‘I’m still moving, though.’
It was no use arguing. Only smoke was moving, and that was a fact. He was too young to reason with. And when he was old enough he’d be too set in his ways. He hadn’t had time to get frightened yet. Frank hoped he never would, felt enough of the old Bill Posters in himself to know all about the man on the run from his own spirit and the world that wanted to crush it. It was a perpetual motion of the heart, until the mechanism seized up.
‘What you goin’ ter do?’ Dean asked.
The question startled him because he often asked it himself. ‘Stay here for the time being. It’s a good place to recover in.’
‘What from?’
‘Too much running. I’m trying to get out of the same old track and circle.’
‘I’m in a circle now, and can’t get out. Floating. Moving. Flying, I tell you.’
‘That stuff’ll kill you,’ Dawley said. His words were wasted, and he was tempted to ask for a puff. ‘You’ll get softening of the brain. It drugs people who might ask awkward questions.’
‘I’m coming back to life.’
‘Wearing off, is it?’
He stretched himself on the ground. ‘I’m me, now.’
‘Enjoy your kip,’ Dawley said. ‘But don’t stay long or you’ll get pneumonia.’
Not too stoned to ignore the advice, Dean stood up and rubbed his eyes as if he’d been asleep ten hours. ‘Go into the caravan and use the bunk,’ Dawley said.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Across to the house.’
Dawley strolled to the steps and leaned against Handley’s darkened studio backing on to the paddock. Not smoking or moving, he looked up the slight rise of land towards the skyline and pale stars. An elderberry bush veiled him from the gate, a bush that had proliferated so much since spring that he decided to come and saw it down next morning.
A muted noise drifted from the kitchen, but it was quiet where he was, a necessary peace as long as it didn’t mean sloth or idleness. At thirty he felt old enough to be Dean’s father – and found the coincidence of the name with his favourite working-class mythological character amusing. Even the William was prominent in it, William Posters Junior who, right from the start, would put up with none of the crap and had slung his hook at so early an age that he would do little damage to himself or others.
Was the world changing after all? Not much. But he felt that he had altered a bit in the three years since leaving home and factory, a short enough period when he looked back on it, though he didn’t doubt that time’s laws would make his Algerian trip similarly brief when he tried to recall it from the future of ten years ahead. Part of his life was coming to an end, and not knowing how or exactly when almost frightened him in the warm evening air: he was worried about the future, as any self-respecting man ought to be.
Two people walked up the path. He’d been so deep in his problems that they were too close for him to announce himself, and after their first words it seemed rather late to do so.
‘When can you get it?’
He was shielded by the bush, as long as he didn’t move. He had learned to keep still in the desert.
‘Any time,’ Cuthbert drawled. ‘Why didn’t you bring one from Spain? You could have.’
She spoke in a quieter tone, as if afraid someone might listen. ‘I didn’t want it in my luggage. If the customs find a gun in your case you’re in trouble.’
‘When do you want it?’
‘Whenever you can get it,’ she said, and in his animal-like immobility Frank sensed her tone had become more urgent. She didn’t want Cuthbert to see how anxious she was. But he spoke the question that Dawley wanted to ask: ‘Why do you want it?’
‘To take to Spain. It will be useful there.’
Cuthbert pulled on a cigarette, the glow hidden by his hand. ‘Why did you come to England?’ he asked suddenly.
‘To get Shelley’s papers to a place where they’d be safe.’ Dawley wanted to join the talk and his heart beat faster. She turned to a bush and broke off a twig, cracked it to pieces as if it were an insect. Her hand nearly touched his face.
‘Uncle John had a revolver and half a dozen bullets, I know where they are. But when you take it to Spain, for God’s sake be careful. I don’t want you to get caught.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’d perish if anything happened to you.’
There was a rustle of clothes as they kissed. ‘I can take care of myself. I’ve done it often.’
Cuthbert’s laugh was the nearest he could get to expressing concern for her and love for himself in the same breath. ‘Perhaps I’ll go with you.’
‘What for?’
Dawley caught the suspicion. Nobody trusted Cuthbert, but they all had different motives. ‘To save you doing anything foolish.’
‘I won’t. I’m an ordinary person with everyday desires – as Shelley used to say.’
He clicked his tongue, irritated at her old boyfriend coming into the talk, even though he was dead. ‘If I’m with you, you won’t get into danger.’
‘I don’t let people make plans for me.’
His loud laugh startled Dawley. ‘You’re a lone wolf, and so am I! One lone wolf attracted to another. We’ll have to get married!’
‘Why? Don’t you like being a lone wolf?’ Dawley imagined her smile.
‘I’m willing to give up a lot.’
‘Get me the gun,’ she said.
‘What do you want it for?’
‘To kill someone. What do you usually do with a gun?’
‘Who?’
‘I was joking,’ she said. ‘I don’t trust anyone who has no sense of humour.’
‘I don’t trust anyone who has. Which cuts both ways.’
‘I like you.’
‘It’s a dry night,’ he said. ‘Let’s go into the paddock.’
They stood with their bodies pressed together, and Dawley heard her heavy breathing above that of Cuthbert’s.
He moved silently, getting the stiffness out of his legs as he walked towards the house. Who, of all people in the community, was she planning to kill? Maybe she did want to take it back to Spain. There were many uses for guns there. With Franco’s fascist regime they were a way of defending oneself, the only vote that meant anything. He couldn’t argue against such reason.
But why didn’t she ask for it openly at the next meeting? If her case was well put, there were enough of them on the revolutionary side for her to get a good majority. But she had asked Cuthbert to hand it over without anyone knowing, and Cuthbert was so cock-happy about his new girlfriend (whatever that meant in the fevered state of the community) that he’d do anything. For all his tight-lipped wisdom he was a bit of a fool at heart. The cynical had to be protected from themselves.
He paced up and down, from the front gate to the steps, and the thought of Maricarmen with a gun and ammunition frightened him. Luckily, her desire was no longer a secret. He would talk to Handley, who might be able to get all firearms under the hatches before Cuthbert looked for the gun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Washed plates lined the rack, and scoured pans were hooked on the wall. The duty roster of the new domestic regime had been drawn up in large plain letters and pinned on the notice-board. To avoid strife Myra had sorted them according to their tolerance for each other.
‘My second day’s stint since the New Order,’ Handley said, ‘one more sweep and I’ll have done.’
Dawley sat down. ‘You seem to be managing.’
‘I’m not one for complaining, once the rope’s around my gullet. Drudgery helps me to think about my painting. It’s even improved since this lark started.’
‘Any coffee?’
‘Make some. And wash your cup after. It may be a fair system but I still don’t like the way it was done.’
Frank plugged in the kettle. ‘Hoisted on your own democratic principles.’
‘We’ll have to get rid of you-know-who, before she thinks up another bund
le of mischief. She’s an attractive woman, but I just don’t trust her. In fact there’s nobody I can trust except you, and Richard and Adam. As for Cuthbert, he’s on pot, he’s fallen for Maricarmen, and he’s my eldest son. There’s too much stacked against him.’
Frank set out two mugs for coffee. ‘I was up at the paddock for a quiet smoke, and heard him and Maricarmen talking. Do you have a gun in the house?’
‘Gun? Look, I might not trust him but it doesn’t mean I want to kill him.’
‘Maricarmen’s on at him to get one. Wants to take it back to Spain.’
‘I’ve got a horror of guns,’ Handley said, ‘since John died.’
‘Why do you keep so many in the house?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said you had a sten, a rifle, and a few shot-guns.’
‘That was only a bit of a joke on our part. John came back from the war with a couple of revolvers, it’s true. I kept one in my room, and let him hug the other. I wish I hadn’t, because he took it to Algeria, and killed himself with it. Which makes me responsible for his death.’
‘If I hadn’t gone there, and he hadn’t had the blameless idea of coming to get me out of it, he’d have still been safe,’ Frank said.
Albert took his hand, and held it for a moment. ‘It’s good of you to share it, but I hope you aren’t regretting your time in Algeria.’
‘I don’t know. If John could be here now I’d rather not have gone. It’s terrible for a good man to get killed, and for somebody like you to lose a brother. I’m a different person to what I was a couple of years ago. The older you get the more there is to regret. I change, but at the same time I stay young. What’s the use of time passing if it doesn’t improve you? Wasted life. If you stay the same you’ve got no sense. I regret the killing I took part in. It seems as if I wasn’t responsible at the time. I’d give everything to go back and to do the right thing.’
‘What’s the point?’
‘It’s the only way for self-centred bastards like me to learn. Yet maybe if I had my life over again I’d do the same thing.’
‘We’ve got to stop this bloody gun nonsense, though,’ said Handley, ‘or Cuthbert will have his regrets as well, and God knows what effect it would have on somebody like him. John’s other gun is stowed in his toolbox.’
Dawley asked how safe it was. Handley put down his cup. ‘You think …?’
‘I expect he roams around.’
He was stricken at the thought, which he knew was true enough: ‘I love Cuthbert like a son, almost, but he makes me sweat at times. I saw him once in John’s room, and kicked him out of it. But I’ll move the gun in the morning. I’ll forestall him.’
Dawley hoped he would do it now, though didn’t say so. He saw no point in needlessly alarming him.
Myra was in bed, the light still on. She took off her glasses and put the book down. He glanced at Mark, whose cot was in the small dressing room opening off from theirs. His mouth and closed eyes were peaceful, but his brow suddenly wrinkled, as if some deep dream were passing there like a fish through water. Dawley loved him more than his other two, glad he’d got back from Algeria if only for him. Yet glancing through the door at Myra he didn’t know who he loved most. His child seemed too vulnerable, as if all the peril of the world had passed from himself to Mark, and he desperately wanted Mark to be safe, felt a biting need for the years to go quickly so that he would grow into a man and be able to hold his own. There were so many pitfalls, and Frank knew that the dangers never receded, no matter how strong a person was. He couldn’t bear the thought of anything painful happening to his son, or indeed to anyone he loved, as he looked again at Myra – who had been looking at him so engrossed in their son and wondering when he was going to turn back to her. She smiled: ‘At least we’ve produced something together!’
‘He’s beautiful,’ he said, going into their room and sitting at the end of the bed. ‘But I’m so full of fear for him. It’s daft, I know. I can almost see why people believe in God: they’d do anything to put such anxiety behind them.’
‘You’re a violent person,’ she said, ‘to think that so much can threaten your son.’
‘Fearful,’ he admitted. ‘My spirit’s gone, and peace with it. Danger and violence have their own peace. How does one get it back?’
‘You need a long, tranquil life,’ she said.
‘Will I ever get it?’ he wondered, closing the door to Mark’s room.
‘Only with me.’ She lifted her hand, and he went closer to hold it. He undressed slowly, and pulled the bedclothes back, getting in naked beside her. She had the most beautiful eyes, yet only took off her glasses in bed. Nipples showed through her pink silken nightdress.
‘Take it off, so that I can feel your skin against me.’
She did so quickly, and then embraced him: ‘I’ve always loved you so much.’
‘There’s nothing else that means anything.’
She wanted to say: When will you get a divorce from Nancy so that we can be married – but she was a proud person who treated others as being as free as she had always hoped to be, and so didn’t speak. She suspected that this was part of her conditioning in a man’s world, not something out of her own basic nature, and so would ask him when the time came, whatever she thought. ‘What do you think you’ll do?’
It wasn’t the right time for such a question, but he slowed down the speed of his desire, to do the right thing and tie it to her own. ‘I don’t know about the future. I want to finish my book first.’
She was pleased at hearing him call it a book for the first time. ‘I was reading George’s book this evening,’ she said, ‘and thought that perhaps his publisher would like to see yours when it’s finished. He’s got that sort of list. He likes revolutionary literature from young working-class men!’
‘Is that his name for it? And how many of us does he think there are? Anyway, it’s not a book yet. When I’ve finished you’ll have to tell me what you think. Make sure it’s all ship-shape and grammatical. I haven’t felt like a young working man for a long while, though I expect I could slot back into it if I had to.’
‘You won’t need to,’ she said. ‘All I want is for you to be happy.’
He craved a smoke, but knew she didn’t like it in the bedroom because of Mark. ‘If I stop living from day to day I might be able to see some distance ahead. Then I’ll know what I want to do, though finally I don’t know what happiness is. A necessary illusion, maybe.’
‘We’re unhappy so that we’ll know when we’re happy,’ she said, wondering whether he wasn’t too locked up in himself to ever give her anything at all.
He smiled, and kissed her. ‘We’ve got enough to eat, and we aren’t being bombed, so we ought to feel happy. But I can’t while such atrocities are going on in the world. I’m happy now and again though, in spite of myself. Life would be insupportable otherwise. I sometimes think: to hell with the world! Why should it make me miserable? But that’s weakness. I’m so weak I can’t stand my own bloody weakness.’
‘That might turn out to be your strength,’ she said, pushing the clothes back so that she could see his body. It seemed ridiculous that only their heads were visible, as if they were some form of transmuted life, not whole and to be seen even by each other when making love. He lay facing her, and she stroked his flattened stomach. ‘Why do you worry about everything?’
His gloomy preoccupations were an area in which she seemed powerless to help, and she wanted to cure him, bring his whole person back to herself and Mark. ‘It’s more than mere worry,’ he said. ‘I feel pity and fear and hope for Mark, and for you, and so can’t help extending it to everybody else. While they are threatened, you two are threatened, and I can’t stand that.’
She lay on her back, her head turned to him, kissing the wrist of the hand that touched her short dark hair where it met the pillow. ‘We have to look after ourselves, then do what we can for others. It’s all part of the human pattern.’
Her breasts pressed into him: ‘I want another baby.’
They were both so ready that he was in her without guidance. There was no greater happiness, at the moment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It nagged at him all night long, invaded his dreams through the sort of sleep that gave no rest. Towards dawn Enid said that if he didn’t stop scraping around like a rat in a trap he could go off to his own bed in the studio. Finally, he slept a couple of hours, though the gnawing fact of getting John’s lethal pistol under lock and key woke him sharply at eight.
In his dressing gown, and without that vital first swig of coffee, he went on to the landing and up the stairs. The unreal den of his dead brother’s room made the world real again. Its creation was an act of lunacy that pulled him with a soiled almost sexual immediacy back down the years and on to the landscape of childhood. Not that life in the small Staffordshire town had been all sunshine and lollipops. He spat in the firegrate: far bloody from it. His mother was forty when he was born, his father fifty, and they’d died within a year of each other when he was twenty-five, having given him the benefit of their dry hearts if nothing else.
His father, a small-time builder, had gone bankrupt just in time to retire, a hard old man who’d forced him out to work as soon as it was legal. The word ‘legal’ had been his ever-loving word: it was legal to do that, or it wasn’t legal. He used it so often he’d stoop to any illegality he could get away with – a bald-headed man of middle height with grey eyes so piercing that people never took him seriously.
When Handley went to work at fourteen he had no time for his father. He didn’t hate him. He just wanted to get out of his way, remembering him as a miserable creature, though it was no good feeling sorry for him, because while you did he’d kick you so hard you wouldn’t get up for ten minutes. Handley slipped out one day and didn’t see him tell the lid was fastened on his coffin. His parents hadn’t even loved each other, so how could they have been expected to love their children?
The Flame of Life Page 19
