A Man of his Time

by Alan Sillitoe

  Which was the best thing he’d heard all day. ‘You must be tired. We’ll go to the Oriental Café on Mansfield Road and have some tea.’

  Burton carried two buckets of slop to the pigsty, and Oliver was by the door before being seen. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Out. With Alma.’

  He let the mess into the trough, avoiding the usual pigs’ rush at his trousers. ‘I need some help in the garden.’

  The last kiss from Alma, sweet on his lips, was undisturbed by the smell of bran and pig muck wafting from the sty. ‘I want to read my book:’

  ‘There’s no time for that.’ Burton sensed how little he wanted to help. ‘Pigs can’t tell when it’s Sunday. Nor do the vegetables.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they can.’ He was too dispirited to make trouble. Burton looked at his son, long since out of his grasp, not only a fine blacksmith but he’d also been sent to school, a combination to stifle any regard between them. ‘Go and get changed, and put some proper clothes on your back.’

  Sunday trains were few, the carriage crowded, but he found the one spare seat for Alma. Sweat and Woodbine smoke thickened the air, and she couldn’t know that looking at her between various heads gave a more complete view than if he had been by her side. Even so, he couldn’t tell what she was thinking behind such placid but determined features. A clue might now and again help to build assumptions, as when her eyelashes flickered to show her changing from one subject to another, but that wasn’t good enough for his intense and loving curiosity.

  He couldn’t ask. She wouldn’t thank him if he did. Nobody would. People had to be left alone, because their thoughts belonged only to them. They weren’t to be disturbed, just as you wouldn’t like it if someone tried to break into your mind with questions you didn’t care to answer, even if you had one ready to give.

  They threaded streets away from Hucknall station, leading into the country. ‘How is it you know your way so well?’

  ‘I’ve been twice before,’ he said. ‘I walked the whole way from home once. I knew it was near Hucknall, and then I asked the way. Ernie Warrener promised to come, but let me down at the last minute, so I did it on my own.’ Across the lane from the reservoir was Beacon Hill. ‘See that hut on top, with the pole outside?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Two young chaps from Hucknall who knew all about wireless set it up. They heard the SOS from the Titanic a couple of years ago, and before that they got the signals of a German zeppelin going down in France.’

  ‘Are you having me on?’

  ‘I read about it in the newspaper. I’m interested in mechanical things.’

  By a farm fence a ferocious Alsatian seemed about to leap over and assail them. He chose a good-sized stone, and gave such a commanding shout for it to keep its distance that she looked at him as much with surprise as relief, but glad he knew so readily what to do.

  He realized such behaviour to be as crude as Burton’s, except that he might well have walked by in silence and, had the dog come close, booted it out of the way with never a word. ‘He’s blind in one eye,’ letting the stone fall, ‘so he couldn’t have harmed us.’

  Over a stile near Misk Farm he led her onto a path almost arched by briars and wild roses, pushing them aside and holding an outstretched hand. ‘We’re five hundred and twenty feet above sea level,’ he said on the open plateau.

  ‘Where did you hear that startling fact?’ – as if suggesting he had no right to know it.

  ‘They showed us on a map at school. It’s the highest point near Nottingham.’ He took her by the shoulder. ‘You can see Newstead Abbey over there,’ and pointed – which Mary Ann had told him he must never do, though he couldn’t think why. ‘If you look you can see Linby pit, and Papplewick just beyond. It’s a marvellous view,’ as if wanting thanks for his tuition. ‘To the right you can see Hucknall and Eastwood.’

  They trod the purple vetch and white clover. ‘I expect you can even see Trent Bridge,’ she said, ‘if you squint hard enough. It’s not very clear.’

  ‘I know, but you can tell where you are when you’re so high up. Everything’s good because it’s far away. If I could fly I’d go over it, as far as other countries. I’d be like a Wandering Israelite. Burton’s only ever been to Wales, and to hear him talk you’d think it was the other side of the moon. I could save the fare and go to Canada. A blacksmith can always get work. On the other hand maybe I’ll only dream about it. Unless you come with me.’

  ‘I might want to leave one day,’ she said, ‘but for the time being I’ll stay where I am. I hope to become a proper full-time teacher.’

  The idea fell like a blow, as if a blacksmith in that case couldn’t win her. ‘You never told me before.’

  ‘I didn’t know. I still don’t. The Reverend Walker said he’d try to get me a place where I can train, but it could take a few years. Maybe it will never happen, because so many want to become teachers. But I liked school, and was good at my lessons.’

  ‘I wasn’t, particularly, so I suppose I’m a bit of a numbskull.’

  She allowed a kiss, to let him know that he was far from it, though didn’t like saying so, while he was surprised at her assumption that he had used the word seriously.

  It was unthinkable that he might not like it here. ‘Why do you want to go on your travels?’

  ‘Wherever I went I’d always have this place with me. I want to see as many different countries as I can while I’m alive. Maybe the only way would be to go for a soldier.’ He brought her close for a kiss. ‘Except that it would break my mother’s heart.’

  ‘Those boys will see us.’

  ‘Let them.’ He sat to light a cigarette. ‘I suppose they’ve seen their mothers and fathers do it before now.’

  Neither spoke, till he thought it was up to him to do so. It was his day, but needed effort to keep it pleasant. ‘There’s a picture hanging in our parlour, of a youth and his sweetheart, and underneath it’s written: “If you love me as I love you, nothing can ever part us two”.’

  ‘It sounds,’ she said with a laugh which was no laugh to him, ‘like a postcard from the seaside.’ She joined him on the grass. ‘Is it supposed to be your father and mother?’

  ‘It could be you and me, though it might have been them at one time. When Mother was a barmaid she asked Burton to go and buy a pair of gloves, expecting him to wait till after his work, but he went straightaway, and she was so impressed that when he came back with them and asked her to marry him she said yes.’

  ‘What a romantic story. He’s very goodlooking, and smart as well. He stands out from everybody else.’

  ‘It was the worst move she ever made. I can’t help but despise him.’

  ‘Does your mother, though?’

  He was afraid to say how vilely Burton treated her in case she might think such traits would pass to him. ‘I’m sure she doesn’t. She’s far too long-suffering.’

  ‘It says in the Bible that you must honour your father and your mother.’

  ‘I’d like to honour Burton, but it’s not in me.’

  ‘You look a lot like him at times.’

  ‘It would be surprising if I didn’t, but thank goodness I’m different in every way.’ She seemed to get a more lively tone in her voice when they talked about Burton. He took another kiss, and held a hand for her to stand. ‘We should start walking back. There’s a place in Hucknall to stop for tea. Then we can go to Bulwell and catch the tram from there.’

  ‘I hope so. I’m tired.’

  Talk declined, there was a limit to his store of things to say. Tea should have refreshed them, but the walking had been too much for her. She was pale and looked exhausted when they got to Woodhouse.

  ‘When shall I see you again?’

  ‘I’ll call for you next Saturday evening,’ she said.

  ‘I’d rather meet by your house.’

  ‘I like the stroll up the lane to yours. I’ll be there about half-past seven.’

  ‘I
’ll never love anybody else but you,’ he said, for which she let him kiss her, though neither readily nor tenderly. As he walked away he found it hard to decide what in the day had gone right.

  TEN

  Thomas took a bar of iron from the heat to shape a horseshoe, Burton looking over his shoulder: ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  Working hard to make a fair job, but feeling his father’s critical presence, he missed a beat of the hammer, expecting a blow he could do nothing to avoid. ‘I’m bending it, like you said.’

  The bony fist struck his shoulder. ‘You don’t do it that way. You’re lifting the hammer too high. Your mind’s not on what you’re doing. You’ve got so much confidence you don’t know how to take care. Not to think about what you’re doing is idleness, so stop thinking about yourself and think of the job.’ Thomas’s tears angered him even more. ‘I’ve told you a hundred times how to do it.’

  ‘I was doing it like you said.’

  ‘Don’t answer back, or you’ll get another.’

  ‘I’m tired, because there’s too much work.’

  Burton couldn’t dispute it, and knew he’d been too harsh. ‘Don’t complain, do you hear me? Never complain.’

  Thomas had heard it said so often he was fed up with the words, knowing he’d always had plenty to complain about.

  ‘Oliver would make ten of you. Put the shoe back and heat it up again. It’s the colour you’ve got to watch. From now on do it the way I’ve taught you.’

  ‘Will Oliver be coming to work with us?’

  ‘Not if I know it.’ Burton wanted Oliver to ask for his job back, but no number of hints could make him see sense. Trade was good again, and he could do with help, but he preferred his soft place at the sawmill. He would regret it one day, as you did everything you said no to. He called from the doorway: ‘Oswald, when you’ve finished that horse come in and show this daft ha’porth how to go on.’ If he never did anything else he would turn his sons into good blacksmiths.

  A wad of wool in his ears might deaden the high whine and tearing screech of the bandsaws, though the torment of such inhuman noise lessened when he forgot about it in the attention given to his work. Being Saturday, he would be going home soon to his dinner and, after a wash and change, stand by the gate for a glimpse of Alma on her way up the lane. She would want to go to the village, but he preferred strolling across the Cherry Orchard and into the cover of the wood, to find a dry place and go all the way in making love. The prospect was never out of his mind, though who could hope for such intimacy with a Sunday School teacher?

  He backed a horse into the shafts, wondering how many more had to be done. The animal reflected his own weariness but passed a few moments by releasing a column of amber piss into the sawdust. Thirteen-year-old Sidney Camb stood by, a bedraggled specimen who, Oliver thought, should have been in school. The boy looked uncared-for, more exhausted than himself or the horse. A cap sat on a bunch of fair curls, and his too-big waistcoat had half the buttons missing. ‘Look sharp, Sidney, and fasten him in. Earn your five bob a week. We can get our wages and go home soon.’

  He liked Oliver calling him Sidney, instead of plain Sid as all the other men did: ‘My money won’t do much good.’

  ‘It must be a help to your mother.’

  He spat, to seem grown-up. ‘It would be, if my dad didn’t drink it all away.’

  His father was a carter, and so often rocked at the reins it was a wonder he didn’t injure himself, or get thrown out of his job. ‘As long as you don’t take after him. Here’s Mr Brown with our money.’

  A corpulent bald-headed man, under his bowler hat, walked from the main shed clutching a leather wage bag. His hand dug deep for the last to be paid. ‘Here you are, Oliver, a sovereign this week. Not bad for a young chap, but I must admit you’ve earned it. I expect you’ll be getting married on it soon.’

  ‘It’s always possible.’ If Alma didn’t know her own mind he could put a baby into her and go into wedlock on a foreceput. All would be honey and spice once they were married. Or perhaps not, because the real struggle would begin, like the hard life his parents had always led. Better to take the way of a journeyman and get to Canada for five years, returning with more gold in his pocket than could be made by staying put. He would ask Alma, and find what his fate was to be.

  Brown ticked his name off the pay sheet. ‘Remember me to Burton when you see him. He must have been a good father, to teach you the trade so well.’ He handed Sidney his two half-crowns for the week.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And don’t spend it all at once.’

  ‘No, sir, I shan’t.’ He turned, cleared his throat of wood dust and bile, and emptied it by his boot. ‘I never do, sir.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Brown said to Oliver. ‘I almost forgot: you’ll be staying on a bit longer tonight. We’ve got six horses back from late deliveries, and they’ll all need seeing to.’ Oliver’s frown was plain. ‘You’ll be done by nine, so I expect she’ll wait, whoever the lucky girl is.’

  ‘Of all the evenings,’ he said when Brown walked back towards the house, ‘it would have to be this.’

  ‘I’ll go and see her for you.’ Sidney barely avoided the fist that flew at his face. ‘I’ll take her for a walk up Colliers’ Pad.’

  He could use his feet, collect his belongings and tell Brown to put his job where a monkey shoved its nuts, as no doubt Burton would in a like situation. When he ran from the White Hart to get Mary Ann’s gloves there must have been a queue of urgent work at the forge, his father cursing and wondering where he was. But Oliver knew that if he walked away he would lose his job, at a time when another might be hard to find. Then how could he ask Alma to marry him?

  On the other hand if he did go Burton would happily set him on, but asking him would strike at the roots of his pride. And then, Brown had kindly taken him in after his quarrel with Burton. The first two drays came at the crack of whips from between the sheds. He would have to see Alma another time.

  Hens and cockerels scattered when Burton went into the poultry compound. Panic and clumsy flight at his marauding fingers around the hatches, he came out with four eggs. Halfway to the house he heard the gate latch click and saw a young man come up the path.

  ‘What do you want?’ It didn’t take long to know where he had seen him, the same young bully who had given him some lip when they had accidentally collided on the lane. Doddoe Atkin, who a few days ago had passed the gate on his way to do some poaching. Whatever he got from selling rabbits was spent in the pub.

  Doddoe halted a few steps away, Burton noting that he didn’t take off his cap before speaking: ‘I’m looking for work. Some chap in Woodhouse said you might want an extra hand in your forge.’

  He must have heard that Oliver was working elsewhere. ‘Not as I know it.’

  ‘I acted as striker once at the pit.’

  Burton thought he was impertinent in thinking himself capable of doing any work he might give. Even if hard up for help he would never employ someone like that. Though big and hefty, he was fit for nothing. ‘I don’t have anything for you.’

  Lips lifted, a slight gap between otherwise perfect teeth, and he spoke as if his life depended on a better response. ‘In that case, can you spare a copper or two? I’m on my uppers.’

  ‘There’s nothing for you here.’

  Half into the house Burton heard a shout from the gate – which Doddoe closed as if to wrench the hinges off. ‘You’re a mean old fucker!’ – convincing him that nothing but trouble would be any man’s lot who took him on.

  Mary Ann at the table sewed buttons on a shirt, and Emily played on the floor with empty cotton reels. ‘Oh, big white chucky-eggs!’

  Burton put them into her hands, to show Mary Ann: ‘We’ll have one each for breakfast. Fry the others for Oliver’s tea when he comes in.’

  He took his rubber-rollered machine and a pouch from the cupboard, made five neat cigarettes and laid them in a row beside Mary Ann’s
sewing box. ‘Oliver’s late,’ she said.

  ‘I expect he’s dawdling with some girl or other.’

  ‘I thought I heard him in the yard just now.’

  ‘It was a young lout from Woodhouse wondering whether I could give him some work. I told him I couldn’t, then he asked for money, the damned fool.’

  ‘Poor young man.’ She would never send a beggar from the door with nothing. ‘I’d have given him a cup of tea.’

  ‘I know you would. You’re too soft. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted money for booze. Nobody should meddle with his sort. He’s been up a time or two before the magistrates for poaching.’

  ‘There’s always somebody worse off than us,’ she said. ‘A lot of young men don’t have work these days.’

  ‘There’s plenty, if you look hard enough. Where did that come from?’ he asked, when she picked up a newspaper.

  ‘Oswald brought it back.’

  ‘They’re a waste of money.’ A knock at the door, and he wondered whether Doddoe had been mad enough to come back, but looked down on a little scruff in his working clothes. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Your Oliver said to tell you he’d be staying late at the sawmill tonight,’ Sidney called from a few feet away, cap in hand. ‘A lot of horses want seeing to.’

  Burton gave him a penny for his trouble, and closed the door. ‘You heard that?’

  ‘I hope they pay him extra.’

  ‘That’s cold. Brown’s a mean one.’

  ‘Oliver should leave the job, then.’

  ‘He’s too loyal, at least with other people, though I can’t think why.’

  She picked up the newspaper. ‘They say there might be a war soon.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘With Germany it looks like.’

  His grunt was more contemptuous than usual. ‘The world’s daft enough for anything.’ He got up, unable to sit for long. ‘I’m going down the lane to get some ale.’

  He thumped around upstairs, changing into a neater jacket and trousers, then came down, went through the kitchen, and strode across the yard onto the lane.