The Broken Chariot

by Alan Sillitoe

  Sitting alone he realized the truth that Cecilia had walked out on him, and who could blame her? With another woman it might only have been a step to a more realistic relationship (albeit of unbearable cosiness) though with her it was final because he had so blatantly let it happen, had even been gentleman enough to engineer it in his own particular way.

  Consoling himself, before getting out of his clothes and falling into a dreamless sleep, he thought of Aeneas leaving Dido at Carthage, and couldn’t imagine that Aeneas had felt very good about it either as he sailed away over the cerulean briny. Like Aeneas too he felt beckoned on to higher things, while not caring to ask himself what they might be.

  Sixteen

  He lit the Rippingill heater, and the bubble of paraffin going down into the reservoir under the wick was a comforting sound on cold nights. Though heavier curtains made a womb to sit in, both glass and cloth seemed merely conductors to let the freezing fog inside. He wore two pullovers as well as a jacket and a pair of mittens, less willing to shiver than in former days, when he had undressed and jumped naked into bed. Now on icy nights he undid belt and all buttons, braces and bootlaces, and had his pyjama top to hand as soon as shirt and vest came off, and the bottoms pulled on the moment he was out of his boots. Socks were left till the bedclothes were drawn back and he could get in to generate warmth. Every winter seemed closer to the one before, each useful for writing his novel over and over again in an effort to transmute people so that not only would they find it difficult to spot themselves, but would also get some feeling as to their relationship with earth and heaven.

  Mrs Denman’s had been his refuge longer than any other place, and he occasionally felt, as at the climax of one of those penny-dreadful comic books sometimes read at school, that the walls of his room were closing in, and would crush him to death. The hero-victim inevitably found a way out, but Herbert saw no exit except by keeping a wary eye on the walls’ position – and endurance. The dulling sunflowers of the wallpaper urged him to write for them as his first audience, as if they monitored every sentence even before it came into his mind; and when he was out of the room they would put on flesh and blood, to check with big brown Cyclopean eyes what he had written.

  He needed some other brain to imbibe what he had done, even if only to tell him he wasn’t on a slow boat to madness, or that the accumulating pages in the cardboard box under his bed weren’t merely the evidence of his splintered mind. Perhaps it didn’t much matter, for he had no fear of madness as long as he felt the anguish of uncertainty about what he was doing, but he needed to know whether the writing would engross others to the extent that he was mesmerized on reading it himself.

  Cecilia had long since gone – been dumped, he now knew – which could be a pity, because she would have commented in some way, even though the collected works of Hawksworth clouded her paltry mind. He couldn’t show his secret writing to Archie, and that was a fact. If Mrs Denman took a look now and again she didn’t say, though even she must have lost interest because he could never find any disturbance to prove otherwise. The only person he could think of was Isaac; he put the typescript into a carrier bag, and walked with both burdens into town.

  Isaac was thinner and more frail. Every few months showed a difference, eyes shining through the papery skin of his face as from a lantern, false teeth too big for his diminishing features. But the same gimlet light came into his eyes. ‘You haven’t called lately. I thought you were chasing the girls.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure I’d find you. I thought you might be in your council flat by now.’

  ‘That’s cold – as they say round here. Maybe I never will be. Old folks like me come last on the list. Still, times are a lot easier now that rationing’s a blight of the past. Not only that, but my daughter sends money every month, to bolster my pension.’

  ‘Maybe her conscience has started to bother her.’

  ‘I don’t mind what it is,’ Isaac said. ‘If you begin questioning people’s motives when they do good deeds there’d soon be no virtue left in the world.’

  Herbert thought he might work such a statement into his novel – and laid the bag of typescript on the table. ‘There’s this to take your mind off things. Have a read, when you can find the time.’

  ‘I wondered when you were going to let me see what you’d been up to.’ Isaac washed his hands at the sink, then spread the papers to separate the first chapter. Over seventy, he moved slowly as he sat down to read. Herbert stood by the window, a rank smell rising from the narrow street. Even the pigeons in the opposite guttering looked drab and fed up as they nudged each other aside for a better view of the chimney pots. Noises of approval and understanding from Isaac caused him to sweat with embarrassment, and regret that he had given his underground work to the mercy of a man who hadn’t been young for fifty years.

  Not knowing how long it would be before Isaac grew tired of the story, and came back to life saying what absolute rubbish, or maybe even how marvellous, or merely how interesting (since he wouldn’t know what else to say), Herbert pulled a book from the shelf called Guide for the Perplexed. The title seemed right for him, and his eyes fixed on:

  If there were two Gods, they would necessarily have one element in common by virtue of which they were Gods, and another element by which they were distinguished from each other and existed as two Gods; the distinguishing element would either be in both different from the property common to both – in that case both of them would consist of different elements, and neither of them would be the First Cause, or have absolutely independent existence; but their existence would depend on certain causes, or the distinguishing element would only in one of them be different from the element common to both: then that being could not have absolute independence.

  He went back and forth over the complex netting of words, played at interchanging God for Man – and even man – so that he understood that you could use the word God in any way you liked, because the concept had after all been invented by human beings, who must have known themselves as such, while hammering the idea out on stone, or scratching it on animal skin.

  God was just as much split in two as Herbert most of the time felt. In the contest between nihilism and a code of morals he was most comfortable with the former, since it allowed him to enjoy doing more or less what he liked, or as much as he could get away with. While he had to control his actions his thoughts could go free, and the gulf between thought and action was a power house that fuelled his double life, and was vital to his writing.

  Spanning both states, he acknowledged the need for morality or fair play in the world (he wasn’t a Thurgarton-Strang for nothing) while knowing he was a savage compared to Isaac. For Herbert to lead a good life would fetter his intuition and, even more, his imagination. Not only that, but a virtuous stance on everything might make his views more rigid and therefore less interesting. The fact that Isaac, being the epitome of rectitude as far as he could tell, lacked no human qualities, convinced Herbert of his unique spirit.

  Isaac’s voice startled him. ‘Looks like you’ve stumbled on Maimonides. I never could get through all of it.’

  ‘It’s interesting.’

  ‘Do you want it?’

  ‘No.’ He slid the book back. ‘I’ve read enough. How about my effort, though?’

  ‘Well, it’s not a bad read. You ought to think about getting it to a publisher.’

  ‘It doesn’t need redoing?’

  ‘Not as far as I can tell, though there’s no reason why you shouldn’t think so. It reads as good as any novel I’ve taken out of the library lately. Go over it once more, then send it to London. With a bit of luck you may shake ’em rigid!’

  A pale evening sun made the walls of the newspaper offices glow red, the muted noise of machinery sounding from inside. He was glad to get out of the airless library, after copying publishers’ addresses into his notebook. His aim was to go through Slab Square and back to his digs, but by the Peach Tree he bumped into Archie, eyes seem
ing closer together than usual, indicating anger for some reason or another. ‘Yer look pale,’ Bert said. ‘Did another ’usband put the shits up yer?’

  His laugh was that of an unhappy man as he gripped Herbert’s arm and drew him towards the pub door. ‘Not likely. Come in for a drink, and I’ll tell yer.’

  Hunger for his tea was made up for by the comforting smell of ale. ‘What’s it all about, then?’

  ‘You know this fucking trouble wi’ Egypt?’ Archie said, when two cold pints were on the table.

  Hard not to. A real killpig. They’d grabbed the Suez canal, and Israel had kicked their arses all the way across the desert. It was in every newspaper, but he wondered what world affairs had to do with Archie.

  ‘Well, I might get called up.’ His face was crimson at such injustice, as if only he had been singled out. ‘They’ve put me on standby.’ He showed the envelope. ‘But I’m not going this time.’

  ‘I ain’t got mine,’ Bert said, ’and I’m on the reserves as well. Maybe there’s some mistake.’

  Archie laughed. ‘You’re later in the alphabet than me. Anyway, I heard on the wireless they’d be wanting some of us back. Not me, though. I don’t have a uniform any more. I was looking for it yesterday, and Mam towd me she’d gen it to the ragman. So I can’t go, can I?’

  ‘I don’t suppose I’ll mind all that much.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, you daft bastard. You’re a gentleman-wanker who’s got no fucking sense at all.’

  ‘Well, don’t despair, Archie, my owd.’

  He guzzled, and took out a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. ‘Despair? Not me. Despair’s stupid, and I’m not fucking stupid. All the same, just think of it. It’ll be jump to attention again, and polish yer boots, stand by your beds, and all that bull. They’re either a bunch of fucking Hitlers, or a pack of useless shitbags. It’s all right for you, Bert. You was made for it, though I’ll never know why.’

  Herbert, as if Archie was looking over his shoulder, was almost ashamed at the pleasure of being wanted for service again. Even Mrs Denman said: ‘Good news, Bert?’ when he opened the little brown envelope.

  He wondered what use he would be. ‘I’ve been called up. It’s that Suez thing.’

  A new television set had been pushed under the table until Frank came in after work to do the installation. She stroked it, could hardly wait to see the pictures. ‘What a shame. It ain’t right, is it, that young chaps like you have to go.’

  Archie walked to the station to see him off, helping to carry his suitcase and kit bag. Half an hour to go, they sat in the refreshment room of pillars and plantpots, one of the more elegant places in the middle of Nottingham. Tea and Mars bars were set on the table. ‘I think they forgot about me.’

  Bert slipped his folded beret under a shoulder strap. ‘They’ll get you, don’t worry.’

  ‘No, they wain’t. Maybe they don’t want any electricians, only infantry. If they do want me, though, it’ll tek a long time for the redcaps to find me. As for yo’, Bert, you could have swung the lead, and towd ’em yer can’t walk because of the smash-up in Cyprus.’

  He could, but wouldn’t. The injuries, such as they were, had never relegated him into the ranks of the unfit. Pain in arms and legs had long since gone, which pleased him, because he thought it the lowest form of life to be useless either as a workman or a soldier. When he mentioned the breakages on getting to the depot the MO merely asked if they still bothered him.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference,’ the sergeant said outside. ‘You’re for the Canal, like the rest of us.’

  Few cared for a soldier’s lot; it was so long since the war. The blokes were more bollocky than before, and who could blame them? It was Archie’s good luck not to be called, but Herbert was exhilarated at being in khaki again, and hoped the war in Egypt wouldn’t pack in before he could add the experience of battle to his life – as he put it in a letter to his parents. His affinity with the ways of soldiering was proof, if it were needed, that he wasn’t as cut off from his old school self and the notions of his father as he had imagined. Heredity never relaxed its power, and within a week he felt he could stay in the army forever.

  The men of his platoon were disgruntled rather than grumbling, near mutinous at times, though Herbert assumed that even the married ones would be all too ready to take such resentment out on the Egyptians. Getting the lads to let go on the range with the Bren was a fiasco at first, half of them not on the list till he noticed and made it right.

  Rain splashed down as they marched across the airfield for embarkation, visibility almost nil. Basic kit was already on board, and transport planes waited to fly them to a staging post in Cyprus. He wondered would he see that beautiful woman who had worked in the vineyards – or her younger sister by now? Best to hope not, and to avoid her vision even in daydreams, because maybe she had been Lady Death, hiding behind a rock and luring him and Pemberton into the lorry crash. It was easy to cut her out. He was more powerfully himself than in those days. The copy of Our Mutual Friend, bookmarked halfway through, jutted from his trouser pocket, and he only wanted to get on board the plane and carry on reading.

  A headlit jeep swung into the dispersal point, and the RSM climbed down with a signal to say it was no go. Lorries would take them back to barracks. Everything was at full stop, just as they were about to go out and clear the mess up forever. A cheer spread along the lines, but the ground missed a beat under Herbert’s boots at being robbed of a chance to blend the disparate sides of himself in the most perfect way. The meat-skewer bayonet would never come out of its scabbard. No use spitting tacks, or even cursing. Despair, as Archie said, was a sign of stupidity. Maybe he had wanted to be killed in a blinding whirl of heroics before lights-out, so that only in death would his two selves be united.

  He gobbed into the sud pan, pressed the button, and adjusted the machine to the job in question. Gratitude would have been the order of the day, at being so valued by the firm that his place had been kept open which, at fifteen quid a week, was worth having.

  His hands had become soft while he was in the army. Amazing how little time was needed. They blistered from pressure and repetition. The skin grazed too easily and was prone to splinters. Brass was the worst, bits that festered like mad till he got them out. Archie said steel was his curse, and Herbert supposed it depended on the preference of your flesh, or even some temperamental make-up that couldn’t be analysed.

  Resuming work was harder to slot into than when, scarred and broken, he left the army after Cyprus. Motivation now seemed lacking, and tedium reigned for the first few weeks, an inner voice suggesting it was time such labour came to an end. He was getting too old for it, the bolshie tone went on, had done as much of a stint as any man needed, and certainly enough to write about it for the rest of his life. He was bored more often than he could tolerate, at times bored almost to death, though knowing he must continue until he could move into another existence without destroying himself in the process.

  You should never complain, though he was beginning to, in the silence of his mind, considering it lucky no one could know it. Muscles ached, but he struggled on till the morning tea trolley showed at the end of the shed door, steaming as if in imitation of Stephenson’s Rocket. After the scalding liquid had gone down and the sweet bun was scoffed he was lured through the day by the promise of refuge in his room, where he could write in spite of the muted yacker of the television from the kitchen.

  He tried to describe how a man felt when at work in the machine shop, or in the sand foundry, or when stuck at the pressure die-casting machines. The aim was to tell it without the distortion of sympathy, but the accounts were even so a world from reality. What did words know? Though if they couldn’t, what might? Every word was a label for something, or an action, and enough permutations barely existed to use them as they had never been used before, while too much trying would make for a heavy and stilted style, debasing the inspired flow
of what had to be told. Best to let rip, and tinker later, let blocks of action, varied by badinage and laced with glum but often feverish hopes, make an account fine-tooled by his experience over the years.

  The process wasn’t so different from that of taking a piece of angular steel and, with the aid of a blueprint, shaping it at your machine till a pristine object of exact utility lay fashioned and almost finished on your bench, but which still had to fit into an overall pattern with other pieces.

  His writing was considered in this way also. Three months absence made him happy to go back to it, but some time passed before his eyes could focus and make the mass of words coherent. He had to be sure that every phrase was where it ought to be. Time was, as they said, no object, but as a wage-earner he longed for the day when he could tell himself the book was finished, and send it away as a parcel. If too frightened by the risk he could put it back in the drawer till driven to take it out for another re-writing. And if a sense of its uselessness overcame him he would go through his notebooks and muse something else into shape.

  His scarred hands were cramped, stiff fingers barely able to grasp the pen as he read the opening pages again, of two brothers fishing from the canal bank. Circular clusters of white elderberry flowers concealed them from the lane, and the steamy summer heat over the water kept the coloured stripes of their floats perfectly still.

  They biked the countryside through pastoral scenery which he tried to describe with the purity of The Eclogues, a memory of school even more pleasurable when lines came unexpectedly in Latin.

  The brothers went back to their labour on Monday morning, and Herbert laid the raw alternative of the factory against the succulent peace of the countryside. He made a theatrical stage out of the shop floor and lifted the narrative into a three-dimensional experience of stench and noise which, he hoped, would keep a reader turning the pages to find out what was going to happen to the people he wrote about.