by Stan Barstow
'You mean I interfere where I'm not wanted?'
'I can't say you're not wanted, can I? I mean, it is your business.'
He sighs.'Yes, it's my business. But perhaps I've clung to it for too long. I've never subscribed to the view that a man should automatically withdraw from active life at sixty-five; but there comes a time when he must let go . . .'
His voice has sunk almost to a whisper and I have to lean forward to catch the last words. He gazes into the fire for a minute or two then lifts his hand and looks round.
'I can feel a draught on my feet. I wonder if you . . . There's a rag . . .'
I get up and find the thick tartan travelling rug and wrap it round his legs.
'Yes, that's better . . .'His hands fuss with the rug for a bit. 'As a matter of fact, I could probably sell out immediately.'
'Sellout!'
'Yes. Fenwick Brothers have intimated that they'd be willing to make an offer if I'm interested.'
'Well that's all right, Mr Van Huyten; but where does it leave me?'
'Oh, they'd be sure to take you on. I could make it a condition of sale.'
'But it's not the same thing at all, is it?'My voice is loud now, upset. I'm as near being really annoyed with him as I've ever been. 'I didn't leave engineering to be a shop assistant for any Tom, Dick or Harry. I did it to work for you.'
'But I shan't last for ever, Victor. I'm an old man.'
'I know, but.. .'And I'm wondering, is he getting really gaga? Can't he remember what he said, or didn't he say what I thought he said? Have I had hold of the wrong end of the stick all the time? No, perhaps there were no promises, but there was a lot of talk I couldn't have got wrong. And what's more, the Old Man talked to Mr Van Huyten as well, and came away satisfied.
'I find your loyalty very touching,'Mr Van Huyten says.
'I don't think loyalty comes into it at this stage, Mr Van Huyten,'I say, giving it to him straight in my anger. 'At least, not on my side. When we had that long talk before I came to work full-time for you, you promised me there'd be better prospects than there are for an ordinary shop assistant.'
'I said that one day I should want you to manage the shop when I felt like taking things more easily. And now you're doing that.'
'But there's another thing I wanted to talk to you about. It's about salary. I seem to have dropped behind lately and now I'm about three pounds down on what I'd be getting in industry.'
'Oh, so much?'
'Yes. You did say I wouldn't lose by coming to you.'
I tell him what an engineering draughtsman my age can be earning and point out the difference between that and what he pays me. In a minute, without any hesitation, he's offered me a two-pound a week rise and taken some of the wind out of my sails, but not all of it.
'And while we're talking I ought to say that we need some more staff.'
'More staff? You mean the work is becoming too heavy for you? You've got the little girl I took on in the summer. Isn't she efficient?'
'Oh, she's all right for what she does. But a young lad with some savvy would be a big help. He could take care of the counter with Olive while I got on with the books and paperwork. That side of it doesn't get any less, you know, Mr Van Huyten. Business is good and if you think about it we're worse off for help than when you and I used to do it all.'
'Yes, yes. I can see that.'
'And there's the question of a replacement for Walt.'
'Walt?'
'Henry's assistant.'
'Oh yes. Is he leaving us?'
'Henry'd give him his cards tomorrow if he could. He doesn't know a thing.'
'I don't know. He seemed capable when I interviewed him.'
'But you don't know anything about servicing television sets, Mr Van Huyten; and neither does Walt, according to Henry.'
There's a minute or two of quiet while he thinks all this over.
'Dear me,'he says then, 'how out of touch I seem to be getting. It really does look as though I shall have to rely on you a great deal more, Victor.'
'I don't mind,'I tell him. 'But this talk about selling out has upset me a bit.'
'Don't worry about that, Victor,'he says, leaning back in his chair with the tips of his fingers together.'I thought you'd be interested to know, though, that our friends had made an approach.'
'They've got record shops all over the north. I suppose they'd be glad to take over an old-established business in Cressley.'
'They won't get mine. It will stay as Van Huyten's Music Shop until I die. What happens after that...'
I lean forward again, eager to catch what he's going to say; but he just lets the sentence die. His eyes close and he seems suddenly short of breath. I don't like the look of him at all and I get up and take a step towards him.
'Are you all right, Mr Van Huyten? Is there anything I can do?'
His hands are fumbling under the rug and one of them comes up holding a little bottle of pills.
'Would you...'I can't catch what else he says except the one word 'water'.
I run out and down the hall to the kitchen. This is the neatest room because his daily woman keeps it in order. It takes me a little while, though, to find a glass, then I fill it and hurry back to him.
'Here you are, Mr Van Huyten.'
I can't see him for the back of the chair and I go round and look at him, still holding the glass.
'Mr Van Huyten...'
I reach out to touch him but my hand stops short.
'Oh, crikey!'
I dash to the phone in the hall. Nothing happens when I lift the receiver and I've jiggled the bar a few times, swearing at the operator, before I realize that the line's as dead as a doornail.
The next minute I'm out of the house and racing down the hill to where I vaguely remember seeing a phone box on the corner.
3
'But he never actually said he'd leave the shop to me, Mother,'I say, irritated by the way she's talking about something that's settled now and can't be altered.
She's got her mending-basket open by her chair and one of the Old Man's socks pulled over a darning-stool, the needle giving off an occasional flash of light as she pulls the grey wool across the hole.
'You know very well that's the impression he gave both you and your father,'she says.
'Oh, he gave that impression all right,'the Old Man says, fiddlingwith his pipe; 'but he never made any promises except them he kept.'
'Well all I know is he persuaded our Victor to give up a good trade - against my advice, I'll have you remember - and now he finds himself in a dead-end job, just another shop assistant.'
'I can always go back into engineering,'I point out; 'and I've got five hundred quid to take with me, so I can't see that I've lost much by it.'
'It's not what you were led to expect,'the Old Lady says, her mouth in a stubborn line. 'And it's all right thinking about going back to draughtsmanship, but look at the seniority you've lost at Whittaker's.'
'I haven't said I'm going back to Whittaker's. There's lots of other places. I might even make a break and move right away.'
'Right away? Have you talked it over with Ingrid? She mightn't take too kindly to that idea now her mother's on her own. There's not just yourself to think about now, y'know.'
'I do know.'Oh, but she makes me wild the way she goes on. I wonder now how I ever stuck it when I was at home. 'All I'm saying is what I might do. I wish you'd stop pouncing on every little thing I say and driving me into corners.'
'Well, it's a job if your own mother can't talk to you now.'
'It's funny, though, y'know,'the Old Feller says, half to himself, 'the way Mr Van Huyten talked abut how much he liked you and he had no relatives that he knew about. I mean, there was only one construction you could fairly put on it.'
'I know there was, and he probably meant that. But he had to see how I made out first, see if I was capable and all that. And though he was very fond of pointing out how old he was I don't think he thought he was going to di
e for some time. I'm certain he didn't expect to go as sudden as he did. And for all I know he might have intended changing his will any time. The fact is he didn't, and so we've got to make the best of it.'
I'm fed up with all this talk. Of course I was disappointed, and no mistake. But looking back at it now it seems fantastic to think there was any chance of Mr Van Huyten leaving the shop to me. And I don't like my mother and father to talk as if I've been led up the garden path and made a fool of. I'm ready to bet that Mr Van Huyten never did that to anybody in his life.
'You'll be stopping on at the shop for a bit anyway, I reckon?'
'Until the bank gets everything settled, yes. I expect Fenwick's are ready to make an offer. Mr Van Huyten told me they were interested.'
'I expect they'd take you on if you wanted it, eh?'
'They might, but I'm not interested. I'd be just another salaried employee to them, one of scores. I probably wouldn't even get the chance of the manager's job. They'll have a trained man ready to take over. I think Henry's hoping he can stay on, though. I mean, it's his trade.
'Y'know, 'I say in a minute, 'the old chap didn't do so flippin'badly with us when you think about it. Five hundred for me and two-fifty for Henry. He was a grand old feller and he couldn't help it if he got a bit soft in the head towards the end.'
'No,'the Old Feller says, 'you're right. And he's gone now, so it's no use trying to fathom what was in his mind.'Which makes all three of us go quiet, as though we're trying to do just that.
There's a great fire piled up orange and glowing in the grate and the Old Man and I sit and look at it without saying anything, the Old Lady going on with her mending until she finally gathers it all up and puts it in the basket.
'I could do with a woman's work,'she says, 'but it never gets any less.'
'It ought to do,'I say, 'with our Jim out of the way now.'
'What do you think Jim does with his clothes,'she says, 'mends 'em and washes 'em himself? He sends 'em home to his mother. That's one thing she's useful for, anyway.'
I know this note in the Old Lady's voice; she's got her back up with Jim over something.
'What's up with Jim, then? Haven't you heard from him lately?'
'Oh aye, we've heard. We don't see much of him these days, though.'
'When was he over last?'
'Three weeks since; and we had a postcard yesterday to say he won't be home this week-end. He's going home with a friend who lives in Cheshire.'
'Well, he goes to university to meet people as well as study, you know. Mebbe he did come home every week-end at first, but you can't expect him to carry on like that.'
'As long as he doesn't start to think his own home isn't good enough for him.'
'Nay, you know our Jim's not that sort o'lad, Mother,'the Old Man chips in.
'He wouldn't be the first lad to go away to university and end up having no room for his parents,'the Old Lady says. There's a couple of spots of colour on her cheeks and I can tell she's spent some time brooding about this and building it up.
'You've been watching too many television plays,'I tell her. 'Jim's at Manchester, not Oxford or Cambridge. There'll be a lot of people there from ordinary homes like his. And they're all cutting their apron strings together.'
'Aye, and a sorry state most of 'em 'ud be in if it wasn't for their mothers and fathers.'
'Well Jim knows that, doesn't he? What do you want him to do, write you a letter every day saying how grateful he is?'
'There's no need for that kind o'clever talk.'
'I'm only trying to make you see that you can't hang on to him. You seem to want to send him off with one hand and hold him back with the other. That's just the way to make him resentful. He's got enough to think about without you being on at him. You'll have to face the facts, y'know. You've lost Jim. He's gone. You'll never have him at home like you had Chris and me. He's off early and he's seeing a lot and meeting people that I never did. I was in a drawing-office at sixteen and the next thing I know I'm married. I hope he sees a bit more of things than I did before he settles down.'
'Well neither you nor our Christine seems to have done so badly out of it,'the Old Lady says.
I say nothing to this. Chris, all right. Me? What does the Old Lady know about me? What has she ever known? Does my marriage to Ingrid look no different to her than Chris's and David's? I wonder how blind you can get.
'Anyway,'she says, letting it drop, 'I'll put the kettle on for a cup of tea.'
'Aye, and I shall have to be pushing off home.'
'Aren't you stopping for your supper?'
'I hadn't planned to. I don't know what time Ingrid'll be home.'
'You say her mother's not so well?'
'Apparently not. That's why Ingrid's gone over tonight.'
'She doesn't seem to have been right on form since Ingrid's father died,'the Old Man says.
'Well, are you stopping or aren't you?'the Old Lady wants to know.
'I suppose I might as well. What have you got?'
'Nowt so much, unless you feel like popping round to t'fish shop.'
'I'll take pot luck. I don't want to be too late.'
But it is cosy sitting in my old chair with my feet stuck out across the hearth in front of that big fire. It's nearly possible to imagine I'm still at home and a free man. Nearly.
'Will some brown bread and butter and a piece of fruit cake suit you?'
'Yes, fine.'
The Old Lady goes out and leaves me and the Old Man ruminating in front of the fire. My heels sink into the new listing rug on the hearth. It seems looking back to when I was a kid that we nearly always had a listing rug on the go, the frame propped up with one end on the table and the other on a cupboard or a chest of drawers; my mother sitting up to it, right hand on top holding the skewer, left hand underneath taking the lists as she prodded them through. It was possible to buy material for lists but it was unheard of in our house; it kind of defeated the object. We always collected the family's old clothes for cutting up, plus what a neighbour or friends might be throwing out. The lists would be nearly always drab navy-blue or dark brown and occasionally we might have the brighter colour of a woman's costume to liven the mixture up. I wonder how many listing rugs my mother and father have run through in their married life. They look pretty shabby when they get trodden down but there's nothing to beat them for comfort when they're new.
'A pity,'the Old Man says, talking about Mr Rothwell;''a fine young-looking feller like that cut off in his prime. How old did Ingrid say he was?'
'Forty-eight.'
'Aye.'The Old Man nods. 'Forty-eight. No age at all. Aye... I rather liked Mr Rothwell.'
'Yeh, so did I.'
'Worth three or four of Ingrid's mother, I allus thought.'
'Me too.'
The Old Man and I sit and think about Ingrid's father, dead eighteen months ago of lung cancer and I remember how he talked to me in that pub cafe in Bread Street after I'd left Ingrid, and made it possible for me to see her again. I've thought many a time since, going back over that conversation, how clever he was that day; how he got to grips with the situation, saying just what needed saying at just the right time. He and Chris; they never talked to each other about it but they did it between them while all the others were washing their hands of it: Mrs Rothwell glad, I think, that I'd finally shown myself to be an ill-mannered pig, not good enough for her daughter (as she'd always thought), and the Old Lady saying she didn't want to see me till I was back with Ingrid again.
So we got back together and decided to give it a try.
'How do you get on with her these days, Victor?'the Old Man says.
'Who, Ingrid's mother?'
'Aye.'
'Oh, well enough. We have a sort of armed truce. We don't see much of each other really, and we're polite and civil when we do meet. I don't know what she says about me when I'm not there and she doesn't know what I say about her.'
'Ingrid'll get both sides of it, I reckon?'<
br />
'I suppose she does.'
He grins. 'It's a common enough situation, I suppose.'
'I suppose it is.'
My mother comes in from the kitchen with the supper and she and the Old Man start telling me they're thinking of flitting. This place is too big for them now we're all away and there's only Jim to put up when he comes home. They bought it before the war, a solid, roomy family house, at the price ruling then, which is about a quarter of what it's worth now. The mortgage has been paid off for some time and the Old Man reckons he can sell for seventeen-or eighteen-hundred and buy a four-roomed terrace house for about nine; which will give him knocking on for a thousand to put in the bank: a nice tidy sum to add to his savings and pension when he retires, which won't be long now. It sounds to me like a first-rate plan, and I say so.
'Aye,'the Old Man says, 'your mother had her work cut out talking me into buying this place when things were unsettled and you could rent a house any day of the week. But it's turned out for the best. Money's dropped in value but property's gone up.'He nods. 'We had a bit o'luck.'
It's a satisfied little nod from a chap who's come through all right. A chap who's worked hard all his life, when the work was there to be done, in foul and dangerous conditions, and brought three kids up and seen them go out into the world with better chances than he ever had. I reckon he has a right to be content.
