The Broken Chariot

by Alan Sillitoe

  Herbert wondered if they still wouldn’t smell him a mile off for what he was, while Isaac sipped the rest of his cold tea as delicately as if it had stayed hot and sugar had been magicked into it. ‘Now where’s your ration book?’

  ‘Ration book?’

  ‘We might as well alter that while we’re about it.’

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  ‘You didn’t bring it?’

  ‘I never thought to. And I could hardly ask them.’

  Isaac’s shake of the head came from thinking what babies there were in the world. ‘All right. Perhaps it won’t matter. They aren’t too particular these days. When you’ve got your employment cards, and they’ve found you a job, go to the Food Office and ask for a ration book. Tell ’em you lost it. Or just look as if it’s your God-given right to have one. They don’t let people starve in this country. At least they haven’t during the war. So good luck to you, or whatever it is. I’ll let you stay here two more nights, in which time you’ll have to get digs. The firm you find a job with will lend you a few pounds to tide you over. That’s what they do for Irish labourers who come over. And don’t look so worried. I’m sure you’ll be all right.’

  Four

  By the end of the day Herbert had employment cards, a ration book, and a job at the Royal Ordnance Factory. The wages clerk in the machine shop arranged a three-pound loan till his first wages came due. On Isaac’s advice, he spent six bob on a second-hand pair of overalls hanging outside a pawnshop on the Hockley. His cadet boots would look right on any factory floor, as soon as the shine wore off.

  ‘I knew you had it in you, after the education you’ve had. You’re obviously from the right kind of family. But from now on, hang on to your money. Don’t go throwing it about.’ Isaac put the book he’d been reading back on the shelf. ‘Still, it’s good of you to bring these fish and chips for our supper, though you didn’t need to splash half a week’s rations on me. All the same,’ he fussed, ‘I do like a bit of sugar.’

  Herbert’s feet ached from walking the town all day. ‘You did me a wonderfully good turn.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more about that, but if you really think so, pay me back by doing a good turn to somebody I don’t know. That’s what keeps the world a halfway decent place to live in. Now, enough of such platitudes and attitudes, and let’s get down to supper.’

  Before any money came to him Herbert had, as it were, to work a week for nothing, though his landlady Mrs Denman said she would board him in the meanwhile on condition that he equalized the thirty-five shillings a week out of his four pounds wages the minute it was possible.

  ‘I’ve got to be practical,’ she said, ‘where young lads like you are concerned,’ putting the kettle on the gas to make him a cup of tea. ‘And I am practical, I allus was. If I hadn’t been, after my Will died, I shouldn’t have been running this place today.’

  Herbert thought of her as Practical Penelope, though she was a bit old, being about forty, and he was to drop the nickname after a while because, for a start, she had no Odysseus to wait for, and no time for weaving. Probably no idea how to. Also, a man who was her suitor came to the house every other evening and, as far as Herbert could tell, stayed the night.

  Her straight black hair was just short enough to make the face seem broader than necessary, but she had, he thought, a nicely shaped nose. A clean apron of sacking served over her white blouse and dark skirt. He also noticed her patent leather shoes which looked a bit tarty, the way they buttoned up.

  ‘I do all the work on my own, though’ – she pushed her glasses straight – ‘because I never did mind it. Mrs Atkins next door said I should get a man in to help. But no fear, I did have one once, not long after my Will died, and I should have known better because he was an idle devil who only liked being at the bookies or in a pub, so I got rid of him. No more men for me, I said to myself. Well, not like him anyway. I just see Frank when it takes my fancy, and he sees me when it takes his, which suits us both. But as for having a man in the house, not likely.’

  Herbert shared a room with her son Ralph, who turned from trimming a flimsy moustache to hold out a friendly enough hand when his mother showed him in. He spoke with little of the local accent, which made Herbert, already noting the cadence, determined to take more of Isaac’s advice and say as little as possible until he felt easier using it.

  ‘Hope you’ll be comfortable in the other bed,’ Ralph said.

  ‘I’m sure I shall.’

  ‘Mother’s making all the cash she can.’ He was surprised that Herbert had so little to unpack from his scruffy case, and Herbert picked up his embarrassment at having to share a room, which indicated that he had been spoiled. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t let our beds to night workers while we were out during the day,’ Ralph went on. ‘She hopes to get a boarding house at Skegness after the war. Poor mother doesn’t realize it might go on forever.’

  ‘Who lives in the rest of the house?’

  ‘Four other lodgers.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  Ralph pulled a comb through fair wavy hair. ‘A couple, both men, if you know what I mean. They work in a drawing office, very hush-hush, they tell us, though I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t design bottle tops. The other two come and go at all hours, and I think they dabble in black market, which means we have bacon and butter for our breakfast more often than most, or at least I do.’

  His nose turned up even more when Herbert mentioned the factory he was to work at, Ralph saying that he went to business at the office of the local bus depot – probably counting tickets all day, Herbert thought. Because of flat feet, and no doubt a few more shameful ailments, Ralph hadn’t been called up – an even worse fate – though at twenty he was lucky no impediments showed.

  Herbert asked about the bathroom, but it wasn’t that kind of house. Mrs Denman promised to get one in as soon as the war ended. Meanwhile they could wash at the kitchen sink, and a pot under each bed saved them running down three flights of stairs and across the back yard at night. Two small wardrobes took care of their clothes. Herbert smiled: a hook and a coat hanger on the back of the door would have done for him. There was even a rickety dressing table against the wall to put things on. He’d never felt so well off.

  On day three of his escape the noise as he walked into the machine shop at the Royal Ordnance Factory seemed likely to push him straight back on to the road. He shouted his question as to where the chargehand was, and barged courageously along the main gangway towards him. ‘I don’t know what job to give yer, but foller me and we’ll find one. There’s allus summat.’

  Motors, dynamos and donkey engines, flapping powerbelts, the screech of steel being cut, and tools sharpening on Carborundum wheels shook his eardrums and made him want to close his eyes. He didn’t know how they could talk to each other, never mind exist for more than a few minutes in this vast extension to the forge of Vulcan. Hand signals and grunts sufficed for the carrying on of work, an advantage in that he didn’t have much call to open his mouth in a way that would show his posh accent.

  Archie Bleasby, a burly six footer of his own age, worked on a lathe, and sat next to him on a box of castings at tea break. ‘What did yer want ter cum and wok on a fuckin’ tip like this for?’

  The machinery still ran, and Herbert put his ear close as he bit a gap into his potted-meat sandwich, his mouth conveniently full. ‘Munny,’ using a pronunciation of money heard from Mrs Denman. The reply satisfied Archie, who was also disinclined to waste much breath on chat except: ‘I don’t know whether yer’ve cum to the right place for that, Bert.’

  So Bert he was, and must know himself to be, if he wanted to be absorbed into the shop, which seemed to be happening because, on going into the canteen for dinner at half past twelve, he found that Archie had kept a place for him at the long table. ‘This fuckin’ grub’ll kill yer, but it’ll keep yer goin’ till it does.’

  A grunt of agreement was safe enough
, as he was getting his head down towards the spuds and mincemeat, a delicious smell compared to most of the meals at school. After the pudding and coffee Archie stood up. ‘Let’s go outside a bit, and ’ave a fag.’

  ‘I forgot mine this morning,’ Bert said.

  Men were kicking a tennis ball along the pavement, and they stood to watch. ‘’Ave one o’ these, then. I on’y smoke Players.’

  ‘Ta.’ Herbert took one and put it between his lips. He would buy a packet and pay Archie back, but meanwhile he had to make sure he didn’t seem a stranger to the habit. Archie held the light, and Herbert puffed without drawing in too much of the smoke. ‘I’m used to Woodbines.’

  Archie was looking at one of the office girls walking by. ‘Not bad, eh, is she?’

  ‘Yeh,’ Bert took another puff of his fag, and managed not to choke.

  He cleared swarf from between the machines, or lifted boxes of shellcaps and fuse cases from the gangway to the viewing benches. Archie showed him how to bend from the knees instead of the waist. ‘Ye’re tall and thin, see? and this way you wain’t snap yer backbone. Yer wouldn’t be any good at fuckin’ then, if yer did that, would yer?’

  Not that the labour was hard to get used to, Herbert mused, maybe due to the game and cadet scramblings on the obstacle course at school. Everything was so new that whenever he looked at the clock another hour had gone by.

  In the evening he sat in his room and popped blisters with a needle heated over a match flame, dousing them in TCP, then picking brass splinters out with tweezers before they could fester. Archie was his mentor, with no asking, sharp eyes for his problems and always volunteering a remedy. ‘If you don’t tek care o’ yer ’ands they’ll get to look like tree stumps, and the women don’t like that. As long as they’re nice and clean they’ll let you get at their knickers.’

  He was clocking out when Walter Price, a toolsetter of about forty who had been lame from birth, asked if he played darts. He remembered Isaac’s advice to fall in with everything. ‘Now and then.’

  ‘It’s like this, yer see, we need a new chap on the team, because that bleddy fool Jack Blundell cum off ’is motorbike and broke ’is arm last week. Can yer cum to the Plough tonight, after yer tea?’

  He had scorned the dart board in the games room at school, as something to amuse the tiddlers who were miserable at being away from mummy and daddy. Now he wished he hadn’t, though he recalled some of the jargon. ‘I’m a bit rusty. Down from three-o-one, though, in’t it?’

  Walter smiled like a man who only did so to hide his pain. ‘That’s the ticket. We’ll show yer. It’s the enthusiasm of youth we want on the team.’

  Herbert’s uncertainty was overcome by assuming that if these men could do it, so could he. At his probationary session, he tried for the bull, and though the first half-dozen went all over the board at least none gouged a hole in the blue plastered wall.

  ‘Don’t ’urry, lad. Just chuck ’em about a bit to get yer ’and in.’ But after a few more scatterings Walter lost patience. ‘I’ll coach yer. Now, just watch me.’ The disability of having one leg shorter than the other had made Walter a better player than most. ‘I want a treble, don’t I? A seven? Now don’t tek yer eyes off me.’ Lopsided he got one. ‘Now a double six, then a bull – inner and outer. Y’er not lookin’! Look at me!’ He got those as well. ‘Now yo’ ev a go, me owd duck.’

  Herbert applied the rules of the firing range, while taking in what he could of Walter’s expertise. Legs apart and firm on the ground, arm straight and fingers holding the dart as if an extension of both, he aligned his eye along the length. Taking time, he let go, and got an outer bull. When the next dart hit a treble Walter set a pint on the table. ‘Sup that. Y’er doin’ well, for a beginner. I on’y ’ope it ain’t starter’s luck.’

  He doused his chagrin, but smiled agreement with irony he hoped, at each comment. ‘He’s got a cool ’ead, that’s the main thing,’ Walter said to the others.

  Herbert’s long drink of beer put a fur lining in his throat. Use all the time you need, just like they’re doing. Imitate, he told himself. Act. Mimic. Away from work, they knew how to go easy, from long experience. On the next run he tried for a double and a treble, and got them with two darts, though the third was nowhere.

  ‘It’s a matter o’ patience, from now on,’ Walter said.

  ‘He’ll do, though,’ came a voice from the back.

  Better to try the accent while wiping beer froth from his lips. ‘Mekin’ progress, am I?’ The thud of steel tips into cork was satisfying, but he was happy to let the old hands have a go, since the pint might foil his aim.

  People he didn’t know would call in a friendly way as he walked into the canteen: ‘Hey up, Bert!’ His name went up on the notice board and after a few more sessions he was let in on a match, though feared he’d never be as good as most others on the team.

  During an hour or so when there was no sweeping, or lifting, or trolleys to push, and it looked like someone had hammered nails against the arrowed hands of the clock face, he had time for thinking, and didn’t much like it. The heavy load in his mind was asking to be sorted out, and that wasn’t what he had taken a job in the factory for. A voice he didn’t trust said the only course was to pack up at his digs and get on the train to another town. Life would be interesting again. The challenge of the unknown would get his blood jumping.

  ‘Slowin’ down a bit, aren’t you?’ Archie said.

  Herbert leaned on his brush handle. ‘I’m bored out o’ my clogs.’

  ‘You’re gettin’ used to it, that’s why. But don’t let it get yer down, the first three years is the worst. Just ’ave a word with the chargehand and tell ’im yer aren’t mekin’ it pay. Tell ’im yer’ve got to mek it fuckin’ pay, or you’ll gerra job somewhere else. Things might look up, then.’

  Herbert thought it best to be inconspicuous. Another place would be just as boring, and there’d be less chance of being recaptured if he stayed where he was.

  ‘It gets fucking monotonous working on a lathe as well,’ Archie went on, ‘but at least I’m mekin’ munny, so it don’t!’

  The best way to diffuse the blues was to flash up the Stalag towers of his school. He swept a coil of swarf from Archie’s lathe, like the discarded tail of a steel piglet. Eileen looked as if trying to weigh him up – what for? – and not for the first time he noted her blush as she turned away. One of the women beside her said: ‘Go on, he wain’t bite yer!’

  He might, one day, if he got the chance, and decided to be pleasant in her presence and see where it got him. The dungarees over her bosom in no way hid the shape, and her headscarf only scantily covered glistening auburn hair. Hard to imagine there’d be much chance with such a favourite of the department, though she wasn’t near as stuck up as Dominic’s sister had been.

  He marched across to the viewing tables, in response to her shout: ‘Come on, Bert, get these boxes out o’ my sight.’

  The first one slotted on to the trolley. ‘Tek yer sweat. You’re workin’ me to death.’

  ‘We all thought you’d faint when you first come into the factory,’ she said. ‘You looked as if yer’d never done a day’s hard work in your life.’

  He leaned close to smell her powder. ‘Yer was wrong. I’ve worked since I was fourteen.’

  ‘What made yer so strong, then?’

  ‘Bovril.’ He pushed the trolley away. ‘And Oxo,’ he called over his shoulder.

  Arthur Elliot went off sick, so Herbert was set to work on his lathe. ‘We’ll give you a day to get used to it.’ The chargehand thought him a bit daft to be writing the instructions down. ‘After that we’ll set you up on piece work. We’ll find Arthur summat else when ’e comes back.’

  ‘Now you’ll be able to GRAB!’ Archie bellowed into his ear as he passed on his way to the lavatories. ‘Just like me!’

  Herbert practised for an hour, and next morning the chargehand came to see how he was getting on. ‘Have you done this before?
’

  Herbert flicked the turret ninety degrees, adjusted the sud pipe, and eased in the drill. ‘No, never.’

  ‘You’re on your own then, from now on. Two bob a hundred. I’ll bring you a time sheet.’

  To make it pay in the manner of Archie was not part of his purpose. ‘Grabbing’ wasn’t in him. Still, he thought, if I don’t make a show they’ll smell me out and snub me for being stuck up or incompetent. So, a few days more and it was grab grab grab like the rest of them. Bert nodded a response, too grabbing and making it pay to take a hand off the levers and signal back, which concentration at the job no one understood better than Archie.

  The result of putting on an act was that after a while his behaviour became normal, and Herbert had never imagined that life could be so easy and engrossing. For the first week his limbs ached even more by the end of the day, due to hour after hour of daunting repetition, though there was something satisfactory in that as well, proving that grabbing on a lathe was better than sweeping up and humping boxes for a living.

  He looked on the machine as his own possession, with its handles and levers, and power supplied by a motor down by his feet. A clumsy touch and your hand got gouged, so he treated it much like the chariot witless Phaeton had tried to control on his feckless jaunt across the skies, pulling and spinning, easing here and there with calculated panache. If a thief came by and began to unbolt it from the base he would fight to the death to stop him.

  Conceding his past, at least to himself, he baptized the lathe with a splash of milky suds over the turret, calling it Dominic, after his old chum at school. ‘Hey up, Dommy,’ he said every morning, ‘’ow’s tricks today? Going to be a good lad and earn me a bob or two?’ He could turn off a thousand or more pieces from clocking in to clocking out, which brought in six pounds a week. Stoppages left him with four pounds ten bob, but it was more than enough to live on. With subtle economy he was able to buy a new suit, as well as go out now and again for a pint with Archie.