Читать книгу A Man of his Time - Alan Sillitoe - Страница 11

He pushed into the swing doors of the Crown Hotel, the smell of pipe smoke and ripe ale as familiar as if he had known it even since before birth. Walking to the bar he noted everyone with hardly a turn of the head, those known and unknown. Eli the barman had the same facial colour and white albino hair as his father had at the old White Hart. ‘I’ll have the usual.’

‘Can’t get enough, eh, Burton?’ Morgan wiped froth from his long moustache. Burton had known him from a youth, but disliked such familiarity, at least so early in the evening.

Tom, who also worked with the ponies at Radford pit, hovered on the other side. ‘He’ll need a lot of ale to dowse the fire in him.’

Eli put the tankard down. ‘That’s a tanner you owe the till.’

He set a coin on the wood and, standing sufficiently apart in the crowded Saturday night taproom, said: ‘Have you seen Florence?’

‘She was serving in the jug-and-bottle. Then she went upstairs, but I expect she’ll be down in a bit.’

Burton let the rest of his ale stand while lighting a cigarette. At work he rolled them, but for the weekend emptied a packet of twenty Virginias into a silver case. ‘Is she all right?’

He was called to take another order. ‘She will be, as soon as she sees you.’

‘She’s not for you, Burton,’ Tom said.

Burton stared. ‘Nobody’s for anybody, unless you take them.’

‘You’ll need a horse to gallop away on if her husband sees you,’ Morgan laughed.

‘You think so?’ Saturday night was a time for ease, but he was annoyed at them putting their noses into what could only be his business. ‘I’ve never been on a horse in my life. I wouldn’t trust one an inch. Nor would I trust a woman, unless I wanted her. Only a fool would risk his neck on a horse, or his life for a woman.’

He noticed her stance at the foot of the stairs, glad she saw only him, and even more so at her approach in response to his faint nod. A tall well-built woman of thirty, she wore a flowery blouse with a lace collar. Her thin lips and the expression, as if for the moment unaware of where she was, made her seem eternally threatened, and too serious for Burton’s liking, until her smile changed to one of expectation, a lightening of the features he had noticed on first seeing her six months ago.

‘I thought you’d be in last night,’ she said. ‘I don’t like it when you don’t come when you say you will. I think something’s happened to you.’

To me?’

‘I know, but I can’t help it.’

‘I worked till ten.’

‘I thought as much. But I waited.’

‘You can’t stop while there’s work. Not in my trade.’

She fiddled with the string of jet beads at her bosom. ‘It’s nearly a week since we were together.’

Their heads close, people drew back to let them talk. ‘Come for a walk tonight.’

‘I’d like to, but I daren’t risk it. I’m not sure when Herbert will be back.’

‘I shouldn’t let that bother you.’

‘I’ve got to be careful, haven’t I?’

She was called to serve another customer, so he turned back to Tom. ‘Did you have anything on the races today?’

‘A couple of bob on Vanity Fair, but I think the bogger must have been wearing hobnailed boots. I could have got to that winning post quicker myself.’

Burton watched Florence at work. ‘If you ride on them they break your neck, and if you bet on them you might as well throw your hard-earned money in the dustbin.’

‘You spend it on ale, though,’ Morgan said, ‘and that only gets swilled into the Trent.’

Burton’s laugh was short and dry. ‘But you enjoy it as it goes through your tripes.’ He emptied his pint, and went closer to the bar, a ripple of agitation on his cheek. ‘Florence!’

She gave change, then came at his call. ‘You’re short with me tonight.’

‘Fill this up. What about tomorrow?’

‘It might be all right.’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘I’m not two people, am I?’

Her scent wafted against him as he leaned closer. ‘I wish to God you were. I don’t know which one I’d love more.’

She smiled at his rare compliment. ‘I’ll try,’ then drew his beer and moved away.

Though the night was as black as Cherry Blossom boot polish Burton could have gone blindfold up the lane to Old Engine Cottages. Morgan and Tom, trying to follow his footsteps, swayed to either side between the hedges, and sang as if the noise would keep them free of potholes. ‘Come in for a sup of ale,’ Burton told them by the gate. ‘I’ve got a bottle cooling in the pantry.’

‘It’s eleven, and I must be up early.’

‘Me as well,’ said Morgan.

‘You’ll get all the sleep you want when you’re in hell. At least I shall.’ He led them up the path and into the house. All three faces showed when he set the glass over the lamp wick. ‘Close the door behind you quietly, then sit down. This is vintage Shipstone’s.’

The smell of ale poured from the bottle brought heads closer to the glasses. ‘How many have you got upstairs now, Burton?’ Tom wanted to know.

‘There were nine when I last counted. That was including Mary Ann.’

‘I don’t see them around much,’ Morgan said.

‘I set them to work, that’s why. Five daughters are a handful at times, and you’ve got to keep an eye on them. One of the young ‘uns is a pretty little thing, so I expect she’ll be a bit of trouble when she grows up, if I don’t tame her first.’

‘We won’t know if she’s pretty unless you fetch her down,’ Morgan said.

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘I didn’t say so.’

‘You meant it, though. I’ll go and get her.’

They heard his weight on the stairs, and a door opening. ‘He’s a hard bogger,’ Tom said. ‘I wouldn’t like to be one of his nippers.’

Morgan drew out his pipe. ‘He’s got something on with that Florence, and she’s married. Let’s hope his missis never finds out.’

‘Nor Florence’s husband,’ Tom laughed. ‘But wedding bells never frightened Burton. He’d run his own son off if he got half the chance.’

Morgan detected a descending tread. ‘Shut your rattle. Here he is.’

Ten-year-old Sabina was half-asleep in Burton’s arms. She stood hazy-eyed in her nightgown, looking at them from the middle of the table. ‘What did I tell you? Straight out of angel’s sleep.’

‘What a little beauty!’

‘Come on, my duck,’ Burton said. ‘If you can’t sing us a song, cock your leg up and do us a dance.’

She looked at the three men, a smile on pale lips, unable to think, hardly knowing where she was, but seeing her father in a mood unknown before, one she might never see again. Maybe he wasn’t her father, but someone who had come out of the night from a forest where he lived, and if he wanted her to dance, then she had to.

One leg high, one leg low, she stepped around the table, lips apart and smiling in her aim to obey and please him who must be her father after all. Tom and Morgan threw pennies at her feet, which she picked up quickly. ‘You should put her on the stage,’ Morgan said, ‘and make your fortune.’

‘I’d break a stick across the back of any girl of mine who wanted to go there.’ Burton, tired of the caper, heard Mary Ann coming down the stairs. He helped Sabina to the floor, and Mary Ann took her hand. Silence, except for the pendulum clock on the wall. ‘This is a fine thing. In the middle of the night as well. You and your drunken friends from the alehouse.’

A smile twitched across Burton’s downcurving lips. ‘It was a bit of fun, that’s all.’

‘I suppose it was, if you say so.’ She pushed Sabina before her. ‘Let’s get you back into bed where you belong.’

‘I’d better be going,’ Morgan said, ‘or I’ll get the rolling pin treatment as well.’

Burton pulled them close. ‘I don’t want another word from either of you about me and Florence, do you understand? Keep your mouths shut.’

Tom was amazed they had been overheard. ‘We won’t say a dickybird.’

‘People talk,’ Morgan said, on the porch.

‘Let them.’ Burton bolted the door, went into the parlour to take off his boots, and on getting upstairs found Mary Ann asleep.

After the move to Old Engine Cottages the children had played in the field between house and railway, and counted the wagons or carriages of trains steaming along the embankment from Radford station. Sitting on the fence, they argued over the numbers, then went hiding and seeking in the tall grass.

Sabina had always been fearful at the run of a startled rabbit – it might have been a dirty old man lying in wait – but as the wheat-cutter worked in from the hedges she saw how frightened the poor things were as they leapt for safety. She thought how important Farmer Taylor looked on the high seat of his dray, a large grey horse in the shafts fighting off flies.

‘You’ll have a good harvest this year,’ Burton said.

Taylor’s laugh was of a man never satisfied. ‘I might think so if the price was right. You work every hour God sends, and get little enough for it. The market’s bad for farmers, and this government doesn’t like us. Who do you vote for?’

‘The Liberal chap.’ Burton didn’t care who knew it.

Taylor snorted. ‘They’ll never do any good, whether they brought in the old-age pension or not.’

He can kiss my backside, if he’s a mind to. ‘You can’t expect much from any of them, so it’s no use complaining.’

Taylor stared at his gold half-hunter. ‘Is Mary Ann cooking the men’s dinner?’

The shilling or two earned went into her pocket, though sometimes the housekeeping. ‘I expect it’ll be ready directly.’

A bundle of brown fur hurled itself from a line of wheat, reaching a safe hedge in seconds. ‘Another lucky one.’

‘I’ll get my gun,’ Burton said.

Thomas in the garden was loading weeds into the wooden barrow whose iron supports Burton had beaten out in the forge. Oliver was up the slope winding a bucket from the well, and on wondering where Oswald was Burton saw him in the yard chopping the day’s firewood.

Mary Ann and Ivy came into the field with a cauldron of boiled bacon and a tray of newly baked loaves, odours reminding him of hunger, after the slice of bread and fat bacon for breakfast at six. But rabbits were fleeing in all directions, and he wanted one for their supper, so went upstairs and pulled the shotgun and cartridges from their hiding-place under the bed. Pointing the barrel downwards he opened the window to let in a summer breeze.

The gun came from an auction and cost three guineas, a light breech-loading firearm worth twenty now. Mary Ann grumbled at having such a weapon in the house, but never turned down a rabbit or a couple of pigeons for the pot. Like most women she disliked the plucking and gutting, so got him to do it. It was easy work: draw off the skin, open it up, pull out the stomach (careful not to burst it because of the fearful stink), cut off the head, then give the carcase a good wash before the butchering.

Farmhands were eating by the hedge, and Burton positioned himself in the far corner of the field, took a stone from his trouser pocket picked up on his way through the garden, and hurled it over the limit of uncut wheat.

Waiting on one knee, he fired, and missed. Another pair took their chance, one pausing to cuff itself, too confident at clear land ahead. He squeezed the trigger on the one that ran – more sporting that way – and bowled it over.

A cartridge still in the breech, he laid the gun down gently and launched himself at the half-alive rabbit. The butcher or poultry shop would charge a shilling, and this one was free – well-fed on the choicest grass – bar the price of the cartridge.

The blade of a hand against its neck dropped it dead at his feet. ‘This’ll make us a good dinner,’ he said in the house, the rabbit swinging from his hand. ‘It’s the third this year.’

Soft Emily ran to Mary Ann’s skirt, tears pumping as she stroked the fur. ‘Dad killed you, poor little thing. I’d like one of these for a cat!’

‘Stop your blawting.’ He rolled a cigarette, and descended into the cool pantry to tie the two back legs with a piece of twine, and put a pan under its head to catch blood. He took a slab of smoked bacon from its hook, and a large round loaf out of the panchion, and laid them on the kitchen table. ‘Mary Ann, cut me something to eat.’

By afternoon the hay field was flat and sweet-smelling, men and horses gone, crows daggering their beaks among the stalks. He scythed around the edges not reached by the combine harvester. The girls would husk and boil it in the outhouse copper, to mix with whatever else there was for the pigs.

He advanced with a wide swing of the arms through each uneven path. Nothing escaped the gleaning blade sharpened with a stick of carborundum to as fine an edge as the razor he shaved with. From a gap in the hedge Emily watched the stern reaper she had always known him to be in her dreams, till she could bear the spectacle no longer and stood behind the nearest bush to hide.

Florence opened the gate and crossed a corner of the field. He worked rhythmically, as if never to stop, forward to the privet then back to sweep what had not been in his track, thoughtless endeavour fuelled by the slow advance of his feet till the job was done. He noted her parasol, light gloves, and anxious smile. ‘What are you doing, so far out of your way?’

‘I get fed up being in that pub all day. They let me out for a walk.’

He laid down the scythe. ‘That was good of them.’

‘One of the customers said Farmer Taylor was haymaking so I thought I might see you.’

‘I’m glad you did.’

She smelled his sweat, and he took in the scent of fresh lavender when she came into his arms. ‘Careful what you do,’ he said. ‘There might be somebody about.’

She stood away. ‘I love you.’

There was no answer to that. His look would tell any fine woman that he wanted her, and if they fell in with it, as they sometimes did, they must know what they were doing. If they didn’t, and as time went on there was something about it they didn’t like, it was nothing to do with him. ‘Go across the Cherry Orchard, and I’ll see you by Robin’s Wood. Take the back lane.’

‘Don’t be long, my love. I haven’t got much time.’

You won’t need it, he thought, the way I feel. Emily on the other side of the hedge picked at a cornflower as Burton strode to the house. ‘There’s some wheat to collect around the field,’ he told Mary Ann. ‘Get the girls to husk it. They know what to do.’

‘I’ll do it myself, as soon as I’ve cleaned these pans.’

‘Don’t leave it too long, in case there’s rain. What did Taylor give you for cooking the men’s dinner?’

‘Half-a-crown.’

‘He’s a mean sort.’

‘He paid for the bacon and bread.’

‘So he should. I’m going back into the field for a bit.’

‘Is Emily out there?’

‘Not as I know.’

‘That’s where she said she’d be. Tell her to come in. I don’t want her wandering near the railway line.’

‘I’ll see she don’t.’

In the garden he pushed her towards the house. ‘Your mother wants you.’

He followed the concealed way by the far edge of the cornfield, along a track overgrown with nettles and brambles, but in spring a bridle lane of Queen Anne’s Lace. At the uneven expanse of the Cherry Orchard he wondered whether cherries had ever grown there, but didn’t know, for it was now a large patch of scrubland, too open for what he had in mind, hoping not to be seen, taking care to cross only a corner. You were never alone, and he wished for the shotgun to frighten away the birds he felt were watching him.

Avoiding the worst humps and hollows, the features of Minnie Dyslin came to mind from so many years ago. How many, he didn’t care to reckon, but he’d been twenty-one and in his heyday, yet at forty-eight he didn’t feel much older than when Minnie told him she was having his child. He wondered what the boy was doing and what he looked like. At twenty-five he would be older than Oliver, and Minnie more than fifty. He didn’t know why he should think of her after so many years.

Florence was just inside the wood, because she didn’t want to be seen either. He pointed to the parasol. ‘Fold that thing up.’

She followed. ‘Perhaps there are children about.’

‘There aren’t. I’d have heard them. Or seen them. We’ll be all right.’ Through the glade a streamlet flowed. As a boy he had filled his belly with its clear water. He helped her across, preventing the branches of a bush from springing in her face. In a space of greensward he drew her close for a kiss. ‘Here’s a place.’ When this way with his gun, out for plump wood pigeons or collared doves, he had imagined leading a woman to it. ‘Only the birds will see us.’

She clasped him. ‘I don’t know why I keep on seeing you.’

‘If you don’t, I don’t. Why should you know?’

‘I love you,’ she said. ‘That’s the trouble.’

‘You have to know what you want, and if you get it, then there isn’t any trouble.’

‘I had to see you.’

‘I’m glad you did. Let’s lie here.’

‘There’s no one else in my life.’

A poor life, if she believed so. No one was in her life except her husband, and no one in his but Mary Ann. That’s the way of the world. Why he was here he didn’t know and didn’t want to know, you just did what you could when you had the chance, and all he knew was that he wanted to, and had no option but to go into her, and hope she wouldn’t make such a noise as the last time she spent, when they were behind the public house after closing time, and before that when they were upstairs in one of the rooms.

He closed the door carefully. Mary Ann, who had long since lit the lamp, sat by the fire, a sheet of clean sacking over her knees, clippings of various colours but of the same shape on the floor, to be fitted into any pattern that took her fancy. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

He held a bunch of watercress. ‘I found this in the wood. Wash it. It can go with my supper.’

‘What were you doing in the wood?’

The black dog was a bit too comfortable before the fire, so he held it around the mouth with his strongest hand, till the animal struggled as if in a fit, its helpless whine filling the room.

‘Leave the poor thing alone.’

He let it go, a hard slap at its ribs. ‘Where is everybody?’

‘In bed, except Oliver.’

He sat at the table. ‘It’s time he was in.’

‘He will be presently.’ She put the rug peg and clippings into a neat roll, got up to set out bread, cheese, and a bottle of ale. ‘I’m off to bed.’

‘And I shan’t be long.’

She stood a moment. ‘I hope you won’t get on to Oliver when he comes in.’

‘He’s late.’

‘I saw him walking down the lane with Alma Waterall.’

He wondered who else she might have seen. ‘When was that?’

‘Two hours since. She’s a Sunday School teacher at Woodhouse.’

He grunted. ‘That’s a fine business.’

‘Somebody’s got to do it.’

He had sent their children to Sunday School, on the one afternoon of the week when he and Mary Ann could have a peaceful couple of hours in bed, because he was usually too exhausted after the normal day’s work. The children came home every year with a prize for good conduct, books only looked at by Oliver. ‘I thought you might have seen them in the wood.’

‘There was nobody there but me.’

‘Wasn’t there?’

‘What would a Sunday School teacher be doing in a place like that? Go to bed, then. I’ll be there soon enough.’

He pushed the empty supper plate aside, no sitting still, every moment something to be done, anything, everything, but anything was better than nothing, than stillness. Stillness was inanition, idleness, death, putting yourself at the mercy of penury, the workhouse, or illness. If you weren’t busy you didn’t know who you were, so George said, but George was dead now, and he’d never known anything, either.

He took off his shirt, and in the pantry lifted a bucket of water fresh from the well, splashed a gallon into a tin bowl and then over him, soaping himself in reflected light from the living room lamp. Up the steps, towelling his neck, he saw Oliver. ‘Where have you been? It’s gone ten o’clock.’

‘Walking, with a girl,’ lips set as if to whistle a lively tune, happy, but standing some distance from his father. Out of the lane into sudden light, he blinked, like Burton in everything but with darker hair, and a mouth softened by resembling Mary Ann’s. He would never grow a moustache to conceal the shape of his upper lip, in case he looked too much like Burton as a young man. ‘I didn’t know the time.’

‘Get yourself a watch. Maybe that’ll tell you when it’s dark. I usually know, because I use my eyes.’

‘I’d get a watch, if you paid me more.’

Burton’s fist was clenched by his side. Such answering back called for a blow, but he knew that if his father had threatened such at that age he would have punched him to the ground. So he hesitated. A fully qualified blacksmith of twenty-three was beyond the stage of being knocked about, and in any case no one knew better than Burton that whatever you did to someone who had just been out tumbling a girl was unlikely to have any effect. Oliver didn’t know how lucky he was to be young. ‘Get up to bed.’

‘Is there any supper?’

‘You heard what I said.’

Not caring to argue, he went. The sweetness of Alma’s caresses would be easy to live on till getting up for breakfast.

Burton walked across the yard to the closet, and wondered as he stood there whether it was true that thin people pissed more than fat people. Back in the kitchen he booted the dog out, and double-locked the door now that everyone was safe in bed.

He took off the apron and reached for his jacket. ‘I’m going out for a while.’

The fire at full heat, Oliver noted a grunt of approval at the work he was doing. ‘Where to?’

‘Mind your own business. You’re in charge.’

Wherever it was, Oliver was glad to see the back of him, and went to striking in the nail holes of the shoe he was making. Oswald came from seeing to a horse, dropped the money in a tin. ‘There ain’t much trade today. If it doesn’t get better we’ll be in Queer Street.’

‘It goes up and down. It always did.’ Oliver dipped the shoe, set it aside, and walked with his brother to the door. ‘Which direction did he go in?’

‘The pub way.’

‘It’s not like him, to go at midday, though when I saw him in the Crown last week he was very thick with that Florence. She was too busy talking to serve anybody else, and Burton didn’t even greet me.’

‘Not that he would.’

‘No, but something’s going on with them.’

‘He met Mam when she was serving behind a bar,’ Oswald said.

‘Yes, and I think she’s regretted it more than once.’ Back in the forge he picked up the horsehoe, held it to the light, and considered it done. ‘In those days barmaids were different. Mother was, anyway. But Florence is married, and if Mam finds out there’ll be ructions. I hope she never does.’

He rolled two cigarettes from Burton’s tobacco tin, and they went outside as if he might pick up the lingering fumes when he came back. ‘He’ll notice some’s missing,’ Oswald said. ‘There’ll be hell to pay.’

‘If he went off in such a hurry as to forget his tobacco he can’t be up to much good. Anyway, he treats me like a dog so I might as well behave like one.’ A mouthful of delicious smoke drifted towards his brother. ‘We’ll enjoy it while we can.’

Emily and Sabina stood in the doorway with the men’s dinners. Oliver set the cans on the bench. ‘Did you see any lions and tigers on the way here?’

Sabina came forward. ‘We saw two, our Oliver, when we crossed the wide road.’

‘And did one of them have blood on its teeth?’

Emily glanced sideways at the ground, as if finding her brother too handsome to look at. ‘It had lovely fur. It was ever so tame, and I stroked it.’

Alma Waterall, watching from across the lane, saw Oliver take a coin from his pocket and close a hand over it, then hold both hands towards Sabina. ‘Which one is the penny in?’

She glanced, and pointed decisively. ‘That one.’

He opened his fist. ‘You little devil! Lucky first time. It’s got His Majesty’s head on it! Now it’s cheeky Emily’s turn. See if you win a prize as well.’

Her face a mockery of adult consideration, she tapped a knuckle and, on her lips going down to weep at the empty palm, Oliver put a hand to his left ear, rubbed at a simulated itch, and brought a penny away that had been hidden in the other hand. ‘It was stuck in my tab-hole, but I pulled it out by the tail.’

She smiled like a daisy in spring. ‘I’ve won! I’ve won! Now I can buy some toffees on my way to school,’ and ran off hand-in-hand with Sabina.

Alma, a full-busted young woman with fair skin and a fringe of dark hair across her forehead, a retroussé nose but a well-shaped purposeful mouth, came from across the lane. ‘I saw you, but couldn’t believe it was true. You said you were a blacksmith, but didn’t tell me this was where you worked. I happened to be passing.’

He led her into a place she hadn’t been in before, and wiped the bench with a piece of rag for her to sit, though she preferred not to. He intended to kiss her, but she stood aside. ‘I’ve seen your sisters at Sunday School. They’re always well-behaved.’

‘Unlike me, I suppose. But that’s because I told them to be. We all went there because Mother and Father insisted on it.’

‘We need whoever we can get. I wish every child would come.’ Oswald called that a horse and cart was on its way. ‘I’ll be going, then,’ she said.

‘Don’t you want to see us at our work?’

‘I’d like to, but my Aunt Lydia’s not well, and she lives on her own, so I call now and again. She’s my father’s sister, but they don’t get on, and I try to make up for it.’

The carter pointed with his lit pipe to the horse. ‘Can you put a shoe on this awkward bogger?’

‘I’ll have none of your swearing.’ Oliver caught Burton’s sharp tone behind his, but considered it justified. ‘You can go somewhere else if there’s to be any of that.’

The man laughed. ‘I don’t know if the horse would get that far, it’s such a wayward nag. But I’m sorry I cursed, miss.’ He turned to Oliver. ‘He’s gone fair lame.’

Alma coughed from the dust and fumes of the forge. ‘Shall we meet soon?’

‘What about Sunday? I’m not free till then.’

She nodded. ‘I’d like that,’ and went on her way, Oliver watching for a moment before turning to the carter. ‘Now let’s see what can be done for your old crock.’