by Stan Barstow
Penguin Book 2777
The Watchers on the Shore
Stan Barstow, the only son of a coal-miner, was born in 1928 in the West Riding of Yorkshire. He was educated at the local council school and Ossett Grammar School, and began his working life in the drawing office of a local engineering firm. It was the success of A Kind of Loving, his first published novel, which was a Book Society Choice in 1960 and later filmed, that allowed him to become a full-time writer in 1962. His later books are a collection of short stories, The Desperadoes (1961), and the novels Ask Me Tomorrow (1962), and Joby (1964). All four books are now available in Penguins. The Watchers on the Shore is a sequel to A Kind of Loving.
Stan Barstow, who is married and has a son and a daughter, has also written for radio, television and the theatre.
Stan Barstow
The Watchers on the Shore
Penguin Books Ltd, Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia
First published by Michael Joseph 1966 Published in Penguin Books 1968 Copyright © Stan Barstow, 1966
Made and printed in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd London, Reading and Fakenham Set in Monotype Times
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
For Alfred Bradley
Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking.
And now he's dead.
It must have been too cold for him his heartgave way, They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.
Stevie Smith
Not Waving but Drowning
(by permission of Andre Deutsch Ltd)
Part One
1
Lying back in the chair I swing young Bobby off my knee and high over my head, holding him at the end of my stiff arms, my hands round his deep little chest and shaking him. He giggles with helpless delight and a great blob of dribble rolls out of his wet open mouth and falls into my left eye.
'Aagh, you mucky little tyke!'I lower him on to my lap again and fish my hanky out. 'You've spit in me face. What d'you mean by that, eh? Come on, speak up. What d'you mean by that?'
'You'll frighten the life out of him, talking to him like that, 'Ingrid says from her chair across the room, and my sister Chris, on her knees warming nightclothes at the electric fire, turns her head and laughs. 'No, I don't think he will.'
''Course I won't. He knows me, don't you, Bobby? Don't you, old lad?'
And he's already up again, feet kneading into my thighs, his wide-open eyes - Chris's eyes and my eyes, people say - close on my face.
'Do dat 'gen. Do dat 'gen. Do dat 'gen.'
'Do it again? All right, but no more spitting. Understand? Here we go, then.'
Up he goes again, giggling like before, happy to go on as long as I'm willing, nearly everything he does under command, no decisions, no worries, switching from happy to sad, sad to happy, laughter to tears and back again, life just a moment - now. A kid with good parents, and a future, as long as he doesn't get vaporized before he has a chance to taste it. And I wonder if he'll grow up happy and content like his dad or make a mess of things, take a wrong turning somewhere, like his mixed-up, half-miserable Uncle Vic.
'I know who'll tire of that first,'Chris says.
'So do I. I'm puffed. I'm puffed, young Bob. Enough! Down you come. I think I'll have apiece of Bobby's bottom for me supper.'
He squeals and wriggles in my hands and as I reckon to take a bite out of his firm little behind I catch Ingrid, her head lifted from the woman's magazine on her knee, with her eyes on the two of us, her mind somewhere deep in thought. She comes out of it as she notices me looking at her, and speaks to Chris.
'Aren't you scared of him catching cold, playing about with nothing on?'
'No, it's warm enough in here. Anyway, he can have his pyjamas on now.'
She gets up and comes over with them. 'Want me to take him?'
'No,'I say, 'I'll put 'em on for him.'
'You are a glutton for punishment.'
'I don't mind as long as he doesn't pee on me,'I say, and Ingrid says 'Vic! 'in that shocked prissy voice she uses when she thinks I'm being vulgar.
But Chris just laughs. 'Oh, he'll warn you if he wants to do it.'
'C'mon then, lad; let's have you into these.'
I get him into his nightclothes, pale-blue winceyette stuff with little nursery-rhyme characters parading over it, and he plucks at his jacket with his podgy fingers.
'Pajamas.'
'Yes, pyjamas. And very smart they are, too. I wish I'd a pair like 'em.'
'And a sight you'd look,'Ingrid says, smiling.
'Make a change from Marks and Spencer's.'
'I'll run you up a pair on the machine,'Chris offers.
'Aye, you do that. Only I'll have dancing girls instead of Little Jack Horner.'
'You're frisky enough without having dancing girls on your pyjamas,'Ingrid says, and I look at Bobby, pretending to be shocked.
'Did you hear that, young Bobby? Your Auntie Ingrid's telling tales out of school.'
'I think it's time he was going down,'Chris says. 'I hope you haven't got him too excited to sleep.'
'He'll go. Won't you, Bobby lad? Robert Victor Lester, Esquire, dead-horse and donkey buyer, will now retire to his room.'
Ingrid puts her magazine aside and swings her legs out from under her.
'Can I take him?'
'You can see if he'll go for you,'Chris says.
Ingrid holds out her arms to Bobby. 'Can I take you to bed, Bobby?'
He pulls himself up on my knee straight away.
'Oh, you're deserting your Uncle Vic now, are you? Give us a kiss, then, before you go.'
He turns round and makes a great business of giving me a sloppy kiss on the face before going to Ingrid, who stands with him in her arms, Chris and I watching and probably pretty much the same thing going through both our minds. Our first, the reason we got married, would have been older than Bobby if Ingrid hadn't fallen downstairs and brought on a miscarriage at six months. The second, started on a night when we weren't bothering to take care, would have been born just about now, except it didn't last even as long as the first and there was no accident to cause the trouble. We hardly knew Ingrid was pregnant before it was all over and the doctor was saying perhaps she ought to see a specialist at the infirmary. He said there was no real reason why she shouldn't carry a baby the full term, but the next time it happened she'd have to be on her guard from the beginning and take care not to do anything at all strenuous. Which made everybody sorry for Ingrid and brought another touch of frost into my cold war with Mrs Rothwell; though why me giving Ingrid the first baby before we were married should make me responsible for everything that's happened since is something only her mind can work out. And I've stopped trying to reason with it.
'Night night to everybody, then,'Ingrid says and Bobby, tiredness come over him all of a sudden, flops with his head against her shoulder and sucks sleepily at his thumb.
'Everything's ready, Ingrid,'Chris says. 'You can pop him straight in.'
For a minute it looks as though he's going; then he decides that things aren't as they should be and at the door to the bedroom he twists round in Ingrid's arms
and looks for Chris.
'Mummy come.'
Chris smiles. 'Hard lines. I shall have to do it after all.'
She goes and takes him from Ingrid and carries him into the other room. Ingrid comes back and sits down again and reaches for her magazine without saying anything to me. We haven't a lot of small talk and what we have she usually starts. I light a fag and as Chris comes out of the bedroom saying, 'There, let's hope we hear no more from him for a while,'the door from the hall opens and David comes in carrying bottles from the off-licence in a leather shopping bag.
'It's taken you a long time, David,'Chris says.
'I was just wondering if you'd stopped off for a crafty pint,'I say.
'You know I wouldn't have done that without you, Vic,'he says.
'I should hope not.'
David takes his raincoat off and hangs it up then comes back in and takes half a dozen pint bottles of pale ale and a bottle of gin out of the bag and puts them on the sideboard.
'You should have let me come with you and pay for some of that,'I say to him.
'Nonsense. We'd run right out anyway, and I like to have a drop in the house... Would you like a drink now or later?'
'Later,'I tell him. 'It's a bit early yet.'
'As a matter of fact,'David says, 'I've been having a short discussion about the state of the world with my esteemed colleague J. C. Fothergill, Senior History and Lower School Maths.'
'Where was he?'Chris asks and David smiles.
'In the off-licence, buying a drop of the stuff that cheers.'
'But he doesn't live round here, does he?'
'No, he doesn't. But J.C. is a man with a devious mind and also a pillar of his local chapel. If he wants to buy his booze where he isn't known then presumably he has his reasons. He seemed a bit taken aback when I walked in and caught him stuffing the whisky and gin into his bag. Now I suppose he'll be wondering just when I'll let it drop in the staff room that I've seen him stocking up for the cold nights.'
'But it doesn't matter, does it?'Chris says.
'Oh no. Only in his own mind.'
'He always was a two-faced old hypocrite, Farthingale,'I say. 'I remember him of old.'
David gives me a little smile.
'He treated me to an analysis of Mr Khrushchev's motives in the Cuban affair which I thought was very subtle. The only thing is there's no foundation for believing it's true. By the way, let's not miss the News. We didn't hear it at six.'
'I can't bear to listen to it,'Ingrid says. 'It's been nothing but news all week and all the regular programmes either changed or pushed back.'
She's talking about television and I can't resist saying, 'She's thinking of writing to President Kennedy to tell him she nearly missed "Tell your Partners Quiz" because of him messing about with his blockade,'
'Oh, shut up, sarcy,'Ingrid says.
'I thought we might be over the hump,'David says, 'but I'm worried now that the Americans will go the whole hog and invade.'
Just for a second I feel fear squeezing my heart like a clammy hand, as I did earlier in the week when it all blew up, and this puts an extra savage edge to my voice when Ingrid says:
'I don't see why they can't settle it between them. What's it got to do with us?'
I turn on her and it's all there, the fear, the irritation at her stupidity and knowing I could laugh it off if I wasn't married to her.
'Don't you know anything about anything!'
'I don't see what you've got to be clever about,'she says. 'I'm sure other people think like me. Mother was saying the other day -'
'Yes,'I butt in, 'tell us what she said. Let's hear what bloody world-shaking pronouncement she's been coming out with.'
Ingrid blushes scarlet and looks away and I see David shoot a quick glance at Chris and both of them start to act as though they haven't noticed anything amiss.
The radio warms up and the newsreader's voice comes through. It's better news. The Russians have offered to bargain: the Cuban bases for the American ones in Turkey.
'Well, that's an improvement,'David says. 'And I'm having a drink on the strength of it. Join me, Vic?'
I tell him all right, I'll have a glass of beer now.
'Ingrid?'
'Oh, I don't know. Have you got any orange squash?'
'I think so. Sure you wouldn't like a drop of gin to liven it up?'
'No, just squash, please.'
He gives Ingrid her squash, me my beer, passes a gin and tonic to Chris, then lifts his own glass of pale ale.
'Well, here's to the future. Now that it looks as if there might be one after all.'
Which sinks me in a bit more gloom, as talking about the future always does. I'm already a bit irritated with myself for snapping at Ingrid like I did. A bit of peevish bickering is nothing new to us, but doing it when we're by ourselves is one thing and it's only lately I've started letting it show through when other people are there. And I don't like it, because being stuck with something you don't like is bad enough without showing it off to everybody. It hurts the pride. Especially when I'm with Chris and David, or thinking about them. They never bicker. Not when anybody's there and I'm sure not when they're on their own either. You can tell. You can tell from the way one of them might now and again get a bit impatient and the other turn it away with a soft answer instead of feeling the need to strike back. The thing that's missing from their marriage is resentment and it's a thing every marriage is better off without. With some couples it's as though one or the other is always trying to show what he's got to put up with; what sacrifices he's making in being married at all. And it's all wrong, because resentment in a marriage is like a drop of water falling all the time on a stone, weakening and weakening it till some outside blow can crack it apart. Then you either leave it in pieces or try a cement job. And one thing Chris and David will never need is a cement job, because they seem happier now, if anything, than they did when they got married nearly five years ago.
'Has Chris said anything about the job I'm after?'David says as he settles in his chair.
'I didn't know you wanted anybody to know about it yet,'Chris says.
'It's all right in the family,'David says. 'I've applied for a headmastership at a secondary modern school in Leicestershire,'he tells us. 'I had a letter this week to say I'm on a short list.'
'So you might be moving away?'
'If it comes off, yes. I don't see much prospect of early advancement where I am and this could be a move in the right direction.'
'You'll have to go for an interview next?'
'Yes, in ten days' time.'
'When will you be moving, if you get the job?'Ingrid asks.
'Probably not till Easter. I should have to give a full term's notice here.'; 'We shall miss you,'I say.
'Oh, I might not get it yet. I've a long way to go. I don't know what qualifications and experience the other runners have.'
'Well I don't know; but my money's on you.'
'Thank you very much. I hope your confidence is justified.'
'It will be. You're a bright lad.'
He throws his head back and laughs at my cheek. 'No, you're the bright lad. I'm the once-promising young man, and at nearly forty I should be showing something more than promise.'
So he says. But he seems to be doing all right to me. I envy him. I always have. He seems happy in his career and he's got a wife who can keep up in anything he does and spur him on to better things. I don't see my sister as the kind of fount of all wisdom that I used to - she gave me some answers when I left Ingrid that I didn't expect then, and I'm still wondering if they were right - but she still ranks high with me as a woman and the main thing is that she loves David and he loves her. There are odd times when you see them shoot a glance at each other across a room, the sort of glance that seems to say as clear as words: You and me, and then the rest; and it's a thing I know I'll never have with Ingrid if we live together for a thousand years.
We talk for some time and have a few more
beers before Chris makes coffee and serves it with crackers and cheese. Then about eleven, after Bobby's wandered out of his room complaining that he can't sleep and been taken firmly back again, Ingrid and I go downstairs to our own place on the ground floor. Our flat is one of the four that this old Victorian house was converted into after the war, and Chris and David got it for us at the time we were living with Ingrid's mother and I got drunk one night, had a stand-up row with Mrs Rothwell - finishing with me being sick on her carpet - and walked out. By now we've got it pretty comfortable, though I always feel it somehow lacks character compared with Chris's and David's place, only I can't just put my finger on where it falls down.
'Don't forget to put your clocks back,'David says as we leave them.
'No, we won't. Good night.'
I've got a tune from Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony going through my head for no reason at all as we go down the stairs and once inside the living-room I go to the radiogram and lift the lid. Ingrid looks at me as I take the record out of its sleeve.
'You're not going to put that thing on at this time of night, are you?'
'I thought it'd be nice to go to bed on.'
