Life Goes On

by Alan Sillitoe

  A cold breeze wafted over the hedge. The drivers of the few passing cars must have chuckled at the thought of a broken-down Rolls-Royce. The flashing light of the pickup truck was a godsend, though we were lucky that the local cop car didn’t stop on its nightly trundle and ask if we were all right, though maybe Lanthorn had told them to stay longer at their tea and darts that night.

  Parkhurst slammed the boot and gave a loud laugh suggesting that, in his element, he had come back to life. ‘Take it away, Michael, all three million. Or is it four? Don’t hit a petrol tanker head on, or fall asleep at the wheel, or get it on a boat for Spain, either. God wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘He’d get his wrist slapped for a thing like that,’ Toffeebottle laughed, still hugging his fingers.

  My blood dropped forty degrees. ‘I’ve got to get some fun out of my dull life.’

  Jericho hee-hawed. We were having a wonderful time. We laughed all over the road, a birthday of back-slapping. Kenny was pissing himself with the giggles, his matted head, old razor scars, missing teeth and octopus arms showing plainly in the headlights of the pick-up. Toffeebottle jumped into the cab and sounded the horn. I got into the Roller and sounded mine, two lighthouses talking through fog. Dismal lifted his head, and I pushed him down. He howled, and they fell about with more laughter, thinking I was imitating a dog. Probably the whole village was listening, and wondering if they would be on telly next day.

  I shot off, with no preliminary revving-up. I poked Dismal again. ‘Don’t show your napper, or you might get a bullet through it.’

  I was on my way, no pursuit cars behind, not even an escort vehicle to bid me farewell. They didn’t give a fuck now that things were more or less all right. After a mile I took the first turning left and set a compass course west-north-west towards Peppercorn Cottage, about a hundred miles away. I felt so relieved I almost hit a hedge, but the left front wheel bumped the verge – and shot me into the clear. It woke Dismal. ‘Nothing wrong,’ I said. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  On my own I might get careless and let my eyes close, hit a wall, shoot a cliff, scrape a tanker and burst into flames, but I couldn’t let anything happen to Dismal, an animal who hadn’t done anyone a ha’porth of harm – well, not knowingly. He licked my hand and lay down again.

  The Green Toe Gang would break free from their boxroom. One of them must have run to the nearest phone booth to report. But who to? What tight-lipped, blue-eyed, fair haired eminence with dark glasses would lift the phone and hear those urgent pips before whoever called got the ten-pence in? I’d have given a lot to know who he was, then I could have formulated his response to the raid, and done something to avoid whatever might be put in my way. We had come out of the raid well, and me best of all, with little worry and not even a scratch, and here I was in my motorised palace, central heating on and a cigar in my mouth, and a dog curled up on the mat, trying to read The Times, driving into the peace of a dark pink sunset with goods to the value of millions in the boot.

  Things had gone too well. It was time to think, and take evasive action. If the head of the Green Toe Gang had a halfway decent intelligence section he would know about Moggerhanger’s various hideouts. His know-how hadn’t been good enough to warn him of the raid, but that was another matter. Defeat sharpened the faculties. Whoever he was he would be stung into a bout of clear thinking. He would know about Back Enderby, Spleen Manor and Peppercorn Cottage. He would look at his RAC motoring map and make a big black mark at each location. Then he would put his finger on Buckshot Farm, and he would see that Peppercorn Cottage was farthest away, and he might be inspired into believing that the loot-laden car was heading there. He would alert any motorised henchmen who happened to be in the Midlands and tell them to block my progress along the A5.

  Our tactics had been sound enough to have the yellow Roller parked well away from the scene of operations, so they wouldn’t know what make of car to look for. In any case it was dark. My respect for Moggerhanger increased by the minute. Even so, I was taking no chances. What if one of our own lads knew who to phone so as to get the Green Toe Gang on my trail? The outlook was unlikely but, being totally untrustworthy myself, I knew that in this kind of racket you couldn’t trust anyone.

  Then again, even though there was little chance of intercepting me en route, whoever was head of the Green Toe Gang had only to send a car to wait at Peppercorn Cottage. The fact that you had to think of everything didn’t faze me. I would deal with such a calamity when I came to it. At the moment I was only interested in convincing George’s car, or Parkhurst’s car – either of which might be following (and the occasional vehicle did come up and overtake) – that I was a good lad who was doing what he was told by taking, as anyone could see, the road to Peppercorn Cottage.

  Half an hour later, I swung off the main road and made my way into Nuneaton. I played around the place for ten minutes to make sure nobody was on my trail, then went south along a straight bit of dual carriageway at seventy miles an hour, crossed the M6, and got into Coventry. Easy as pie, as Bill might say. I wasn’t followed, nor would I be ambushed. I was off everybody’s radar screen except my own, and that was how I liked it, for as long as I could believe it was true.

  My plan was to trundle via Warwick, Bromsgrove, Kidderminster, Ludlow and Knighton, passing the Black Country to the south instead of the north. Then I would strike northerly to reach the vicinity of Peppercorn Cottage, a tricky route to follow at night, but they didn’t call me Tactical Jack for nothing. The hands of the clock glowed half past ten.

  ‘Dismal,’ I said, ‘you’re a clever dog, but why can’t you read a map? One bark for left, two for right, and a howl for stop? With me driving, we’d get on like a car on fire.’

  He staggered up, and snuffled around. Before leaving Upper Mayhem I’d thrown in six tins of Bogie left over from a pup that got run down by a van five years ago. Dismal couldn’t talk, but I could sense he wanted food, even if only because he was bored, so I would have to stop and victual him soon. I wasn’t hurrying, but my progress was good. At the rate I was going I would hit Peppercorn Cottage at two in the morning. My orders were to wait there, but like hell I would. The fact that I didn’t like the place had nothing to do with the rats.

  I didn’t intend to let Moggerhanger get his maulers on those bags and boxes jammed in the boot, yet what use was such a load of hot goods to me? There was no doubt enough hash speed dope or maryjane to keep me and half the country stunned till the twenty-first century and beyond. The counterfeit or stolen money would set me up in Papeete forever likewise, in which place I could light my cigars with the reams of national insurance stamps and think of all those working in Blighty (when they could) who had to shell out for them towards the pittance of an old age pension.

  Maybe I would find a dumping ground and set fire to the car with the loot still in the boot. Or I could leave it outside some rural cop shop with a note pinned under the wipers and the boot key in a little plastic bag of the sort they fix parking fines in.

  Perhaps I should, after all, leave it at Peppercorn Cottage, without waiting for further instructions, and walk off never to contact Moggerhanger again. Whatever I did beyond the call of duty I was a dead man. I wasn’t in Canada now, where I had a whole continent to get lost in. I was in Albion fair and square, and never you forget it, I said to myself, ceasing to think of the problem for the time being.

  Beyond Warwick, and heading for Henley, the road was narrower. A souped-up Mini was honking to overtake. They must be local lads who knew the route. Their horn played a truncated version of ‘Colonel Bogey’ so loudly that my backbone shook. On a straight bit I slowed down and they shot by. It was pub closing time, so I would have to be careful. I’d never had a serious accident, but didn’t want my turn to come now.

  I waited for the next stretch of dual carriageway so that I could slow down and look for a layby. On England’s arterial lanes you often see a sign for one just ahead, but when it comes it’s two hundred yards long. Twe
nty cars try to overtake a hundred-ton lorry, and the scene develops into a madder version of the whacky races.

  The stiff breeze had a bit of rain in it, showers approaching from the west, as it said on the news. The layby just before Bromsgrove was slippery with spilt diesel oil and plastic bags, and after doing his stuff Dismal wanted to get straight back in the car. I told him it was the best I could do and opened a tin of Bogie. He sniffed it, took a lick, then began to gobble as if a TV camera had started whirring away. I sat on the step with a packet of cheese sandwiches and the giant flask of coffee, coming back to life after not realising I had been so hungry, and blessing Bill and Maria who had stocked me up so well. Bill’s old-sweat touch had also thrown in a small gas stove, and everything necessary to make me self-contained for a fortnight.

  When Dismal had finished and I was having a smoke, we heard footsteps between the lion-roar of a lorry and the gazelle-purr of a car. Someone trod wearily into the layby as if about to fall after a very long walk. Dismal growled and I told him to hold back in language he was coming more and more to understand. The man was out of breath. ‘Is the dog safe?’

  ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘I don’t expect he would, but a chap like me can’t afford to tek chances.’ He leaned against the car, and in the dim light I saw the unshaven face of someone about sixty. He had a rucksack on his back, but there didn’t seem to be much in it. The open neck of a white shirt came over his sports-jacket collar. He wore a pullover, flannels, black boots and a cap, more like a traveller than a hiker.

  ‘What are you doing out at this time of night?’

  ‘You might well ask.’

  I took his response to mean he had no option, so got the flask and gave him a cup of coffee. He drank it straight down. ‘Good Lord, I don’t think I’ve had one like that in years. It’s nectar!’

  I passed him a couple of cheese sandwiches. ‘Where are you going.’

  ‘The next town.’

  ‘You’re hungry.’

  He glared. ‘It’s the human condition, for somebody like me. Or it has been for ten years. Before that it was another matter.’ He stopped talking so as to eat.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift, if you like.’

  Humour just outweighed the bitterness. ‘I had a damned good car once. I had a house, a wife, a job – the lot, and I loved it. When you’re sitting pretty you don’t know what’s going to strike in the next year or two, or even the next ten.’

  His look made me uncomfortable. ‘Whoever did?’

  ‘Thanks for being kind to a bloke on tramp, anyway. They were excellent sandwiches. Don’t think I can’t appreciate it. It gets harder for a bloke in my position to explain himself properly. I’ve had more tribulations in the last ten years than Israel ever did in Egypt. Or so it felt, though I don’t like to complain.’

  ‘Another coffee?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

  I gave him more sandwiches and a bar of chocolate. ‘I have to be going now.’ I opened the door. ‘So if you’d like to get in.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  I went to the headlight and looked at my half-hunter pocket watch. ‘Five to eleven.’

  He leaned close. ‘I had a watch like that once, but I lost it. Or it got stolen, probably by the removal men. Such things happened to me in those days, when I still had a watch to lose. I was far too careless.’

  We settled ourselves in, and I offered him one of Moggerhanger’s prime cigars on the assumption that all fugitives were born equal.

  ‘I’d better not, but thanks all the same. That supper was a treat. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.’

  I waited for a car to pass, then drifted onto the road. ‘Haven’t you got any money?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve allus got a bit. Don’t want to get pulled in for a vagrant. It happened once, so I never have less than five pounds in my pocket, though that ain’t worth a sight these days. But I’m always economising. I set myself to spend so much a day, and I even try to save a copper or two out of that. It’s a rigorous regime, but I never go really hungry. I think a Spartan existence does a man good, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He pulled out a tattered map. ‘I intended getting some fish and chips at the next town. Bromsgrove, ain’t it?’

  ‘I hope so.’ I saw the glow of lights in the distance. He asked if I owned the car. ‘I’m taking some stuff to a place in Shropshire. I’m the chauffeur.’

  He settled back. ‘I’ll have that cigar now, if you don’t mind.’ He stroked Dismal’s head, and if there was one thing Dismal liked more than having one person to fuss over him, it was having two. ‘Lovely dog, this one.’

  ‘He’s my best friend.’

  ‘Looks like a cross between a Newfoundland and a St Bernard.’

  ‘Could be,’ I said. ‘Where are you going after Bromsgrove?’

  ‘It’s anybody’s guess. I keep on the move. I come from Nottinghamshire originally, and funnily enough I never seem to get more than a hundred miles away from the place. I go in ever increasing circles for a while, then in ever decreasing circles till I hit Slab Square, when I start my ever increasing circles once more. I suppose it comes from having been an engineer. I was a mining engineer, but I retired early because I came into some money. It wasn’t much, so I don’t know why I did retire. Stupid, it was. I let it go to my head. But my wife had left me the year before, though the time had come for us to go our separate ways in any case. We’d been together so long we were like two maiden ladies living together. When she’d gone I sold my house and moved to Leicester. I was fifty then. It was just over ten years ago. Seems like the ice age has come and gone. But I was happy enough to sell my house at the time. I got £4,600 for it, which was fair enough in those days.’

  He settled himself more comfortably. ‘In Leicester I bought a small flat, took it on a kind of cooperative basis, organised by a man who said he had been a socialist all his life and wanted to put his principles into practice. I don’t know who you are, but never have anything to do with anything like that, no matter what the principles are. If ever you get close to anybody who starts talking about the future, run for your life. But I fell for it, in reply to an advertisement. Never fall for an advertisement, because they are just a mirror to what’s in the rest of the newspaper. Anyway, this smiling damned villain with his blond locks, fisherman’s sweater, army boots and pigskin briefcase vanished one day, and the next morning the council moved in to demolish the house. I just managed to get out before the ball and chain came through my window. As it was I lost my books and records.’

  A tearfulness came into his voice, but he checked it firmly, which endeared me to him. ‘I went mad. What money I had left I spent trying to sue them. In the end I was penniless. I had some family in Leicester, but from then on they wouldn’t even speak when they passed me in the street in case I asked ’em for the price of a pack of fags. Even their children snubbed me. I got ulcers, and then I was in an asylum for a few months because – so they said, but I didn’t remember – I threw a ten-inch nut and bolt through the windscreen of a councillor’s car. Doughty props were giving way all round me.

  ‘The only thing I could do was take to the road. That was the saving of me. Every few weeks I pick up a bit of money from national this and national that. They all know me in the offices at Nottingham and Leicester, and it’s not much money but it keeps me going. I’m lucky it’s this world and not in Russia where a bloke like me would be put in jail as a parasite. But I’ve never felt so healthy since taking to the road. Summer or winter, I’m out in all weathers. Sometimes I get a bed, but often I sleep rough, inside a sewage pipe, or a barn, or under a hedge, or in an old car, or a derelict building – of which there’s usually one round about. I never get colds, nor any aches and pains. My feet hardened after the first fortnight. I get a bit forgetful, that’s the only thing. Ever since I set out, though, I’ve kept a Level Book to record my ups and downs.’

  He laughe
d. ‘That’s a joke, really, but I do fill in a log.’ He held up a red, stiff-covered notebook which he kept in his pocket. ‘I record the date, distance and place names travelled to every day. Very brief, mind you, no description or stuff like that, otherwise I’d get to need more than one book. It’s my only companion. Every mining engineer has his Level Book. If ever you meet another, just ask him. When there’s black ice in winter, or bitter pouring rain, I go into a public library and read Shakespeare or the Bible. I never look at newspapers. I don’t care what’s going on in the world. They don’t have any news to effect me. They write for themselves, not for us, so I just sit in the library on bad days, reading and keeping warm. They’re my holidays. I never touch booze and I allus manage to stay clean. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but I don’t smell.’

  He didn’t.

  ‘When I’ve walked a long way you might get a whiff of sweat, but that’s natural. In my rucksack I’ve got soap, toothpaste, shaving tackle, deodorant, boot brush and a tie. Not much else, except a pair of opera glasses, a bit of string, a small flashlight and a couple of pencils, a change of underwear and a clean shirt. The only luxury is a slide rule and a book of tables. Usually a bite of grub. When I want a new coat I get one for next to nothing from one of those Oxfam ragshops.’

  He sounded more cheerful. ‘So you see, it’s a healthy life. Plenty of exercise, fresh air, always something interesting in the view, or in people I meet. I never pass anyone without a good-day, and I don’t care whether or not they answer. If they don’t, that’s their problem. I don’t often accept rides like this, but when I got into that layby back there I was feeling a bit weary after walking from Leamington. It’s not unusual for me to hike thirty miles a day when I’m in the mood, which isn’t bad for a bloke turned sixty. Perhaps you chaps who work for your living think I’m sponging on the social system, but I did my share of work up to the age of fifty, and in all conscience it’s not very much of the world’s resources I consume.’