A Man of his Time

by Alan Sillitoe

  A man only ever took a woman into a wood for one thing, and a woman only followed for the same purpose. He helped her over the narrow brook he had drunk from as a boy after escaping George’s wrath. She thought his snort at the memory was because of her, and went into his arms for kisses of reassurance, so passionately received that she knew she had done right to meet him.

  She followed close on his strides, and when he stopped without warning went into his back. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said.

  She thought he meant walk on because of some obstacle. ‘What do you mean?’

  He turned, and though throbbing at the groin to take her, he could control it, as any man should be able to. He had never had to force any woman, but getting her here had been too easy. It was the sort of mad year in which young girls had become more lax in their ways, as he knew from his own. He could deceive Mary Ann as long as she didn’t get to know, and trick another man by taking his wife (because that was never anybody’s fault but the man’s) but he didn’t relish the notion of doing it on Oliver. ‘We’ll go back.’

  The pleading on her features shocked him. ‘No, please, it’s too late now.’

  The knot in his brain fused. He hadn’t banked on her pushing the boat out, yet it was he who had cut the ropes. There was no more to be said as he led her to a glade where they wouldn’t be seen. ‘We’ll lay down here.’

  Overarching trees hid the sky. He hung his broad leather belt in the fork of a tree, and helped her into place, a picture among the green he could never have hoped to see, her soap and scent smell mixing with the sweat of hurry over the fields, a fragrance to set any man aflame, though he sensed uncertainty in her still, and knew he must not hurry.

  She seemed uninterested in his kisses, pressed her arms around his neck with more force than he thought necessary. The rustle of her skirts was hidden by the noise of the birds, and he went smoothly past the garters to get at her drawers. When they were off she pulled him in.

  Oliver went to the Mission Hall and was told that another mistress had taken Alma’s duties. When he knocked at the door of the house where she lived, her father stood on the step in braces and collarless shirt, to tell him she wasn’t in. Calling again, her worried mother in apron and sud-stained hands said the same thing. Alma was out, and she had no idea where.

  He wanted to knock her father down, or kick the door in when her mother slammed it in his face, and force a way inside to find where Alma was hiding. He was tall enough and strong enough, but shame prevented him.

  If he found her she might even lie as to where she had been, but he wouldn’t care as long as they could talk, if only for a few minutes, because he was sure she would be back in his arms and never lie to him again. Imagining she would tell a lie was hardly fair, it was just that she didn’t want to see him, though if not, why not? It was griping that he didn’t know, longed to find out if it was true. He had thought of asking her to marry him when they met, and the ache of love was in him more than ever.

  A long goods train rumbled along the embankment, and Edith coming from under the bridge wanted to know why he was standing so forlorn. ‘I was wondering which way to go for a walk,’ he said.

  ‘What difference does it make? You’ve walked everywhere before. We all have. I’m fed up living in the same place, and traipsing the same dreary footpaths. I’m nearly eighteen, and I’ve worn every one out with my shoes. I just want to get away.’

  ‘Is that why you’re wearing your Sunday finery? I’ll bet you’re going to meet Tommy Jackson.’

  ‘You are a sharpshit!’ She laughed. ‘He promised we’d walk into town and go rowing on the Trent. Or he might take me on an excursion boat to Colwick.’

  ‘Don’t fall in the water, will you? I worry about you. It’s a warm day, but it’s still cold among the fishes, and you’d get wet.’ He came close, and looked into her unfearing eyes. ‘If you see any orange peel on the road, pick it up for me.’

  ‘Orange peel? What for?’

  ‘I’m collecting it. When I get a sackful I can sell it. I’ve already got a lot at home.’

  ‘I haven’t seen it.’

  ‘It’s hidden under the bed, in a pillow slip.’

  ‘Oh, you are daft, you and your jokes. You’re always pulling our legs. Are you waiting to see Alma?’

  ‘I would be if she was waiting to see me.’

  The pain on his face was plain. ‘She hasn’t chucked you, has she?’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder.’

  ‘She’s no good if she has.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘There’s plenty more pebbles on the beach.’

  ‘You’d better go. Tommy won’t wait long for any girl.’

  ‘I’ll blind him if he doesn’t wait for me.’

  ‘Remember me to him. We were at school together. But I’m serious about the orange peel. If you see any, bring it home to me.’

  She held his hands. ‘Are you all right, Oliver?’

  He regained his normal voice. ‘Tell Tommy how lucky he is to have you for a sweetheart.’

  ‘I do that every time. I like him a lot.’

  ‘But I do want some orange peel.’

  ‘If I see any I’ll put it in my pocket.’

  ‘That’s a good sister. Tell Tommy to get some for me as well.’ Now why did I say all that? He watched her walk up the road, and only when she was well in front did he go in the same direction, and turn onto the canal for a stroll among the Sunday fishermen casting their lines from its banks. Some sat without thought, gazing at small points of exploding water, or watching water-beetles making rings around the minnows, then going about their inexplicable business. They were as content for an hour or so as any men could be on this earth, which was how he would like to be, though the sight of them calmed him.

  This is where they start to cry, but she didn’t, either made of better stuff, or not knowing what she had done, or what she had let herself in for. Experience told him it was something of both, so she might need humouring. ‘I don’t suppose they ever saw you like this at that Bible class?’

  She sat peacefully, drawers off and stockings down. The calmness puzzled him, and her look told him she knew it. Realizing her dishevelment, more from his gaze than her own feelings, she put things right, and tied the band of blue ribbon around her hair. ‘I haven’t done this before.’

  ‘I could tell. But you’ve done it now. It’s a good job I always have a red handkerchief about me.’ As if uncertain of their haven’s safety he pulled up his braces and reached for his belt. ‘Was that why you wanted to?’

  ‘Yes, but only with you.’ She stood against the green background to straighten her skirt and be again the young woman who explained the Bible to children. He was bemused by the glint of accomplishment in her blue eyes, not to mention the smile of mischief on her lips when he looked more closely, telling himself he would give a guinea to know what was hurtling through her mind. He lit a cigarette in the certainty that he would never know. ‘Were you good at school?’

  She leaned against him. ‘I didn’t want to leave, but my father said I had to earn some money.’

  ‘I suppose he would say that.’

  ‘Not that I hold it against him. We were always short.’

  ‘It’s not easy, keeping your children.’ An idea came to him. ‘Have you ever been to Matlock?’

  ‘The Sunday School went once, but I was ill with bronchitis, and couldn’t go. The others talked about it for ages when they got back.’

  ‘We’ll go together, and put up for the night. Not under the bushes, either. We’ll find a boarding house, and have a bed to ourselves.’

  ‘What could I tell them at home?’

  ‘Say you’ll be staying the weekend with an aunt. You must have one.’

  ‘I don’t like telling lies.’

  ‘Nobody does. But you’d better get used to it. I’ll meet you at Radford station next Saturday morning, at eight o’clock.’

&n
bsp; She looked around. ‘I’ve lost an earring.’

  ‘So you have.’ He scraped among grasses and leaves, but it was hopeless. ‘I’ll buy you another pair.’

  She held the odd one. ‘No, don’t. I’ll keep this as a memento.’

  He thought it just as well. ‘You’re a strange girl to me.’

  ‘Am I?’ As if wondering what advantage there was in it for him. He found her as vulnerable as a winged bird, though a wayward and beautiful one. When they embraced she whispered: ‘I love you,’ and as they turned to go out of the wood: ‘I can’t wait to do it again.’

  ‘Nor me. You spent, didn’t you? I know you did.’ You’ve got to be sure the woman enjoys it or she might not want to see you anymore.

  ‘Now I know what it means. I love you so much I don’t feel like going home.’

  ‘Nor do I, but we’ve got to.’ There was pity in his tone, impossible to say for whom. Sending sweet words into a woman’s ear was the same as when your warm breath whispered them up the nostrils of an intractable horse. ‘You’ll like Matlock. We can take more time over it. Then we’ll go out, and walk by the river.’

  Her bosom shivered against his ribs as she put her face up for another kiss, warm and protected by a man of such self-confidence. ‘What about Sunday School?’

  ‘Tell them you’ve got the mumps.’ Beyond the kiss, eyes ever open, he saw Ivy and Emily coming hand-in-hand across the Cherry Orchard. They roamed everywhere, at any time, but maybe Mary Ann had sent them to find out where he was. He wouldn’t put it past her, though to be so distrusted was more than a man should have to endure. He pulled her to denser cover. ‘A couple of my youngsters are over there, and I shouldn’t like them to see us.’

  Her heart beat almost to sickness at the peril of meeting children from her class, and she allowed him to steer her to the other side of the wood. ‘Go home,’ he said, ‘and take the long way. See me at the station on Saturday morning. And don’t keep me waiting.’

  When Burton passed them he looked, Ivy told herself, like thunder, and didn’t say a word. Well, he wouldn’t, would he?

  TWELVE

  Uniformed musicians in the bandstand embarked on a lively tune from The Quaker Girl, all threepenny chairs taken, people crowding the outer fringes. Burton, tall and upright in his best suit, a bowler hat flatly on and the usual flower at his lapel, beat out the rhythm on a chairback.

  Alma’s hat of sprouting feathers almost reached his height. The ring on her finger, fashioned from a piece of metal at the forge, was exactly the right size, though Burton had made no measurements. ‘I wish it was real,’ she said on taking it from him in the train.

  ‘And so might I.’ He watched her put it on, playing his wife for a couple of days.

  When everyone stood for the National Anthem he drew her between the chairs. ‘Let’s get out of this’ – heeding no one’s stares.

  ‘Why didn’t you stand like the rest?’

  They were crossing the river. ‘I don’t do that, not even for God Almighty.’

  ‘People should, when they play God Save the King.’

  He walked ahead, a slight squeak in his boots, but waiting to guide her over the road between brakes and wagonettes, a motor car now and again. ‘Nobody forces anybody to do anything. They stand up like dummies for a piece of music because they want to. That’s their business. I don’t care what they do, but it’s got nothing to do with me.’

  It worried her that he stood so far apart from the sentiment of the crowd. You can hide yourself just as well by doing the same as everybody else, and yet if he had been like other people she wouldn’t have wanted him so much, and he’d never have brought her here.

  They weren’t married, so he could allow her to take his arm, patient when she paused at windows showing sticks of peppermint rock, mineral specimens and fishing tackle. The smell of frying floated everywhere. ‘We’d better find a boarding house. They get full later on.’

  He seemed to know where to look, went along the road towards Matlock Town. After knocking twice the door was opened by a short grey-haired woman in a black apron. ‘We want to be put up for the night.’

  She led them upstairs to a room with a wardrobe, chest of drawers, chair and small table, and linoleum on the floor. ‘This’ll do,’ he said.

  ‘It’s four shillings and sixpence a night each, bed and breakfast. And you’re lucky, because it’s the last one. Somebody cancelled. Doors close at ten, and breakfast is at eight sharp. What name is it?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Worthington,’ his mother’s before marriage.

  ‘Where’s your luggage?’

  ‘At the station. Where’s the bathroom?’

  ‘That door across the way. You can pay me now. The hot water won’t come on till morning, and that’s an extra sixpence.’

  He gave out the coins in silver, as if far more than she deserved. ‘Cold is all I’ll need for the bath.’

  ‘Too much lip,’ he said when she’d gone, opening the window to let in fresh air. ‘Do you like it?’

  She turned from looking at woods across road, river and railway. ‘It’s clean and pleasant.’

  ‘If it hadn’t been we’d have found somewhere else.’ For their honeymoon Mary Ann had booked a more comely place by telegram. He put jacket and waistcoat on hangers into the wardrobe. She looked on at his orderliness, till held for a kiss. ‘You get undressed as well.’

  She took out the pin and set her hat carefully on the chair, undid the small pearl buttons of her blouse. ‘I’ve never seen such a picture as you make,’ he said.

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘You wouldn’t if you could see yourself. If I’d met you earlier in life things would have been different.’ Love grew the more he saw her skin unworn by work, flesh unblemished from having children. Such beauty called for tenderness, but she would have had eight young ones by now, and I’d be the same as I’ve always been, so it’s no use dreaming. ‘Are you sorry I made you miss Sunday School?’ he said with a subtly malevolent smile.

  ‘You seem to like the idea.’

  ‘No woman’s missed Sunday School for me before, and that’s a fact. I’ll never forget it.’ She was enough of a Nottingham girl to remind him of younger days, and the sight of her made him want to live forever. The fact that neither of them could brought a moment of sadness; though as far as he was concerned there was no such thing as yesterday, nor the future, either. He turned to take off his trousers, undo suspenders, lay socks aside. She uncovered her breasts and held out her arms.

  It was a delight to see her so well-bosomed, and all for him. The bedroom was like no other, she as no other girl, and he a man of distinction to have her in the same room – though she couldn’t fail to note how far he stayed inside the shell of himself when they lay down.

  He passed her clothes. ‘Get your shimmy on, and we’ll go out.’

  ‘Will you take me on the river?’

  ‘I’ll do whatever you want.’ He watched her dress. ‘You can put your hat on as well.’

  The Derwent forced a bottle-green track between steep wooded banks, heading for Derby and the Trent. After a ten-minute wait he helped her into a fragile skiff. ‘Look sharp, or you’ll get your ankles wet.’

  ‘Don’t go too close to the weir, sir,’ the boatmaster called. ‘We’ve lost a few people that way over the years.’

  ‘He must think me a damned fool.’

  She settled herself as he moved them quickly midstream, her finger dipping into the water. ‘Where exactly are you supposed to be today?’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘It’s best if you don’t.’ He noted a sulk at his reticence. ‘There’s no harm you knowing. I’m in Sheffield, looking over something for the forge.’

  ‘But it’s Sunday tomorrow.’

  ‘Business is always business there.’ He missed a boat by inches to reach less traffic. ‘And where are you supposed to be?’

 
With my Aunt Lydia. I told her a gentleman friend wanted me to visit his family.’

  ‘What did she say to that?’

  ‘She said good luck to me. She thinks women don’t get much opportunity to enjoy themselves. She said times were changing, and she was glad they were, even though she might be too old to get the benefit.’

  ‘Times don’t change.’

  She thought they did. ‘But people do.’

  ‘They do if they don’t know themselves.’

  ‘If things happen to them, they change.’ She took her hand from the water. ‘It’s cold.’

  ‘It always is.’ But it hadn’t rained for weeks. ‘We could do with some of it out of the sky.’

  She wasn’t listening. ‘I wish we could stay in Matlock for good.’

  He pulled more strongly, cutting through the wake of another boat. ‘You think I don’t?’

  ‘Why can’t we stay here? I’d find a job, and you could work at your trade.’

  He grunted. ‘Yes, I know, you could sell sticks of rock in a shop, while I’d show people around the caverns and get their pennies at the end when I held out my cap like a beggar.’ She waved the gnats away, so he paused in his rowing to light a cigarette. ‘That’s a daft idea.’

  ‘Why should it be?’

  ‘If we stayed here do you think they’d let you teach in Sunday School?’

  ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be able to do that again wherever I am. But we could be happy together.’

  ‘Could we?’ He didn’t care for such talk and, feeling the pull of the weir, headed towards the boathouse. ‘We’ll go up the Heights of Abraham tomorrow. You’ll like it there.’

  He was incapable of thinking about anything. He was empty inside and couldn’t think at all. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I can’t deny that’s what I like to hear,’ he said. ‘But do you know what love is?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ She put a hand on her heart. ‘I feel it here, for you.’

  ‘You can’t know. You will one day, but not yet. It’s when you’ve got eight children, and you break your back working every hour God sends to keep them and yourself out of the workhouse. I can’t leave that, much as my flesh and bones might want to.’