Swinging in the Rain

By Chaim Bermant

During the war, while others fought, Hesketh planned, as a chocolate manufacturer, to put an end to world strife: Inter-Choc, a world union of chocolate makers, would bring man closer to man - through his sweet tooth. But Hesketh is thwarted by two more powerful urges - chauvinism and sex, the former Gallic, the latter British, but both indomitable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Oct 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781448206155

Chaim Bermant

Chaim Bermant (1929-1998) was born in Breslev, Poland and moved to Glasgow, Scotland at the age of 8. He was educated in Glasgow and became a teacher before joining Scottish TV and then Granada. Bermant became a prominent Anglo-Jewish journalist, and had a regular column in The Jewish Chronicle and occasionally to the national press, particularly The Observer and The Daily Telegraph. During his lifetime, Bermant wrote a number of scripts for both Radio and Television, including the BBC, as well as several for Anglia TV. Bermant's book, The Squire of Bor Shachor was serialized on the Radio and Bermant also appeared in several productions in person, including, in 1981, one of the BBC's Everyman series. Bermant wrote a total of 31 books; his novels and non-fiction works reflect his sometimes controversial opinions and his observations on Anglo-Jewish society.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I GOT off the plane and trotted through the rain to the terminal. Inside, my wife was waiting with a dripping umbrella and a worried face. It was her normal expression, but now she looked more worried than usual.

Poor darling, she said, coming forward to kiss my cheek. It must have been awful.

Let’s get a taxi, I said.

We travelled on in silence for a while—moving at speed through the pouring rain, the water hissing about us and spraying out on both sides like wings—down through the underpass, up on the flyover, past immense neon signs hazy with rain, under yellow lamps which seemed to spray light rather than radiate it.

It must have been awful, she said.

It was.

"There was a paragraph about it in The Times, but I couldn’t quite make it out. What went wrong?"

Everything.

Everything?

The whole bloody show.

We moved on in silence.

If it’s any consolation to you, she said, we’ve had a disaster at home.

"Only a paragraph, did you say? Just like the bloody Times. A page to some minor upset in Tibet or Tierra Del Fuego. A first class international crisis on its own doorstep, a paragraph. What did they say?"

Nothing much, only that the talks broke down.

That’s all they had to say?

That’s all.

I shall cancel my subscription. Remind me tomorrow, I shall cancel it.

And there was silence again.

If it’s any consolation to you, she said, we’ve had a disaster at home.

Did they say why they broke down?

Why what broke down?

"The talks in Paris—did The Times say why they broke down?"

I’m not sure now, and she fumbled in her bag and brought out a lengthy clipping. It’s there, right at the bottom of the page.

I took one glance at the paragraph, crumpled the paper up into a ball and chucked it through the window.

We’ve had a dis— she began, but had second thoughts about it and remained silent till we got home.

Later that night, I was brushing my teeth, and I could see her in the bathroom mirror sitting up in bed. She was not, I reflected, the most delectable sight to encounter at the end of a long journey and a harrowing week, especially in her nightgown, which was voluminous, flimsy and transparent, and which surrounded her like a cloud. At the moment she was looking a little sorry for herself.

What’s worrying you? I said.

What was that?

What’s worrying you? I shouted.

Oh, everything, and there isn’t a soul I can talk to. Everybody’s so full of their own worries—you especially.

Me especially?

Especially you. I tried to tell you all the way from the airport, but you wouldn’t let me open my mouth.

What did you want to tell me?

There’s been, there’s been, and she reached for a paper handkerchief by her bedside. There’s been a disaster, she sobbed.

A disaster? I said, and in a moment every calamity I could think of descended upon me. My mother was coming to stay; her mother was coming to stay; they—horror of horrors—were both coming to stay; Constance was pregnant; my collection of late nineteenth-century chocolate wrappers had been stolen; Gwyllum was in jail; Iris had foot and mouth disease; Elsie had left; they were extending the flyover to fly over our house; they were building a council estate at the bottom of our garden; they—

It’s Constance, she said.

I had a feeling it was. I finished brushing my teeth, rinsed my mouth, and examined myself closely in the mirror. I was not looking well.

One has to learn to take these things philosophically, I said. What’s happened is nothing more than a mathematical probability, only it’s come at a bad time.

I wish I knew what you were talking about.

Who was it? I don’t suppose she knows herself. Someone she met at a party, no doubt, and will not meet again, or in a car probably. There’s the mischief, cars. Mobile dens of vice. People can be arrested for keeping a disorderly house—there’s no law against disorderly cars. A whole generation of womenfolk have grown to maturity who can only conceive to the smell of petrol. I thought things might improve a little with mini-cars, but there’s no telling the flexibility of the human frame in a moment of passion. Give a man an inch and it’s as much as he needs.

I still don’t know what you’re talking about.

But that’s not the root cause, of course. The root cause is sex education. Sex education, even at its most innocent, is an inducement to sex. We should never have sent her to a progressive school—not that we could have avoided it. They’re all progressive now, with each one trying to out-progress the other. If one teaches the facts of life, the other comes out with the principles of contraception, and the third with home abortions. Not that people were entirely sexless in my time. They had the same instincts, but they were not roused in the same way, and there was a great deal of fumbling and bumbling before anyone got anywhere. They were kept from mischief by their own ignorance. Now after the briefest encounter—presto. On target first shot. Poor Constance, it’s as much our fault as hers. We should have sent her to a convent school.

"We did send her to a convent school."

Did we? By jove, yes, of course, you’re right, we did. Then we should have sent her abroad somewhere, to Paris or Copenhagen, or anywhere, but abroad. England’s not a safe place for a growing child. When is the happy day?

What happy day? What are you talking about?

Of course, I should have expected it, I see that now. Only four weeks ago, or was it five, I was in the study reading a paper, when she came over and pushed her head underneath it. ‘Daddy,’ she said, you know—with her great innocent eyes. ‘Daddy, have you got strong feelings about abortions?’ ‘Abortions?’ I said, and she repeated the question. ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Go right ahead and have one, and charge it to mother’s account.’ I had a feeling it was a joke in poor taste even then. When is it due?

When is what due? and then she suddenly grasped what I was talking about. My God, Hesketh, you didn’t think she was—

If she isn’t, I said, what the hell have you been trying to tell me.

I think you had better calm down before I tell you anything else, she said, reaching for another handkerchief.

"I am calm," I roared.

She did not reply and began sobbing into her handkerchief. I sighed and went over to her bedside.

Now what is it? I said. If it’s serious, I have a right to know.

She—she’s got a place in Oxford.

In Oxford?

That’s not the worst of it. She wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. She’s got a place in St. Hecuba’s College. St. Hecuba’s—doesn’t the name mean anything to you?

Not offhand.

That’s where Clarrisa’s daughter went.

So what?

And have you forgotten what happened to her?

Who, Clarissa?

No, her daughter.

Oh, that, it could have happened anywhere—probably did; the girl’s an incitement to rape. You couldn’t possible blame Oxford for that.

Clarissa does, and so do I. They encourage that sort of thing. I think I should have been worried even if Constance had been a boy.

And is that your whole worry? Is that what you mean by a disaster?

"It is a disaster, and if it isn’t now, it will be soon."

I was too relieved to be angry and I leant over and kissed her startled head.

A moment later there was the roar of a car coming up the drive, the flash of headlights, the crunch of wheels on gravel and the slamming of doors.

That will be her, said my wife. I want you to have a word with her.

What about?

What we’ve just been talking about.

At this time of the night? It’s after one.

That’s the best time. She always feels a little guilty when she comes in at this time, and it’s easiest to influence people while they’re feeling guilty.

I still don’t know what you expect me to say to her.

Try and impress her with the dangers of Oxford, and she may change her mind about going.

If I impress her with the dangers, it will confirm her decision to go.

CHAPTER 2

I HAVE always wondered how a woman as tall and ugly as my wife could have borne a child as small and exquisite as my daughter. Gertrude tended to expand in hot weather and shrink in cold, but under normal conditions of temperature and pressure, she was about six feet tall, with folds of loose skin about her face and neck, as if her creator had planned a fat woman but had run short of stuffing. She was, moreover, blonde, while Constance was dark; she was high-pitched, Constance was husky.

I found Constance sitting on the kitchen table, drinking a glass of milk, while a young man whose bulk seemed concentrated round his shoulders was propped up against the refrigerator, munching a banana.

Daddy! she exclaimed, jumped off the table and planted a milky kiss on my face. You’re back.

It looks like it, I said. The young man with the banana stopped munching and stood to attention.

I’m Jack, he said, I was just about to leave.

Then don’t let me delay you, I said, and led him to the door.

Mummy’s been on to you, she said. I can see it.

What on earth makes you think that?

I can always tell when Mummy’s been on to you, something determined comes into your voice. In any case, you’re not normally rude to my friends, that’s Mummy’s doing.

"Well as a matter of fact, she has been on to me. She’s worried."

She always is.

But not without justification.

She’s been on to you about my place in Oxford?

She has.

I thought she would. You might at least congratulate me on getting a place even if she didn’t. Not that I deserve one, I suppose. Everybody’s trying for the new places, University of Blackpool and Pontefract and that sort of thing, and Oxford’s got to take what it can get. But there’s been a rush for places at St. Hecuba’s—

St. Hecuba’s? I don’t think I had heard of it before your mother mentioned it. It must be a new foundation.

It’s an old one, but with a new reputation. You’ve heard of the Greville affair, I take it.

I’m afraid not.

Good God, where have you been living? Not heard of the Greville affair?

I assure you I haven’t.

"You’ve heard of Dr. Greville, then—the biologist? She’s the head of St. Hecuba’s, or at least she was—till she was caught in flagrante delicto with the college porter by the porter’s wife—‘coupling lust with negligence’, as the judge put it at the divorce proceedings. She protested that she was conducting a clinical experiment. ‘That particular experiment has been carried out since the beginning of time,’ said the judge, ‘with substantially the same results.’ You haven’t heard of it?"

No.

Somebody’s writing an opera on it.

It sounds a more likely subject for a ballet, but it has something to do with what I want to say. Constance—

She looked up at me with her great, dark eyes.

Constance—how old are you?

Eighteen last February.

As old as that? Heavens, how time flies. But you can’t be.

"But I am. Don’t you remember? I was born during the great freeze-up of 1947. You’ve talked about it often enough. You were trapped in the snow on the way to hospital, and mother