Life Goes On

by Alan Sillitoe

  “All the past is like yesterday,” he said, “no matter how far off it seems.”

  “Have you written about the time with my mother?”

  “That would break the spell. We can’t throw magic away like that. There are some things that even novels don’t deserve.”

  He didn’t believe that for a moment, and I expected to see all the details soon enough in print. He went back to his desk, to type a phrase this time. “So why are you in trouble? I want the whole truth, so help me Ghengis Khan!”

  White and curving vampire teeth seemed to grow out of his jaws. I had called for an hour, not to talk about my life, which was mine and mine alone, but to delay getting home, when I’d have to tell Frances I’d been thrown out of the agency. I explained to him nevertheless that I’d lost my job and why, no reason not to, it didn’t matter to me, and in any case it was my notion of good breeding to pay for the mouthwash coffee, the cigar and, such as it was, the entertainment. Having a father still alive at my age might be a bore, but it had its obligations.

  He leaned at ease. “Fact is, no son of mine ought to have a job. It’s undignified. Shows lack of style. It’s bad taste. I’d be ashamed to meet him on the street. I never had a job except in the army, but that was soldiering. You come from too good a line to have a job.”

  “But you have one.”

  “Writing?” He laughed. “If anybody asks me what I do I tell them it’s not work, it’s a crucifixion, but I certainly don’t use that ghastly word. No, you’ll have to pull yourself together and support yourself some other way. Jobs are for those with prolish souls.”

  “My mother worked in a factory.” He warranted a smack across the chops. “Was she a prole?”

  “Certainly not. She only did it during the war.”

  He was right. To my knowledge she hadn’t done a stroke since. I too thought nine to five work was anathema, proving in some way that he was my father. Why I had let myself be steered into a job I’ll never know. Geoffrey Harlaxton had flattered me about the efficacy of my lies, after I had stopped him being all but murdered by his wife for his carelessness with other women. And Frances might not have married me if I hadn’t shown some enthusiasm to become employed. So when offered a job at the advertising agency I said yes, because how could I resist her glistening eyes beneath those gold rimmed spectacles, winking me towards a walking yet very delectable doom?

  He reamed his cuticles with a paperknife. “Tell me what you intend doing.”

  “I’ll take a fortnight to think things over. I’ll get in my car, go on the road. I can reflect while driving. A spot of aimless motoring will be the best way to flush that crooked advertising agency out of my system. I’ll go to Nottingham, and see how my mother is.”

  The point of the paperknife pricked his tender flesh. “Oh hell!” He leapt up. “Now look what you’ve made me do!” His pain and anguish was a rare treat. “For God’s sake,” he said, “if you do see your mother, don’t encourage her to come and call on me.”

  “I thought you still loved her?”

  “I do, no doubt, but I don’t want her around my neck. I’m approaching the age when I can have all the women I want, but the trouble is,” he added mischievously, “so is she.”

  I would say he was longing to see her, that he couldn’t live without her, and that if she descended on him and seduced Mabel he deserved no less.

  “On your way out,” he said, “tell Mabel to stop sulking in the kitchen and bring some bandages to staunch this blood. It’s a task she’ll enjoy. I do like to give her at least one treat a day.”

  Chapter Three.

  “My only option is to light off for a week or two,” I said to Frances, after informing her of my jobless position. I’d hoped she was too weary at the end of her long day to care what I did, though there was no other time I could have told her.

  I tried to make my departure more acceptable by calling at Marks and Spencer’s for a bag of ready-made eatables and a bottle of wine, so that she wouldn’t need to think about feeding us both, which at least made her smile as I put things in the oven and set the timers. I gave her a glass of red, and began a spiel about how my work at the agency had become intolerable, leaving nothing out and throwing in a few adversities from my imagination. “So all I want, before applying for another job”—like hell I would—“is to motor around awhile and consider what will be best for me to do. There’s no other way if I’m to stay sane.”

  On our second glass, and halfway through a tray of tasteful pickies, she managed another smile, and tapped the bun of her shining golden hair as if to stop it collapsing, though I’d never seen it happen. “I suppose if you must, you must.”

  Perhaps she didn’t see my going as so outlandish because of her past admiration of the performance poet Ronald Delphick, and his free and easy way of spending much of his time travelling the country. Or she looked forward to me amusing her with details of my adventures on getting back from a world unlike the donkey circle of healing she was locked in.

  I recalled Blaskin saying that the more you made a woman realise you knew her thoughts better than she did herself, whether true or not, the more she would love you. Thinking Frances might be half consciously longing to break free in the same way I was about to do, I said: “So why don’t you come with me? We’ll be sure to have a good time.”

  She actually laughed. “Michael, you’re incorrigible, not to say irredeemable. You know I can’t,” which silenced me for a while. Then she reached for my hand, and for the rest of the evening we didn’t talk about my going anywhere.

  After I had gone she might contact Delphick, go to one of the scumbag’s gigs, if he was in London. His advantage over me was that he stank rotten, always needed a shave, and was dead scruffy. Not that he couldn’t pay for a decent suit, and lay out a quid on a squirt of deodorant, but he relied on groupies and acolytes to slip a few fivers into his pockets, and tell him he was a genius as they did so.

  His dropout aspect had once attracted Frances, but she hadn’t seen him for three years, and I hoped she never would again, though even if she did there was nothing I could do about it. No marriage could endure if you hinted to your wife that you didn’t trust her, whether or not she was trustworthy, though I knew Frances had no time for hanky panky, and too much dignity as a doctor to indulge in affairs.

  Reminding her of this at breakfast, she responded with an unpleasant analysis of my character, which I would rather not repeat because, accurate or not, everything about me will be revealed soon enough. When the woman you live with starts telling you unpleasant facts about yourself, that you were already too well aware of in any case—and she knowing that you were—it’s time to sling your hook. I was mindlessly eager to go, while knowing that if I stayed a few more days we would get back to our usual state of love.

  So, like a fool, I went, not even slamming the front door in anger so that she could blame me for going and not herself, knowing as I flicked on the ignition that the anger I felt could be for no one but myself. I only knew that if I had made the choice between freedom or death I must be careful from then on in case both possibilities turned up, a reflection which will explain itself later.

  After Northway Circus my smart little blood-red Picaro Estate sniffed the expanse of high sky ahead, and took me at seventy up the outside lane to the last roundabout before Bedfordshire. Any misery I felt at leaving home and Frances had melted, and with a lit cigar comfortably smouldering I flogged young Picaro as if Eskimoing through snowfields, galloping over desert, or flying the sky, the north-going road as familiar as the back of my hand.

  After the last exit to Baldock came the perilous dual carriageway of the Great North Road, and I muttered the highway’s name on belting along. In spite of a good forecast, or maybe even because of it, grey clouds crowded in for the inevitable rain, though the countryside like a green plate told me it didn’t matter whether or not I went to Nottingham, provided I put as much distance as possible between myself and London. Not
certain where I was heading had never been any bother, going at the moment like an arrow.

  Near St. Neot’s I was tempted to fork northeast to my railway house at Upper Mayhem. Once in the fortress of warmth and plenty it would close around and never let go. Dismal my favourite and only dog was there, as was Clegg the elderly handyman who kept the place going. The freezer was stacked with food, the outside shed packed with fuel, and a made up bed was waiting for me to sink into with no will to get out. I scoffed the notion away, heaven being no life for a grown man.

  I switched off the jungle music from Radio Deadhead, and a glance at fields and coppices to either side—a sleeve of spring green, and splashes of blossoming Queen Anne’s lace—set me longing to be out of the car and walking among the perfume of mangel wurzels or early potatoes, fainting with pleasure at sprouting wheat and upstart refreshing hedges, sniffing bay rose and white daisies.

  The reality was I would get stung by nettles, clawed at by brambles, drenched by rain (which was just beginning, but it had rained yesterday), my soles so jacked up with mud on crossing a field that after walking fifty yards I’d be on stilts. I was better off in the car.

  Distances signposted up the Great North Road were laid out in penny packets of ten or twenty miles, as if the fact that it led to Edinburgh (or even Doncaster) was a state secret which foreigners weren’t to know about. Whoever arranged them was afraid again of a German invasion, or wanted tourists sleeping their nights to Scotland in rathole hotels that charged twice as much as at far better places in France or Spain. It made me laugh that on coming the other way London would be signposted four hundred miles off, as if the policy was to get rid of tourists who by now had been robbed of their last penny. Dover might even be indicated from Inverness, though I’ve never been that far to find out.

  A plastic bag flapped by the roadside like a crow in its final agony. Speed cut the scene short. A mile-long line of lorries on the inner lane set me charging to get clear, nowhere to go when a car behind flashed me to move in, but I let him overtake soonest possible, his face as enraged as one of Conrad’s duellists in the film. I’d read the story, and much else, under the guidance of Frances, more than in my life before, which was supposed to make me a better person, she said, though whether it did I’ll never know.

  The mad driver was one of Moggerhanger’s footpads, Kenny Dukes, and I wondered where he was going at such a spate, as I overtook a tinker’s short arsed pick-up with smoking exhaust, loaded with old bathtubs and gas stoves. A big sleek rat jumped off it onto the green verge, as if sensing the vehicle would drop to bits in the next five minutes. I took it easy, and lost Kenny who was doing a ton in the distance. Having driven enough miles in my life to get to the moon and back I wanted to stay alive.

  Moonshine Cross was a convenient place to stop for a piss, petrol, and another cigar. In spite of Frances’s tearful demolition of my character she had packed a plastic bag of fruit and sandwiches, and filled two flasks with coffee. She may have come to dislike me—but only for the time being, I hoped—but didn’t want me to die of stomach cramps at some arterial lane eatery.

  In the toilets an old chap of over seventy in a thorn cloth three-piece suit and knitted tie, shining brown boots, and watchchain, was pumping packets of condoms out of a machine, his demented expression daring it to run out, in which case he would come back from his car with a cold chisel and give it what-for.

  He was long jawed, had on a nicky brown hat with a darker brown band around the rim, and heavy spectacles. His teeth were obviously false, as he opened his mouth and fixed another pound in the slot. “I can’t wait all day till the place is empty and there’s nobody to see me, can I?” He saw my gaze of wonder, if not admiration. “I want my supplies, don’t I, son? I can’t afford to be embarrassed at my age, can I?”

  “You could go to a chemist’s and get them without all this effort.” I was horrified at another rubber tree in Malaya getting sucked white. “It would be more discreet.”

  He stuffed the supplies into his pocket. “It’s all very well for you to say so, but there’s only one chemist in our little town, and my wife goes into it for all her medicines. She might see me. Or there might be talk, if one of the neighbours did. I wasn’t born yesterday, was I?”

  I didn’t want to speculate on how many yesterdays ago he had been born, yet I was taken by his brash confidence as I stood at the urinal for a splash at Shanks’s adamant. “Isn’t your girlfriend on the pill?”

  Two other men came in, so he said: “Let’s go outside, and I’ll tell you. We stood outside and he gripped me by the elbow. “I’m glad you enquired. She did go on it for a while, but she didn’t like the side effects, though going in raw was a treat for me, just like when I was a lad.”

  Over the fence was a field of placid Friesian cows, a sight making me want to start loving old England again. I didn’t like the thought of the poor beasts flying around the grassland in terror should my companion of the road run among them with a trail of cheese and onion condoms spraying out of his pockets. A lizard tongue went over his lips, as if he followed my thoughts. “She’s a vegetarian as well, though that doesn’t bother me.”

  “Is she young?”

  “She’s nineteen, if you call that young, these days. Her name’s Betty.”

  It’s no use denying my interest in his naive revelations. “I still can’t see why you’ll need all those rubbers.”

  “Can’t you?” He scanned the parking lot, as if he had forgotten in which row he’d left his car, or was fearful that someone had hotwired it and driven away. “It’s better to have too many than too few, that’s all I know. I haven’t seen her for a couple of months.”

  “Why not sooner?”

  “Her husband isn’t away all the time.”

  “She’s married, at nineteen?”

  “I appreciate that you’re very inquisitive, because I am as well. The inquisitive shall inherit the earth, eh?” He sent a sharp elbow at my ribs, and I was afraid to give him one back in case he turned out to be nothing more than brown paper and sawdust. “She got married at sixteen, then had another child to prove the first was no accident. So she got a council house. Her mother lives with her, and looks after the kids. They take it in turns doing it, because I have a go at the mother as well whenever I can. She’s not much above thirty, after all. Putting you in the picture, am I?”

  Too right he was. A man of his age, and he had a nineteen-year-old married woman with two kids hot for him, and access to her mother. What was the country coming to? It was enough to make me sweat, not to say envious.

  I can’t think why, but people often confided their foibles to me, and told stories with little if any encouragement, which was good when it entertained me, and bad when it bored me. And they still do it, perhaps deceived by the honest face I’m forced to wear so as to hide the seething villainy within. Or I catch them at the point when, if they don’t talk about what’s worrying them, they’ll either burst into flames or go out and do a murder. Maybe so many people opened their mouths to me as if I were a ghost, assuming that what information they spilled would not be passed on. If they had known of my relationship to the novelist Gilbert Blaskin they would have held back. Or they would have been even more forthcoming.

  Maybe in spite of this old man’s lambent intentions he somehow sensed he had only half an hour to live, and I would see his burnt-out car a few miles up the road. I hoped not. “You’re looking a bit worried,” he said.

  “I am. What if the husband catches you?” I put out my hand, which he shook vigorously, and introduced myself.

  “Horace Hawksley, me. But what I say, Michael, is this: what’s life all about if you’re not prepared to take a risk? Life can be very monotonous after you’re retired, and being seventy-five what do I have to lose?”

  “I can see you’re too old to die young,” I said, “but what if, Horace, for instance”—recalling Blaskin’s misadventure—“what if, say, Betty’s husband went to the airport, and foun
d the plane wouldn’t take off for five hours; or he went to the station and saw that the rails had so many leaves on them that trains wouldn’t be running to London for another week? In view of such a delay he would come home and catch you in bed with his wife. He’d be so devastated he’d choose a chopper from the coalhouse and split your head from top to bottom.”

  His face turned all shades from healthy pink to graveyard white. Then he smiled so widely I hoped his teeth wouldn’t fall out. “Michael, if I looked at it that way I’d never get anywhere, would I? Even though I expect to live forever, life’s too short to think like that.”

  “But your life could be cruelly cut short if you don’t use caution.”

  Anger sparked behind his glasses. “I’m not a bloody fool, am I?” The maniacal smile his girlfriend found such a come-on lit his clock. “I must be going. Never be late is my golden rule.” He winked, and gave another stab at my ribs. “Next stop Grantham! Wish me luck!”

  I did, and as I relished the ambrosial inhalations of another cigar, I watched him peering at the number plate of almost every car before coming to his own, certain that Alzheimer’s would get him before priapic decline, and then where would he be? I’d scour the tabloids for news of his trial. Then I spat tacks at not asking him what he took to keep himself banging away, which I might need in the not far distant future.

  I let him get well ahead, from an encounter which had touched my nerves unduly, felt myself sickening for either a cold or the flu. Frances never caught either, so many gunged up people in her pokey surgery that she was immune to all they could sneeze at her. Yet she frequently carried one home which I caught, and hid on going to work, in order to ravage the advertising agency. By the time I admitted to a cold all the others had it, and I claimed to have got it from them.

  I’d heard it said that you shouldn’t drive with a cold, but I was safer than otherwise, in knowing I had to be dead careful. It’s when I’m feeling the fittest man in the world that I splinter the tailgate against the only concrete post in sight in an almost empty car park.