the room.
“Ain’t you two goin’ ter join in the Musical Chairs?” he remarked, contemplatively, “they’ve started ’em in the other room.”
Freddie took another ham-sandwich.
“I don’t feel extra like Musical Chairs,” he replied.
The caretaker grinned and shuffled out with the empty coke-scuttle. It was precisely at that moment that Catherine began to dislike the scent of Freddie’s lavishly spread hair-oil....
Catherine thought: “I don’t think I like him at all. I wonder if he knows it was me who chalked up on the fence, ‘Freddie McKellar is a soppy fool.’ ... ’Cos he is one, really....”
And then suddenly Freddie had an unfortunate inspiration.
He put his arm round her neck and touched her cheek. In an instant she was up and flaring and standing before him.
“What on earth did you do that for?” she cried, passionately; “I don’t want your smelly fingers on me!” (“Smelly fingers” was an attribute she bestowed on everybody she disliked.)
He was astonished at her vehemence, but tried to carry it off laughingly.
“Come back,” he called, advancing to her, “and don’t be silly ... silly ... don’t be ... silly....” He was rather nervous. His nervousness made him desperate.
There occurred a somewhat unseemly fracas. He stood before the door and slowly got her trapped into a corner. She aimed a tea-cup at him but missed. Maddened by this he rushed full tilt at her. She struggled, snatched, tore, kicked, pinched. She was stronger than he, but he got hold of her hair, and so held her at his mercy. He just managed to kiss her. She spat in his face. Then he let her go. She marched out of the room, seizing another tea-cup as she went. When she was at the door she took a careful aim and flung it at him with all her might. It struck his head. There was that tense pause just after children are hurt, and just before they begin to cry. Then he broke into a wail.... Most dramatically the piano in the next room stopped, and there was the scuffle of finding chairs.... She paused at the door and tossed her last words at him in uttermost scorn.
“Oh, you great big softie ...” she said, and passed out into the cool night air.
She never enquired whether he were seriously hurt (he might have been); she never stopped to think of the broken crockery on the floor or her own red hair streaming in disarray; at that moment she would not have cared if she had killed him.
And she never spoke to him again....
Afterwards she was doubly angry with him because he had made her lose her temper....