by Melvyn Bragg
Everything about Speed said: one word, one look, one gesture which even hints at what happened to her and you will be meat. She is mine and this is her town and we are just going for a drink like everybody else. Lizzie’s silence was if possible even more direct: help me to do this, it said. Help me. They looked so magnificent, Joe thought, they were gods on that night.
Speed went first into the Victoria, one of the prime watering holes of the lads, and it was reported the next day that when they went in the silence slammed down so hard it was like a door slammed shut. Speed ordered their drinks, took them to a table in the corner and only when he leaned forward to take Lizzie’s, observed trembling, hand did a looking-away-we’re-ignoring-you conversation resume, but low, to listen in. Speed talked briefly to a couple of old pals, knocked back the pint and stood up to go. Lizzie had not finished her drink but said she didn’t mind leaving it. Speed went across the street to the Vaults, the pigeon men’s pub: it was later reported they had been in the Lion and Lamb and finally they headed for the Blackamoor. Each pub they left behind talked of nothing else for the rest of the night. There was an excitement, even something of a privilege, that they had come into the pubs, relief when they left, no mention made of the fear Speed spread all around him.
‘Speed!’
Sam’s smile was wide, his hand held out, a surge of affection went through him.
‘And Lizzie! Lovely to see you!’
Speed looked at Lizzie to register that she was fully aware of the honour being done him, the high place he held in the affection of this man, Sam Richardson, the pride of it.
‘Sam, you old bugger,’ he said, and clasped the hand strongly.
‘The kitchen’s empty,’ Sam said, ‘if you want a bit of peace.’
Lizzie nodded immediately. Facing them out had been a strain.
‘What is it you want?’
Speed ordered.
As Sam drew the pint of bitter the smile never left his lips. Speed! He had come back.
‘They’re on me,’ Sam said. He looked directly at Lizzie. I'll tell Ellen you’re in,’ he said, ‘she won’t want to miss you.’
Again Speed turned triumphantly to Lizzie. There! the look said. See how nice people are. See how easy it is slotting back in with friends like these: my friends. Ellen came downstairs immediately. With an unaffected and unusual public display of feeling, she held out both hands the moment she came into the kitchen and said,
‘Lizzie! I’m so glad to see you, Lizzie.’
‘We’re getting married,’ said Speed: the sentence was a punch. ‘Next week.’ Another pause. The final one. ‘In Wigton.’ Sam looked on him even more tenderly. ‘Good on you,’ he said, quietly. ‘She’s a Wigton girl,’ Speed said. ‘At St. Cuthbert’s?’
‘We’re both Catholics.’ Lizzie’s face bore a defiant and hurt expression. ‘Why shouldn’t I get married in my own church?’
‘Is your mother making the dress?’ Ellen asked.
‘She is.’
‘I bet it’s beautiful. She’s a wonderful dressmaker, your mother.’
‘Can I have a word, Sam?’
Speed saw that Lizzie was safe with Ellen and wanted to get on with his business.
‘Just a minute.’ Tom Johnston was in the darts room. Sam asked him to look after the bar for a few minutes. The two men went into the empty singing room.
‘Have one with me, Sam?’
There was only a minimal pause. He had broken his rule only once before and this was surely comparable. ‘Gladly. Another half for you?’
‘A pint’ll be better, Sam. Sure it’s only a half? You can have a short, you know.’
‘I half will do nicely, Speed.’
The drinks were brought. Sam raised his glass.
‘Good luck to you and to Lizzie. Good luck to both of you.’
‘Thanks.’ Speed felt clumsy in the exchange and compensated by sinking half the pint. The draught resolved him.
‘I want to tell you why I was kicked out, Sam. I’ve never told nobody except to my mother I said I’d done nothing bad, which is the truth. Now then.’ He described the circumstances, briefly, with no self-pity, the facts.
‘I thought it might be something like that,’ Sam said. He took a sip of the clear bitter. ‘I’m glad you’ve told me, Speed. I’m very glad. And you couldn’t find a way to let the officer know what the fella had said?’
‘Was I wrong, Sam?’
‘Well.’ He took his time. ‘You did your own cause no good, Speed. But you were true to yourself. That matters a lot.’
‘I want our reception here,’ Speed said, ‘in the Blackamoor. Lizzie’s family seems to be dithering about. I said I want it here, I said you and Ellen’s the best people in Wigton and that’s where we should have it’
‘And we’re nearest the church.’
‘There’s that, Sam.’ He laughed. ‘Cut down on cars! Sean said he’d come and talk. I’m just giving you an early warning.’
‘How did you find Lizzie?’ Sam had been waiting all evening to ask Ellen but only now, in their last nesting place of the day, did the opportunity offer itself.
‘Terribly strained,’ Ellen said. ‘Poor Lizzie.’
‘I’ve seen young horses look like that,’ Sam said. ‘Just so high strung you can’t touch them without there’s such a pulling away, their eyes never stop looking frightened, mad with it.’
‘Will he be any good for her?’
Sam had thought about that since the young couple had left. He sipped his tea. He had made no attempt, this evening, to read.
‘He won’t let anybody touch her, that’s one thing. That must help her. She can feel safe with him.’
‘But how can she feel safe with anybody? And I know you think well of Speed but he can be a violent man.’
Sam had thought of that as well.
‘He’ll look after her,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of that.’
‘Oh, I hope so. Poor Lizzie.’
‘They want to have the reception here.’
‘We’ve always turned everybody down. No exceptions.’
‘I made an exception for you, once, about the Labour Party. No politics in the pub, remember, but you would have the Labour Party here for its committee meetings. I said yes. That was an exception.’
Sean came to see him the next day. They went into the kitchen. Sean had accepted just a half of bitter and he sipped it carefully and looked around.
‘Fine house you have here, Sam.’
‘Cigarette?’
‘I don’t use them, thanks all the same. We go to the Half-Moon, you know, and the Crown, the other end of the town.’ He grinned rather shyly. ‘This place is a long walk home later on at night.’
‘They’re two good houses.’
‘I like this bitter, Sam. Bitter has to be kept just so.’
They were silent for a while. They did not know each other well. Things were not to be rushed. Sam noticed that when Sean picked up the half-pint glass it all but disappeared inside his hand. Yet there was about him that almost daintiness of some big and powerful men.
‘So what’s the verdict, Sam?’
‘We’ll do it.’
‘There’s them told me you’d never do it.’
‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘they were mistaken.’
‘You’ve known Speed since a boy.’
‘I have. He’s done well.’
‘That army matter now, there’s a puzzle.’
‘He did no wrong, Sean.’ Sam paused for emphasis. ‘I know that.’
The Irishman looked at him, scrutinised him, nodded.
‘I’ll take your word, Sam.’
Sean took another sip at the beer.
‘They told me you didn’t drink, Sam.’ The notion amused him. ‘Now that’s something I’ve seen. A landlord that doesn’t drink.’
‘Not in this pub, that’s all.’
‘I’ll have to get you up to the Half-Moon then. So. Kathleen will be down to talk to Ellen about th
e food arrangements. They’ll bring it in in the morning, she was thinking. I was thinking of a free bar.’
‘Maybe a free bar from half past two for an hour or so and then beer free and pay for your own spirits,’
‘I don’t see that working out, Sam. How long have we got?’
‘As long as you want to stay here, Sean, but it’ll be tricky to cope with a private party after about six.’
‘We’ll close the free bar down at six then. It’ll fit in with you after six, that’ll be the way.’
‘Ellen and myself will wait on. And I’ll get Alfrieda and Tom Johnston to help out. Jack Ack said he’d bring his accordion.’
‘That’s the way it should be done,’ Sean said. ‘I had that in mind to ask you. And a rough idea?’
‘Let me take care of that. I’d like to.’
Kathleen came down on the following evening and they agreed that the whole of the pub would be available from two-thirty to six. The food would be laid out in the kitchen. There would be glasses of Asti Spumanti lined up on the bar for everybody who wanted one, as soon as they got back from the church. Kathleen asked if the darts could be put away.
Ellen took her to the door and Kathleen said,
‘I want to thank you, Ellen. Lizzie’s always looked up to you. Since the Water Street days. She’s not in the family way. They’ll be going back to Liverpool after.’
Joe’s job was to collect the empty glasses and help Alfrieda wash them when the pile got too high. William, Alfrieda explained, would have been there but a Labour Party Conference in Whitehaven had to take priority. He was getting more involved now, she said, and was much called on.
Sam looked around the pub the few minutes before they arrived. The kitchen was transformed. More tables, whitely clothed, a banquet, Sam thought: my God, had Kathleen laid on the food. The singing room, extra polished by Sadie, who insisted that she would come over and help with the main clearing up at about five. The dartless darts room made more cosy with some of the chairs from the upstairs parlour. The bar with the Asti Spumanti bottles ready to fire and the glasses ready to be charged. There was, Sam thought, a real anticipation about it. Ellen was at the wedding itself. Joe was upstairs already changed, ready, waiting for the call. Mr. Kneale, whom Sam had recommended to do the wedding photographs, wandered contentedly from room to room, a Wigton schoolmaster in a Wigton pub but on legitimate business.
The photographs outside on the steps of the pub. The confetti on the front, in the corridor, in the kitchen. The men, dark suited, white shirted, the tie essential, black shoed, mostly sporting white carnations, and the women vivid in coloured wedding outfits, bold in new wedding hats and gloves and shoes, bosoms pinned with a rose, makeup re-perfected almost hourly, the afternoon moving from diffidence and politeness as the families and friends found the common ground to a welding around the wedding feast, praise for the food, and the service, wonder at the flow of free drink. Joe slipped in and out spying for glasses, collared by Alistair, a talk with Lizzie’s sister, sent by Ellen to talk to Annie who looked left out, Sam calm at the centre of it all, Sean and his brothers planted in the hallway, three guardian oaks, kids in white, trailing ribbons in their hair, playing their giggling games and a gradual movement towards the singing room where Jack Ack swung the accordion and little reluctance was expressed when it came to singing a song.
‘Joe should sing!’ said Alistair, ordered Alistair. ‘Joe has a band.’
Others were willing but now they wanted the landlord’s son to sing to them and it was no occasion for any show of false modesty. He had sung there before. Frankie Laine’s ‘Cool Water’ to begin: Jack Ack was well on top of that and the boys choir-trained voice, the group, the layer on layer of good humour, good will, in the place lifted him, and the ham, the show off in him so long and so successfully repressed, let loose and he belted it out - ‘Water,’they echoed, ‘cool, clear, water’. Then he did ‘April Showers’. There was scarcely a man in the pub who did not think he could not imitate Al Jolson singing ‘April Showers’ and the roof was raised. One more!
And in that haze of wedding, the deep undertow of risk and relief of Speed and Lizzie, the heady feeling that the noise was encouragement for him, alone, Joe had a premonition that it was for the last time. He went flat out for ‘Houn’ Dog’, played with it, inhabited it, made a glorious fool of himself - and they cheered the fool, they whooped him home, when he looked up even his dad was laughing, but most of all there were Lizzie and Speed, side by side just inside the door, she beyond words, Joe thought, tall and victorious in her white dress, and Speed, glass in hand, tie long loosed, an arm around her waist, laughing his head off. Joe saw Lizzie when they were in the same gang in Water Street and Speed flying into battle after he had been cut in the stone fight and lying between the rails while a train went over him and Lizzie breaking in the piebald. There was no one to touch them in that town or anywhere. On this day they stood apart in the world.
‘Good old Water Street, eh, Joe?’ Lizzie said when it was done, her face rearing nervously but smiling straight at him.
‘You’re a better singer than a boxer, Joe.’ Speed clenched and shook a fist at him.
‘Somebody else’s turn now,’ the boy said, ‘I’m supposed to be clearing up the glasses.’
He pretended to look put upon but it was a charade. He was elated, flying, proud that he had looked Speed and Lizzie in the eye and they had admitted him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Oxford was closing in on him.
A week before the departure date he went to Carlisle on the bus with his mother, to visit Jespers, ‘Gentlemen’s Tailor. Outfitter to the County’. Joe thought this a wholly unnecessary outing. He already had a perfectly decent suit. His mother had taken him to Redmayne’s in Wigton and had a sports jacket with leather buttons made up for him by people she had once worked with. ‘I used to make the buttonholes, Joe. Buttonholes, buttonholes, day in day out, buttonholes.’ And he hated shopping.
‘Why are you wasting money on a new suit?’
‘Your dad and I said we’d tog you out and that includes a new suit.’
‘Why do we have to go to Carlisle?’
‘Because we do.’
It was odd, Joe thought, sitting next to his mother upstairs on a bus. He had not done that since he was a kid. It was a boyfriend-girlfriend thing to do. Ellen thought how nice it was, when was the last time? Would this be the last time?
She went into Jespers visibly nervous, Joe saw that and it made him feel arrogant. Who was Jespers to unnerve his mother? But inside he understood a little of what it meant for her. It was hushed and leisurely and the clothes were clothes that important people, ambassadors, Joe thought, politicians, civil servants, wore in films, in newspaper photographs. Something about the style of them? What they were made of? He could read appreciation in his mother’s glance but he had none of her interest or expertise and a blur to him was to Ellen detailed evidence of class. This is what she wanted. ‘Madam?’
The man was lean, pink-complexioned, a fine three-piece county suit, a paisley-patterned silk tie and handkerchief, a face which shone, gold-framed depressed clerical spectacles over the rims of which he peeped as he thought engagingly. Joe took against him.
‘We’d like a suit, please.’
‘For the young man, of course?’
‘For my son,’ said Ellen firmly.
‘Hard to believe!’ The eyes twinkled. No reaction. ‘And may I ask what is the destiny of this suit? Are we talking sports suit, outdoor, casual, indoor, even so, rough tweed, fine tweed, lounge suit, double breasted, single breasted, town wear -’
‘He wants a suit for university. He’s going to Oxford next Wednesday.’
‘I suit for Oxford then! Well now. I dare say we will find that suit, madam.’ Out of his pocket came a tape measure. ‘Could you oblige by removing your jacket: thank you. Very good. And if you would stand with your legs apart. Very good. A fine specimen, madam. Come this way.’
He led as if he were leading a regiment on a triumphal entry. They were now in another, even quieter, cooler room, a room of suits and nothing but suits, suits of all sizes, suits for all occasions.
Joe wanted the first one he tried out, two piece, dark, ‘complemented’, the man said, by a lime green waistcoat in which Joe saw himself as the bee’s knees. Dapper, natty, snappy, smart, none of those words could do justice to what Joe saw in the full-length mirror. It was a bit of Rock ‘n’ Roll in a posh suit.
Ellen insisted he try on others which he did, knowing it was a waste of time but keen to please especially now that lime green waistcoat was in his sights. He had seen young men in the papers in fancy waistcoats but it had never occurred to him he might join them. This was worth the trip! After suit four, Joe was done with dressing up, staring at himself and being stared at, but Ellen would not relent. The man too, Joe could tell, felt a little driven by Ellen’s persistence.
He had to try two of them on again. It took an effort not to groan.
Ellen sat on a stool and looked at him intently.
‘The suit we first put on him is the most dashing,’ said the man. ‘Can be worn with or without the waistcoat, of course, and so would be entirely flexible.’
‘I’d like him to try that other one on again.’
‘The clerical grey?’
‘The clerical grey.’
Joe liked it well enough. It was stylish: a mid-tone grey jacket, trousers, matching waistcoat; sober, worn by men of a certain background from eighteen to eighty, a uniform of the serving and the ruling classes.
‘We’ll have that,’ she said. ‘It’s very well made.’
‘It is an Oxford Man’s suit,’ the Jespers said. ‘He will not go wrong in Oxford with a suit like that, I assure you.’
The boy did not like watching his mother pay over all that money. One day, he would pay it back.
‘The other one was better,’ he said, back on the bus, clutching the big parcel.
‘Yes. It looked better on you.’ She paused. I liked the waistcoat.’
‘So did I.’ He could see himself dance in a suit like that. ‘Clerical grey will be easier for you,’ she said. ‘You’ll blend in better.’
