A Man of his Time

by Alan Sillitoe

  Halfway to the railway bridge a young woman came towards him. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘where are you going?’

  ‘I’m calling on Oliver.’

  ‘Do you remember me?’

  Alma smiled, having hoped for a glimpse of him, even if from a distance. ‘Of course I do.’

  He saw the freshness of youth in her eyes and skin, and in the shape under her blouse, such beauty he would like to get closer to. ‘Now you’ve met me.’

  ‘He said he’d be waiting.’

  ‘A lad came from the sawmill and told us he was working late this evening.’

  ‘Did he say when till?’

  ‘He couldn’t say. It might be as late as ten. That’s what it sounded like.’

  ‘I’d better go home, then. I expect he’ll tell me the reason when I see him again.’

  ‘I’m going your way. I’ll see you safe under the bridge. I’m sure you won’t mind walking with me.’

  Despite the lack of rain the evening smelled cool and fresh between the thick green hedgerows. She laughed. ‘How can you think I’m afraid?’

  ‘Every young woman’s frightened of something.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You get some rum characters around here.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare bother me.’

  ‘What about the big bad wolf?’

  ‘That’s just a fairy story.’

  He wondered whether she would know a wolf if she saw one. ‘It might not be, and if it isn’t it won’t get you, if you’re with me.’

  The company of a young woman brought back the lechery of youth, as he walked a few steps in front to test her seriousness about following him. She came level. ‘Where is it you’re going?’

  ‘To get some beer. But we’ll call at the pub, and I’ll buy you a drink.’

  ‘I don’t go into such places. They ruin people.’

  Such naivety was fetching. ‘They do if they throw their money away by getting drunk. I’ve never done that. Here’s the tunnel. Take my arm, if you like. My girls are frightened of going under it by themselves.’

  ‘I don’t see why they should be.’

  ‘Nor do I. But people are funny that way.’

  He was amazed that she put a hand on his arm in the half-dark, the lightest touch of warm soft fingers. At the middle he thought about a kiss, but it was too soon. Had it been muddy he was amused to think he could have offered to carry her through. Back in daylight he asked where she worked.

  She took her hand away. ‘At Hollins’s mill.’

  ‘I expect you get thirsty, in all that dust. I’ll bet you could do with a drink of something.’

  ‘Are you sure Oliver won’t be back till ten?’

  ‘I only know what I was told. It’s happened before. And I wouldn’t tell a lie.’

  At the corner of the street Doddoe leaned against the wall of the beer-off, eyes beamed above an upended bottle. Burton looked, daring him to say something, but he turned and brought the bottle down – empty, in any case – happy not to be called to account for his swearing.

  ‘It’s a warm evening,’ she said, ‘so I could have a glass of lemonade.’

  ‘You shall have whatever you like, if you take my arm like you did back there.’ She hadn’t, yet she must have if he said so, but she didn’t know, couldn’t remember, alarmed at having forgotten, if she had. They walked towards the main road. ‘If you don’t want to be seen inside a pub we’ll find a seat in the yard. It’s a nice enough evening.’

  His day at the forge was far away, and now he had the energy to enjoy leisure. They passed the limekilns, and the keeper’s cottage outlined in the pallor of dusk. Every leaf of its garden tree seemed to hold a bird, the noise intense and piercing. A hooter sounded from a barge approaching the lock.

  Hard to keep up with his stride, didn’t want to be left behind, tried to stay level, his assurance a comforting umbrella she was allowed to share. He was a more complete man than Oliver could be on his own, and she’d marry Oliver without hesitation if he had been his father, whom she so much liked being with, though without knowing why.

  Burton indicated the table she was to wait at while he went in for drinks. She stood by uncertainly, wondering what she was doing here, though it was a cosy place, with the full-headed overhanging tree shadowing the last of the sun. Talk and laughter came from inside, and she could hardly fault people for their relaxation after a day’s work. They sounded content, and happy. Even so, she felt an urge to leave, but wasn’t able to move, waited anxiously for him to come back, a state impossible to explain. Perhaps he’d met an acquaintance and forgotten her, a notion so intolerable she had to wait and see if it was true.

  ‘I got you a shandy.’ He set the glasses down. ‘It won’t buck you up all that much, but it’ll taste better than plain lemonade.’

  ‘You know I can’t drink alcohol, so why did you buy it?’

  ‘Because I like you.’ He smiled as she took a sip. ‘They only put a thimbleful of beer in, to give it colour. You can see that, but it doesn’t taste. In fact I like you very much. How old are you?’

  She swallowed again. ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘And do you like me?’

  Her smile, though suggesting the question was unnecessary, didn’t make it easy for him to know which way her answer would go. ‘How can I say?’

  ‘You mean you might think so?’

  ‘I suppose I could.’

  He looked at any woman as if reading all her secret thoughts, and as if knowing she knew that he did. ‘You’ve got to know your own mind, and get used to answering a question when somebody asks. If you’re twenty-three you should be able to.’

  He was telling her what to do, how to behave, and she couldn’t dislike it. Oliver had not been truthful in saying his father never talked. ‘I can’t always explain myself.’

  ‘Let me ask you this, then, do you ever go in Robin’s Wood?’

  His enquiry seemed innocent enough. ‘I did when I was younger.’

  To pick bluebells, I suppose? It’s famous for them.’ He drank more ale, smoothed his moustache. With no hope of getting her he might as well come out with what was in his mind. ‘People come from all over to get them when they’re in bloom.’

  ‘I used to love it there,’ she said. ‘In spring there was wood-sorrel, primroses and violets, all kinds of flowers. When I took some home and put them in water though, they died. My mother used to say they smelled then as if somebody had wet the bed.’

  He didn’t want to hear about her mother. ‘I go there for a stroll on Sunday afternoon. If you come you might see me.’

  ‘I’ll be in Sunday School. I read Bible stories to a class of children.’

  ‘So I heard. How did you get that job?’

  ‘It’s not a job. I don’t get paid for it. One of the preachers heard me telling a story I thought the children hadn’t understood. He asked me to do it in front of the class, and I did. Then he coached me till I could do it better. He gave me a Bible to read at home. I was sixteen. One day I hope to be a real teacher. I don’t want to work at Hollins’s mill all my life.’

  He laughed, and reached for her hand. ‘I’d like to hear you talking to the children, though I’d rather you came for a walk with me in Robin’s Wood. Send word to the Sunday School that you’ve been run over and can’t go in that day. They’ll believe you.’

  She drew back, while not wanting to. ‘I don’t think they would.’

  ‘They’ll believe anything. That’s their trade. And if you can’t come this week, come next.’ Her cheeks flushed at the pressure on her wrist. ‘I can show you something better than flowers.’

  She drank more shandy, as if it would lessen the flame of her colour. ‘Oliver told me you’re one of the best blacksmiths in the county.’

  He was sparing with his smiles, even talking to this handsome girl. ‘Did he?’ It wasn’t the time to hear Oliver’s opinion. ‘I’ve been in competitions, if that means anything.’ From her mood he thought she
might after all be tempted to walk in the wood. A woman’s uncertainty was always the beginning of getting what you wanted. She might not come tomorrow, but that would give a whole week for the notion to sink in, to worry her, to turn her bed thoughts lickerish, and tempt her into wanting to find out what he meant. The prospect was possible, and he was prepared to wait, though he was surprised to be thinking so already.

  Being twice her age made no difference if he wanted her. All you had to do was want hard enough, and let her know you did, that you wanted it so hard she didn’t have to make up her mind about whether or not she wanted you. You also had to let her know that as far as you were concerned she could take it or leave it, which made the chances even better that she would take it, though if she didn’t nothing was lost. Often enough a woman did take it, and when you got what you had made it known in no uncertain terms you wanted she would have no cause to complain at giving in, not if the result made her halfway happy.

  He enjoyed the sight of her pale skin and lustrous hair, fair bust and ready lips, wanted to spread her legs and go into her, sending his steady gaze across the table, which she had found so hard to meet at first but now looked at with curiosity, helplessness, admiration, and even hopelessness at being drawn into something from which he was making sure there would be no escape.

  To question himself as to what he was doing was a weakness he wouldn’t allow. If you wanted something, you did and said all that was necessary to get it. Consequences were for the future, had nothing to do with you, because the future was never with you, was always the present. Tell a woman you loved her as if you meant it, and she would believe you whether you did or not, though he always meant it at the time. On the other hand it could be a bit of a game which, should it turn out to have been no more, was pleasant enough, with nothing lost.

  She closed her eyes, opened them quickly, and not to be on her guard, either. He had seen it before, the barriers coming down in a full-blooded woman who didn’t know they were doing so. But they were. He took care that the movement of his lips would be taken for a smile. ‘Have something a bit stronger now.’

  The last shoe was hammered into place. ‘Hold still, will you?’

  Lights yellowed through the trees from the house, where Brown and his wife were sitting to a well-earned meal, always late on Saturday night. After a hard day the horse bridled, sent a blow at Oliver’s thigh. He had seen it coming, so avoided the worst, but walked a circle knowing he would have a dark bruise for a week.

  An elderly blacksmith once told him how, as a young man, a horse had trodden on his foot, and the pain stayed with him for life. His already subsiding, he went back to the horse, talking as he stroked its mane. ‘You didn’t mean to knock me for six, did you, you poor beast? I wish you hadn’t tried, though, because I’m as much of a slave as you are.’

  Level with its nostrils, he touched with one hand and sent up comforting breath, taking the horse’s part, familiar with its hardworking day, its weariness and agitation. Burton had drilled into him that if you knew how to whisper to a horse you’d never come to harm, but he should have done so before putting on the shoes. Missing the date with Alma had clouded the mind. Burton said often enough – but Burton had said too bloody much – that nothing should be on your mind while shoeing a horse, otherwise you were asking for it. He’d hammered the nails flush into the shoe, so saw no reason for the trouble. ‘You can’t be half as fed-up as I am.’

  Brown came from the house, a comforting cigar smoking between his lips. ‘I’ll take him off your hands, Oliver, and make sure he gets a good feed. You’ve done well. I shan’t forget it.’

  Nor shall I, he thought, walking between the blending shadows of the footpath, weary in bone and sinew.

  Mary Ann got up from the fireside as soon as he came in. ‘Aren’t you going to wash?’

  He hung his jacket and sat at the table. ‘In a minute. Give me a bit of bread and something first.’

  She cracked two eggs into a pan of fat.

  ‘What are those?’

  ‘Your father said I was to fry them for you. They’re straight out of the hens. You can eat them before the supper.’

  He cut away the whites to eat first, as she had so often seen Burton do. ‘Has somebody called for me?’

  ‘Only a young lad, who said you’d be working late. Were you expecting someone?’ She took a pan of bacon and roast potatoes, a crock of peas and carrots from the oven, and set them on his plate. A speared potato went into his mouth but, being too hot, he let it fall into his palm and put it on the plate. ‘A young woman promised to call.’

  She came back from the pantry with a square loaf not long baked, glad to see such a spread for him on the table. ‘You look half-dead. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.’

  ‘She said about half-past seven.’

  ‘It’s as well she changed her mind, because you wouldn’t have been here.’

  ‘It’s strange. She’s always been on time.’

  ‘I expect you’ll see her at Sunday School, if it’s Miss Waterall you’re talking about.’

  Done with eating, and sufficient energy back, he refreshed himself in the scullery with soap and cold water. From the steps he asked: ‘Where’s Burton?’

  ‘He was in the yard a while ago. Then he went to Woodhouse to get some ale.’

  ‘I should have told her to meet me at the sawmill, but didn’t want to be seen in my working clothes.’

  ‘You look handsome in whatever you wear.’ She put a suet pudding and a boat of treacle before him, held his hand as he picked up the spoon and, remembering him as a fair-haired boy running about the yard full of delight, kissed him on the cheek. ‘When you see her tomorrow you can tell her what happened.’

  A rattling of the doorlatch signified Burton on his way in. His eyes glistened as he pointed to the pudding. ‘You can give me a bit of that.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I stopped for a jar.’

  She wondered at his unusually ready answer, though a whiff of beer suggested the truth, and proved it on him taking a quart bottle from his pocket. He set it before Oliver. ‘Drink this. I know you’ve worked hard enough.’

  He made no move to pick it up. ‘Don’t you want it?’

  ‘I’m giving it to you. It’s not poison, so drink. You look thirsty.’

  Mary Ann put a glass before him in case Burton should change his mind, or feel insulted if Oliver still refused to drink, and when Oliver squeezed off the rubber top to pour, her heart softened at seeing them like father and son at last.

  ELEVEN

  Burton walked silently around the house and behind the garden, till covered by the hedge. The track beyond the well, thick with vegetation, was pushed through and trodden down to reach the trees. He turned at the edge of Robin’s Wood, to see anyone crossing the Cherry Orchard.

  Uncertain that she would come, he knew there was a chance, otherwise why was he here? Where a woman was concerned it was every man for himself, and if Oliver couldn’t make sure of her that was his lookout. He hadn’t been acquainted with such a woman before, and in any case all women were different, equally young and fresh if you hadn’t yet had them. A rise at the thought of her, he regretted that, having so much Sunday School business, she might not turn up.

  An hour went by, and felt like it, but the breeze was cool, and bushes lush even at the beginning of August. Birds sang more sweetly here than in the town, reinforcing his love for fields and woods. Skylarks whistling in the heat would guide her to where he lurked. Though careful to stay hidden he would make sure she saw him.

  A pigeon scrambled noisily out of a tree as he gazed at the way of her approach. The route from Woodhouse led by the house, but unless someone was looking over the fence she would get by without being seen, and who would realize she was on her way to meet him? She might in any case think herself only out for a walk, hardly knowing what she was doing. Such things happened that way.

  Putting yourself in the mind of another
person was only useful for passing the time. Others would do what they would do, and you could only hope for the best when you wanted them to do what you wanted them to do very much indeed. You had enough in your head thinking for yourself.

  She was close before he saw her, from an unexpected direction, proving that she had a head on her shoulders, and knew what she was doing, telling him that the innocent could be as cunning as their elders, though perhaps not more than once. She had been hurrying, and her heart beat heavily. ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I came the way you told me, but then I zigzagged a bit.’

  ‘I waited a long time.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Now you are.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘It’s right enough for me.’

  ‘I came as if I had no say in it.’

  ‘That’s the only way.’ He had clipped his moustache, and shaved with special care, smoothing his skin for the give and take of kisses. ‘Come into the wood.’

  She stepped backwards. ‘I don’t know that I should.’

  ‘Should or shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘I love you more than I ever loved anybody.’ There was a time to bully and a time to coax, and he hardly knew which would be more effective. ‘You came all this way, so we might as well stroll inside. It’s a bit hot in the sun.’

  Twenty-three, but she wasn’t much more than a child in her understanding, and he drew her along to save arguing with herself, better for her not to be certain which way things were going. That she had deeper feelings than he thought was better in the end. Neither did he know whether he was doing good or ill, but whoever did, and what was the point in knowing whether you were or not if it stopped you getting what you wanted?

  She noted the strong athletic boughs he walked among, and prepared herself either to stay out of range, or field them with open hands should they shoot towards her. None of it necessary, she so much in mind that he stopped the twigs and branches springing against her, careful also to tread down the virile nettles that would sting even through her skirt and stockings because they had matured under a damp canopy of trees.