‘Your birthday present, thickhead.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me it’s a horse.’
‘It’s your kind of horse.’
Harry’s eyes and mouth stretched: then he was leaning over Joe and gripping Martin’s shoulder, saying, ‘You haven’t…it isn’t?’
‘I have and it is, and I’m mad, because I hate your damned machines.’
‘Aw, Martin! What is it?’
‘It’s what you’re always on about.’
‘An AJS!’ Harry turned quickly to Joe and cried excitedly, ‘Did you ever know such a brother as mine, spending his money on something he hates!’
Joe smiled but didn’t answer, and Harry, again in a thoughtful tone, said, ‘What would you like when you’re twenty-one, Joe?’
But before he could answer, Martin, turning his head to the side, called over his shoulder, ‘Why need you ask! A set of encyclopedias, of course. How’s the writing going, Joe?’
‘Not so good.’
‘What! And you aiming to come up and read English Lit.’
‘That’s the point,’ Joe called back now, ‘I have to do so much reading I’ve hardly any time for writing, at least not the kind I want to do.’
‘Poetry?’ There was a scornful note in Martin’s voice and Joe answered, ‘Well, no, not just poetry; in fact, not poetry at all.’
‘No? Don’t tell me you’ve gone in for politics. There’s been enough trouble without you starting. Or are you aiming to take Kipling’s place?’ Quickly switching the conversation, he addressed the next remark to Harry, saying, ‘I wonder how the Duke is feeling today; I wonder if he still thinks the exchange was worth it.’
‘I’m sure he does. He loved her; he must have.’
The brothers turned and looked at Joe and presently Martin said on a laugh, ‘That’s what he’s going to be, Harry, a romantic novelist. You can tell, can’t you? In fact, it’s a pity he isn’t in the game now. Look at the material he could have had this past year. Besides the Duke’s romance, there was Princess Juliana marrying a German prince; and then there’s our bleached beauty, Miss Jean Harlow. By! There’ll never again be a year like this for you to get your teeth into.’
‘Shut up!’
Martin and Harry laughed together and Harry thumped Joe in the shoulder, saying, ‘Take no notice, lad; you’ll get there. I only wish I had half your grey matter.’
For the rest of the journey Joe listened to the brothers talking about their futures, particularly that of Martin after he came down in June.
As for Harry, his aim was engineering and he was now in his third year at the College of Science in Newcastle.
It was as they approached the gates that Joe pointed away to the left and towards the hills where a man was walking and he cried excitedly, ‘There’s Mick!’
‘Mick? Mick Smith?’ Martin screwed up his eyes and looked towards the hills, saying, ‘How can you tell from here?’
‘Oh, I know his walk.’
‘Is he back home for good?’
‘No’—Joe shook his head—‘he’s taking a holiday; he’s twenty-one an’ all, you know; well, he was last month.’
‘Is he still working in the factory?’
‘Yes, he was promoted, he’s head of his department now.’
‘Well, that’s not surprising, he was always a wizard with wireless.’
‘Yes, he was. He is.’
Joe continued to look over his shoulder to where the figure in the distance had become a mere speck.
When they came in sight of the house it was to see Ellen Jebeau standing on the terrace, and when Martin drew the horse to a standstill at the foot of the steps she was there to meet them. Holding out her hand, her smile wide, she said, ‘It’s good to see you home again, Martin,’ and his answer was to take her hand and kiss her on the cheek and say, ‘It’s good to be home, Aunt. How are you?’
‘Very well. Very well…and what do you think about the new man?’ She extended a hand towards Harry, and Martin said derisively, ‘New man! He’ll never be a man, he’s still in the nursery playing with toy bikes.’
Again the two brothers were pushing at each other and as they all mounted the steps Ellen stepped back and walked by the side of her son, something she was in the habit of doing whenever they were in company, and which Joe had been aware of from the time she had recovered after his uncle’s death. He hadn’t known whether to put it down to the fact that she imagined he was being left outside the cameraderie of the brothers or that in some strange way she was laying claim on him. Her action always embarrassed him, but as it was unobtrusive he doubted if anyone else noticed it.
In the hall, turning to Martin, she said, ‘Come and see the table before you go upstairs,’ and hurried forward to the dining room, where Martin exclaimed in genuine appreciation of the table, beautifully decorated with flowers, glass, and silver and set for sixteen people.
‘It’s wonderful, Aunt! Beautiful. Better than I had on my twenty-first.’ He turned a comically aggressive face towards Harry, saying, ‘Mine was never like this.’
‘’Twas; it was even better. You had two tables, the second one to accommodate your lady friends; I don’t have so many.’
‘Well, that’s your fault, isn’t it? You’ve got to acquire charm and have a presence.’ He walked around the table now in an exaggerated pose, and Harry, laughing, said, ‘If it wasn’t for spoiling Aunt Ellen’s work I would throw that centrepiece at you.’
‘Anyway, who’s coming?’ Martin was addressing Ellen, and she, looking at Harry, said, ‘Well, it was up to Harry, and he wanted the Doltons…’
‘Oh yes! We must have the Doltons’—Martin nodded and winked at Harry—‘especially Rachel…What about Betty? Isn’t she married yet?’
‘No; she’s not married yet; I think she’s waiting for you.’ Harry pulled a face at his brother now as Ellen put in quickly, ‘The Hallidays too and their cousins, two young ladies who are staying with them.’ She turned towards Harry now, saying, ‘The Crosbie sisters?’
When Harry nodded Martin said, ‘How old are they?’
‘Nell is nineteen and Marion eighteen,’ Harry said and, poking his head forward with emphasis, he added, ‘And neither of them is a beauty.’
‘Oh!’ Martin craned his head up out of his collar. ‘Well, that cuts them out of my book, unless, of course, they’re entertaining, witty, rich, and—’ Here he turned and began to march from the room, saying, ‘have the sense to appreciate my worth.’
They all laughed. Even Ellen laughed and, looking at Harry, she said, ‘He doesn’t change.’
‘No, he doesn’t.’ Harry now stood looking along the table as he added thoughtfully, ‘It would be awful if he did, wouldn’t it?’
Ellen paused for just a fraction of a second before she answered, ‘Yes; yes, I suppose it would.’
Joe looked at his mother and there came into his mind a thought that wasn’t new: his mother didn’t like Martin; she liked Harry but not Martin; and Martin didn’t like her.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon. The sky was high, the air so clear that he imagined he could see to the ends of the earth. He was sitting with Mick at the top of a hill and he was wishing with a deep desire that he could remain in time, this present time, forever. Somehow he always had this feeling when he was with Mick. Mick made him feel rested: his brain didn’t churn and ask questions when he was with Mick. Mostly he listened; not that Mick talked a lot, but when he did everything he said seemed to have meaning. Now, as the thought came into his mind he spoke it aloud, and had he spoken like this to anyone else it would have been taken as an insult, for what he said was, ‘It’s a pity you haven’t had education, Mick.’
And Mick, looking straight ahead, was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Yes, I’ve often thought that, Joe, but not so much of late. Years ago when I used to see the young masters going off to their boarding schools…you too, I used to envy you all. But not any more, because you see this is how I look at it now: tho
se kind of schools grind you into a certain way of thinking and…and somehow, unless you become very careful, you’re stuck that way for the rest of your life. You’ve been set in a certain class and no matter how your opinions change and you want to throw that class off, if ever a man does, it won’t let him, it’s there in his voice, in his manner; even if a gentleman was to take to the road he’d still be a gentleman; I mean, according to the kind of education he’s received, so to my mind that has become a kind of cage. Do you follow me?’
They looked at each other, then returning their gaze to the far distance there was a silence between them before Mick went on again, ‘As I see it now, real education is what you get from life: not what life gives you, but what you give to it. I read a lot, Joe, and it appears to me that every man, even every thinking man has always had a different view of the same subject; the more I read of men and their lives and their ideas the more I realise there’s no black and white in the world; there’s good points to be found even in the blackest, and there’s some very dark streaks in the so-called saints. As for heaven and hell, well, Joe, as I see it we make them both ourselves.’
‘You don’t believe in God then, Mick?’
‘Yes and no, Joe. I don’t believe in the God the parson used to present to us three times on a Sunday.’
He laughed now. ‘Eeh! His idea did put the fear of God into me. You know, Joe’—he leant towards him now, a wide grin spreading over his face—‘I used to wet me pants every Sunday morning. It’s true.’
As Joe bowed his head and laughed, Mick went on, ‘And every Sunday night for years and years it happened, because every Sunday night I’d go down to hell. You know where it was, Joe?’ Now he was laughing at himself and he could hardly get the words out. ‘You know old Farmer Bolton’s place before it was burned down, you know, where the pigsties were and the stink? Well’—he choked now with laughter—‘I would go in among those pigs and they would all start scratching a hole and there I would be standing on a clapboard looking down and nearly sick with the smell. And when it was so deep I couldn’t see the bottom, Old Bolton’s prize sow, you know the one who had borne so many litters, there was no space atween her belly and the ground. Well, I used to wait for her, trembling like a leaf; then she would come behind me and bump me, and down I would go, down, down, down, into hell and wake up screaming and our Charlie shaking the life out of me…’
Now both of them were choking with their laughter as Mick ended, ‘It got so bad that they used to wait for it every Sunday night and try to smother me with a pillow. It’s a wonder I survived.’
‘Oh, Mick! Mick!’ Joe was rocking himself now, the tears running down his face. Then he set Mick off into another spasm of laughter when he asked, ‘Do you think I could get a job alongside you in the factory?’
Some time later, Joe, looking at his wristwatch, said on a note of deep regret, ‘I’ll have to be getting back, the guests are coming at four. How long are you staying, Mick? A week?’
‘No, no; I’m off the morrow.’
‘So soon? I thought you had a week.’
‘Yes. Yes, I have, but…but a little goes a long way.’ He nodded back towards the house. ‘The cottage is still crammed and…and I want to do some visiting.’
They stared at each other for a moment before Mick added, ‘You’ve never seen Carrie for years, have you?’
‘No; no, I haven’t.’
‘Well, that’s where I’m going. I often spend my weekends there; there’s always a bed for me. My Uncle Stan and Aunt Alice are very good to me and more than good to Carrie, they’ve given her a start in life she would never have had here. She’s on a secretarial course, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes; she’s a bright lass, is Carrie.’
Joe looked to the side. Funny, Mick had never mentioned Carrie in years. The subject had seemed to be taboo; and he himself had in a way pressed her down into his mind because thoughts of her conjured up a feeling tinged with regret and shame, centred round a scene in the bedroom and the rage of his mother. But here was Mick telling him something, he was talking about a young girl, not a little girl, a young girl who was going to be a secretary. She must be seventeen now; she was some months older than him.
‘Do you ever go out for the day, Joe?’
‘Oh yes; sometimes to Newcastle.’
‘With your mother?’
‘Yes, yes; or Harry.’
‘Do you think your mother would let you go out with me for a day in Newcastle?’
It was on the point of Joe’s tongue to say ‘I doubt it,’ but what he said was, ‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Good, good. That’s agreed on then. What about tomorrow?’
‘All right.’
‘We’ll have to walk to the station, unless we get a lift.’
‘I don’t mind that.’
‘All right, it’s fixed, tomorrow then.’
They turned away together and marched over the hills towards the estate.
‘If you want to go into Newcastle, then I’ll take you into Newcastle.’
‘I want to go with Mick, Mother.’
‘Spend the day with Mick, why?’
‘Just…just because I…I like being with Mick.’
‘Really, boy! You’re hopeless…well, I forbid you.’
‘I’m sorry, Mother, I’d rather you said yes, because in any case I’m going.’
‘Now, now! Don’t take that attitude with me, Joe. You’re not too big yet to be locked in your room.’
Joe slanted his gaze towards her. ‘I wouldn’t try that, Mother. Remember the boys are at home and if I was to go and ask Martin he would immediately say yes.’
‘How dare you! Go and ask Martin indeed!’
‘Well, he’s the head of the house.’
‘He may be the head of this house but I am your mother and I’m in charge of you.’
‘I’ll be seventeen in a short while, Mother. I heard the master saying at school there could be a war, so next year I could be a man, couldn’t I, and be in the Army? You couldn’t stop them taking me.’
‘What’s come over you, boy?’
‘Don’t keep calling me boy, Mother.’
‘I will keep calling you boy, because that’s all you are and I repeat, I forbid you to go into Newcastle with Mick Smith. And I say again, don’t you take that tone with me.’
As he stared at her he knew that he had come to a crossroads, that if he gave in to her now he’d have to give in to her again and again and again. Although he had defied her before, it had only been in words but now the thought that he had the choice of putting those words into action and so set a new pattern, and in doing so break one of the threads that tied him to her, caused his whole body to tremble and his voice to quiver as he said, ‘Either you give me permission freely to go with Mick tomorrow or I go down now and put it to Martin.’
The trembling turned to slight fear as he saw her colour rise. For a moment he was swept back into the past to those days when her temper would flare into demoniac rage.
‘Get out of my sight, boy. Get…out…of…my…sight!’
He got out of her sight. He went out of the room, into the corridor and into his room and there he stood with his back to the door, his mouth wide, gasping at the air, still in fright, yet knowing that in some way he had emerged as if out of a deep canyon.
Two
Joe sat on the wooden kitchen chair and watched Mrs Alice Carver flitting back and forth from the stove to the table, talking all the while. She had what was termed a comfortable figure, but her face was thin, her nose sharp and her voice seemed to take its pattern from her features, just as Mick had described her on the way here; although his Aunt Alice was sharp of nose and of tongue, she was broad in the shoulders and warm in heart, he had said.
Flinging a cloth over a side table, she now turned towards Mick and said, ‘I’m not puttin’ meself out for you, mind. If I’d known you were coming that would have been different; I
mean, bringing company. You always have your meal in the kitchen and I’m not opening the dining room at such short notice, but you can go and sit in the front room if you want to.’
‘Who wants to? We’re comfortable here.’
‘Well, it’s up to you.’ She was now piling crockery onto the table. ‘Your uncle, as you know, comes in at ten past twelve on the dot and Carrie a few minutes after, that is if she hasn’t stopped to gaze in the shops. Well, she knows I put it on the table all at the same time; if it’s cold, that’s her lookout. Would you like a drop of tea while you’re waitin’?’ She had now turned abruptly and was addressing Joe, and he, taken by surprise, stammered, ‘Yes…oh no. No, thank you; I can wait for my dinner.’
She now pushed out her chest, drew in her chin, looked at Mick while thumbing towards Joe and said, ‘He expects his dinner! Did you hear that? He expects his dinner!’
Mick looked at Joe, whose face had turned scarlet, and nodded solemnly as he said, ‘Aye, he does, Aunt Alice. It’s a bloomin’ cheek, isn’t it?’
Then they were both laughing, and the little woman, coming up and slapping Joe between the shoulders with such force that he coughed, said, ‘Don’t look as if you are bein’ confronted by a whale. I’m not gonna swallow you whole, not just now anyway.’
Joe managed to force a smile. Then looking back at Mick who was grinning at him, he bit on his lip and moved his head slightly as if to say, ‘How am I to take her?’
Mick now turned to his aunt and asked, ‘Did Carrie pass her test?’
‘Of course she did! She could have done it on her head. And I’ll tell you something else—’ she paused, went to the oven, took out a tin holding roast potatoes, flicked them over expertly and put the tin back in the oven before she continued, ‘She won’t be long in that school, she’s a way ahead; and you know what?’ She put her hands on the table and leant towards Mick. ‘He’s going to buy her a new typewriter; that old thing she practises on makes a noise like a candyman’s trumpet. But she doesn’t know, so don’t let on. And she’s doing shorthand, Pitman’s, she calls it. Funny that is, isn’t it, to call shorthand Pitman’s.’
My Beloved Son Page 8
