Читать книгу A Man of his Time - Alan Sillitoe - Страница 8

Young Burton was back – a year away, but time had altered him. Watch and chain looped across his waistcoat with a sovereign attached; a nick of white handkerchief in the lapel pocket like the wingtip of a bird attempting to hide there. Crossing the road so as not to tread in dog or horse droppings, he was aware of looking his best – a flick at the red rose snapped from a bush in the garden. The May evening was warm, but cap and waistcoat were part of his renown as a neat and formal dresser. He would have smiled to know that never again in his life would he appear in more impressive aspect – while in no way believing it.

Saturday night in the taproom was the busiest night of the week, an ant heap turned upside-down in the clamour for pots and jars, so he couldn’t get close enough to Mary Ann and put the question. Back straight and head high, he overlooked everyone in the bar, and saw what he wanted to see. The whiff of home ale dominating the odour of gaslights made it seem as if supping a different brew all last year had been a dream.

Fred the barman drew his tankard, Mary Ann busy at the far end pulling the smooth white-handled pumps with her lovely young arms. Nakedness through the shirt came with a clarity that made his peg stir, and her smile in his direction gave no need to wonder who it was for.

You couldn’t ask a woman to marry you among so much riffraff, so he enjoyed slaking a thirst for home ale built up during the time in Wales, knowing it better to put the question at dinnertime, in the middle of the day, when less people would be around to nudge your elbow and drown private business with their clatter.

A question that had to wait wouldn’t spoil any the less for that, and while he was nodding to those who knew him, or thought they did, or passing a few words with those he considered had a right to acknowledgement, he stayed by the bar to observe Mary Ann at a distance, satisfied by glances which he thought buttered by a smile. He disliked the notion of being back at his father’s forge on Monday and lucky to see sixteen shillings a week counted out of the leather bag for his labour, but it would have to do till something better was found.

In the morning Mary Ann would be chaperoned to church by Mrs Lewin, and if he went he could glimpse her and maybe flash a wink during the sermon or between hymns, but he’d prefer to fry in hell than enter such a place, though when he and Mary Ann were married it would be a forceput, because there was no other way of getting such a woman into bed for life.

She wouldn’t go to church after they were married because there’d be too much caring for him and bringing up a family, such a responsibility on his part as well that he called dilatory Eli for another pint, his last of the evening since he was watching the coins he would surely need for the time when every bun cost tuppence, and a bit more than that with a lot of little buns running about on two legs.

Tomorrow he would work in the garden to please his father, but in any case he liked attending to the rows of beans and peas and potatoes while the church bells rang, knowing he would never jump to their musical summons and join in the prayers and hear the parson spout about what could have nothing to do with him. His mother went once a month but what could you expect from a woman, though there were plenty of men there as well, hypocrites to the bone.

Outside it was almost dark, the windows a protective sheen through which nothing could be seen. If he was to be up at five he would need sleep, though garden work or not he left his bed at that hour every day, always had and always would, not like those who said they couldn’t do without a lie-in on Sunday, not realizing that you would get sleep enough in the cosy box of the grave when the time came, and that if you craved it while still alive you were already more than halfway there.

He had asked her twice, and at twenty-one she ought to know her own mind. ‘I’m happy here,’ she said. ‘It’s a good situation, and I don’t know what Mrs Lewin would do without me.’

‘It’s me I want you to marry, not Mrs Lewin.’

‘I know, and if I marry anybody it will be you.’

Such uncertainty wasn’t good enough. He only wanted a plain yes. ‘I’ve chosen you.’

‘I can tell you have. But you can’t choose me like you would a horse, or a piece of iron you work with.’

‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘You haven’t said you love me yet.’

‘I wouldn’t be talking to you like this if I didn’t.’

‘But you’ve got to say it.’

‘I’m saying it now. I’ve never loved anybody but you, so you can give me a yes as soon as you like.’

Mrs Lewin came into the bar; Ernest was attracted by the high forehead, dark hair pulled back, the interesting mould of her lips, and middling bust under a striped shirt fastened at the neck with a brooch of amber. He wouldn’t have minded sliding into her, widow or not, though she must be nearing forty. Her luscious brown eyes looked at them. ‘Mary Ann, I’d like you to go to the kitchen and make some bread – that is, if Mr Burton will allow you.’

The ‘mister’ and her smile softened his annoyance, and he wondered whether he wouldn’t do better with her, except she wouldn’t have him in a million years, and he didn’t fancy running a pub.

‘I still can’t make up my mind,’ Mary Ann told him.

‘Let me know when you can, then,’ he said off-handedly, and noted the lift of Emma Lewin’s eyebrows before walking away, telling himself she can think what she likes, as well.

‘He’s a bit of a devil,’ she said to Mary Ann as he closed the door. ‘But I suppose every woman likes a devil.’

A state of uncertainty wasn’t for him. He’d never lived like that, and didn’t see why he should. When the hammer hit the anvil it always bounced up for another blow. He wanted her, and would have her, so the only solution was to go on asking, though he let a fortnight go by in case she thought him in too much of a hurry.

She haunted his waking dreams, which could be dangerous in his sort of work. Auburn hair flowed over naked shoulders, her eyes enchanting him, a lovely young woman in season, with outstretched arms and saying come to me, there’s no other man I want. Her face would shock its way before his eyes, taunting with a prospect to last a lifetime.

He left his pie and hot tea at the forge, hungry only for what had to be done. George and his father wouldn’t mind. They would eat the lot. There were fewer people in the pub at midday, though had it been packed he wouldn’t have cared. The usual greetings were followed by a call for ale, not so much to swamp his thirst as to see the working of her arms, which would be better employed in a house they’d one day live in. He was at a disadvantage in his smithing clothes, but couldn’t help that. She must take him as she found him. Her finger traced the small print of a newspaper. ‘I’ve come to ask you again,’ he said, not waiting for her to look up.

She glanced from the advertisement sketch. ‘I still don’t know.’

Her tone sent a spark of hope, the uncertain smile telling him that a favourable decision might be close, so he ought not to be sharp with her, better to stand quietly and give her space to think, the opportunity to make up her mind, and talk, even if only to ask something. He stayed away from the bar, never one to put his elbows on the wood.

She showed him the illustration. ‘I’ve been looking at these gloves. They’d go halfway up my arm, and look very fine.’

He admired their style, having an eye for clothes that went smartly on himself, but also those which adorned a woman. ‘Why don’t you get them?’

‘I’d like to, but it’s three weeks till my day off, and I only saw them in the paper today. They’re on sale at a shop in town, for one-and-eleven-pence three-farthings.’

‘That’s not a sight.’

‘I know, so they might be sold out in three weeks.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Shall you go and get them for me, after you’ve finished your work this evening?’

He pushed his half-finished ale aside, having sensed what was coming. ‘I’ll do it now.’

Her delight convinced him he had said the right thing. She took a florin from her pinafore as if, he thought – and he was to think so for the rest of his life – she’d had it there all the time and knew what he would offer. ‘You don’t have to go this minute.’

‘That’s true.’

She tore out the pattern so that he could show it and make no mistake, and wrote down the size she wanted. ‘It’s at that big millinery shop on Exchange Walk. You can’t miss it.’

He put her coin in a pocket that held no money of his. ‘I’ll be back when I can. If you’re not at the bar I’ll ask Mrs Lewin for you.’

He could walk the couple of miles into town and back, but the less time taken the higher he might go in her esteem, so he caught the first train, and if the shopkeeper looked down his nose at working clothes he could jump up his rear end, because he loved Mary Ann, and by God he would have her, and go through fire and flood to do this little errand. Even if she said no to him again he wouldn’t stop thinking about her, and never stop asking either. He felt a letch at seeing any pretty woman, but it was more than that with Mary Ann, and he only knew that after their marriage she would adorn him as much as he would dignify her.

It was a quick ten minutes from the station to Exchange Walk, between St Peter’s church and Old Market Square. He had to wait while a woman was being served, but it didn’t seem too long on thinking about married life with Mary Ann. The sallow assistant climbed three steps of a wooden ladder and took the white cotton gloves from behind glass. She laid them into paper, and he paid at the till with two one-shilling pieces from his own money, and put the farthing change into his pocket.

On Lister Gate he knelt to retie a bootlace, and standing up saw Leah in his way, too close for his liking. ‘Don’t you know me?’ A basket overarm, her hair was untidy, and she wore rouge. ‘Why haven’t you been to see me?’ she smiled. ‘It’s over a year, and I’ve been hoping all the time that you would.’

He knew her, such a handsome woman it was easy to see why he’d had a fling, but you never answered anyone who accosted you on the street. Yet he wondered why he had meddled with someone who did it on her husband and had the cheek to greet him with people going by.

‘What do you want?’ he had to say.

‘What do I want?’ she cried. ‘How can you ask me what I want?’

He ought to have been pleasant, even promised to see her again, but with Mary Ann’s face before him such a response was less than reasonable. ‘Is your husband still shunting then? I haven’t seen him hurrying to work lately.’

‘What a rotten thing to say,’ she hissed. ‘After what we’ve done together, this is how you treat me.’

‘Get away from me.’

‘Don’t you want to see me anymore?’

He pushed her aside. ‘God will pay you out.’ If only she hadn’t shouted. He wanted to turn back and knock her down, which was what she deserved. A slut with no pride. Tackling him on the street was the last thing she should have done. It was true enough that he’d had his way with her, but so had she with him. It was over a year ago, all fair and square, and now she pestered him, people beginning to stare, though what could you expect from a woman like that?

He wondered what the world was coming to, as the train jangled out of the station, though with Mary Ann back in mind and the vital package in his large hands he became calmer. The Castle glared less severely from its rock now that his errand was done. Then it was gone, leaving Mary Ann’s face so present in the glass that Lenton station was being called.

She looked as fresh and tempting as when he had left an hour ago. If his father ranted at his staying out so long from work he would tell the old so-and-so what to do with himself. He laid the packet on the bar, with the florin given to pay for it in the centre.

‘Are they in there?’

‘They were when I last saw the young woman pack them up. Nobody’s tampered with them since.’

‘What’s that florin for?’

‘Put it back in your pinafore.’

She looked at the Queen’s image in her palm, then held up the gloves so clean and neat and, above all, fashionable. ‘Thank you, Ernest.’

‘You’ll look a treat in them when you’re dressed up.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘You haven’t got to say anything. I did it because my heart wanted to.’ After a moment’s silence: ‘I’m putting the same old question.’

A blush covered her face as the folded gloves went back into their paper, aware of the words he wanted to hear. ‘What sort of question?’

‘Shall you marry me?’ To ask before requesting a pint of ale showed how strong his mind was on the matter. The world spun before her, as if she would faint, though she reached across with a smile and touched his hand.

‘I will.’

His forename on the certificate was spelled as ‘Earnest’, in the script of an elderly absent-minded man who had stood to write it. Ernest signified his agreement to the event by the mark of a cross, as did his father Thomas, both down as ‘blacksmiths’, on 25 January 1889, while Mary Ann’s father, Charles Tokins, was described as ‘engineer’.

The bride’s signature was fair and steady, as was Emma Lewin’s as witness, who on that occasion consented to go into the Holy Trinity Church of the Parish of Lenton and see her friend and servant through the formality of marriage. She gave twenty pounds towards a trousseau, and allowed the saloon of her public house to be used for the reception, generosity Mary Ann remembered for the rest of her life.

The saloon was filled with the relations of both families, and with friends of Ernest’s father who, thinking of trade, felt justified in inviting some of his customers after paying so much towards the celebrations.

Ernest stood beside his bride, a single whisky to last the evening, not caring to drink more, because tonight would be the most important of his life, not the day that had seen the knot tied in church, but what was to come in their cottage across the road, where a room had been prepared for them before setting off for Matlock in the morning.

Fully turned-up gas mantles gave a whitened aspect to the room – or as much as tobacco allowed – every face and figure clear, which Ernest liked because the only god he halfway respected was that of fire and illumination. He allowed Mary Ann to hold his hand surreptitiously, while observing the mob gathered at their splicing. She said she had been in love with him from the moment he first walked into the pub, that she had never loved any other man, nor ever would.

Her father Charles Tokins had come from St Neots on the train. Tall and soundly built, and looking young for his age, with a well-shaped black beard, he had started work in an iron foundry as a boy. The family had left County Mayo in the 1840s to escape hunger and destitution caused, Mary Ann said – and Ernest saw no reason to disbelieve her – by the wickedness of the government in London.

Ernest went through the crowd, to hear what Tokins was saying to his father. ‘I’d had enough of getting myself dirty working in the foundry, so I rented a workshop to repair penny-farthings and tricycles. I’d had a tricycle a few years, and knew others who had them. There’s plenty of flat land around where we live, but the roads aren’t in good repair, and a lot of people don’t know how to look after their machines. When one breaks down they can’t get it mended properly, so not only do I do it, but I’ve started buying and selling as well. I get new ones at a fair discount from the manufacturers at Coventry, and do enough trade to keep us quite nicely. We prosper, in other words.’ He drank his whisky, as if to get breath. ‘You can’t beat the bicycle for getting from place to place. I read in the newspaper the other day that somebody rode on a Humber from London to York in twenty-four hours.’

‘They make Humbers near here.’ Thomas at last got a word in. ‘At Beeston, a couple of miles away.’

Tokins looked at the ash on his cigar, and gave it permission to fall. ‘He even beat Dick Turpin on Black Bess. The machine didn’t die when it got there, either.’

‘I wonder if he could have done the same distance the day after,’ Ernest said. ‘His legs wouldn’t have been much good by then.’

‘I’m making money out of the trade.’ Tokins was annoyed at the interruption. ‘That’s all I know. If you want to come and live in St Neots, Ernest, I’ll set you on. Your father tells me you’re a fine blacksmith. You’d soon pick up the trade, and be an asset to us. I’d guarantee a better wage than if you stay here. Times are changing.’

There must have been talk between Tokins and his father, but Ernest would jump for no man. ‘They always were.’

Tokins saw him as too opinionated ever to get anywhere. ‘If you want to make the move, let me know. Mary Ann wouldn’t be unhappy, living close to us.’

Tokins wanted his daughter back where he could keep an eye on her, and would be interfering in their lives in no time, so it was a cold idea as far as Ernest was concerned. In any case what man would want to work for his wife’s father? It was bad enough sweating for your own. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, not caring to make things difficult for Mary Ann.

He went back to his wife, as if to be sure nobody had run her away after it had taken him so long to win her. Her dignity and calm beauty were dreamlike when she came to him from laughing with her bridesmaids. The step she had taken would never lead back to the happier days of her youth, Mrs Lewin thought as she too looked at her.