A Pocketful of Rye

by Anthony Masters

  Eric was making a last attempt. “Look—I don’t want to go on nagging at you and you have every right to stay here until your lease runs out—On the other hand—what’s the point? What does it really matter—another six months?”

  The old man’s face twitched a little and the folds of flesh quivered. His high collar was far too big now and his Adam’s apple bobbed alarmingly when he began to get emotional. Quickly the old lady bent towards him, whispered something in his ear, and slowly he rose to his feet. He muttered something to Eric and left the room.

  Eric sprang to his feet and faced Mrs. Haslett’s admonishing gaze.

  “I’m terribly sorry if I upset your husband—I’ve no right to—”

  Then she smiled. “It’s different for me, you see, sir. I’ve only been here since I married Mr. Haslett—that’s about forty years. He was born here, you see, and his parents were born here. He loves the house—it’s different for me. Over the road old Mr. Hodgson now—he nearly died leaving that house. He’d grown up with my husband—they’d lived in the same road all their lives—same as old Miss Jenkins. They’ve been together all their lives, sir. For me, it’s different, I’m almost a stranger, as you might say. But Mr. Haslett—he won’t go until he really has to.”

  Hector looked down. He caught a glimpse of flaxen curls and a row of staring dark eyes. He pressed his forehead hard against the cinders to ward off the giddiness that attacked him. Inside the heap he heard stirring and climbed quickly on as slight movement was felt.

  Eric rose to go—he apologised again. Mrs. Haslett came up to him as if to take his arm—then paused a few feet away, self-conscious of her own spontaneity. She said: You’re doing your best—we’re difficult folk here.”

  But Eric didn’t want her to say that, and with a muttered goodbye went quickly outside. He stood a little away from the house, on the rubble, and breathed in fresh air. Old age—nothing but vegetation—no change—no moves. Then suddenly the old man was beside him, panting and wrapped in a greatcoat. He was shivering violently, and obviously hadn’t been outside the house for weeks.

  Eric took him by the arm. “Mr. Haslett—you’ll be ill—come back inside.”

  They stood facing each other on the rubble, whilst a keen wind shook the old man’s frame inside the greatcoat. The mouth was working but no sound came.

  “Mr. Haslett—go back indoors.”

  Then to Eric’s acute embarrassment the old man began to cry; there in the desolation, he began to sob uncontrollably.

  Hector was stuck. The children below him were silent now—but all he could hear was the rustle of the wind in the light dry cinders and, if he pressed his ear to the surface, the movement beneath it. Above him was an outcrop, and he could not work round it because the surface was too smooth and there were no footholds. So he began to climb down.

  Mrs. Haslett was with them now with her arms around her husband. Gently she began to lead him back to the house. Eric turned away from them and looked towards the heap. He seemed to freeze. His senses were rigid, sensations numb. Literally rooted he clumsily screamed out to the retreating pair: “There’s something crawling on the heap!”

  Step by step, Hector edged his way down, feeling for footholds in the loose clinker. It was much more difficult than going up for he kept mistaking large pieces of coke for footholds, putting his weight on them and slipping desperately, sending them bouncing down the side of the heap. Down below the eight-year-old began to whimper and one of the older boys broke away from the group to get his father. Meanwhile Hector continued to slip.

  Eric regained control and began to run towards the heap, stumbling over bricks and pits. Suddenly his unreasonable terror of wide open spaces returned; he felt his pace slacken, his figure cringe and he stopped to stare around him. For seeming miles stretched complete desolation; dust rose in a haze stirred by the wind and there was absolute silence. He almost screamed aloud when a figure rushed into him, greatcoat flying. Mr. Haslett passed, panting and taking great stumbling steps. The old man grabbed him, jabbered something in his ear, and hanging on to each other they ran clumsily towards the heap. Eric tried to stop the old man running; he was mauve in the face and taking in great gulps of air. Putting his hands on his shoulders he faced him, forcing him to stop for a moment to get his breath back. The old man’s eyes blazed hate and the gnarled hands gripped Eric’s raincoat. He screamed something at him which was lost in the wind, and tried to continue. They struggled for a moment, Eric lost his balance and he fell with the weight of the old man on top of him.

  Hector was halfway down. There were adults now, shouting instructions for him to stay still while someone called the fire brigade. But the more they shouted the closer he moved down to them, edging through the cinders, sending dust and coke piling at their feet.

  Eric rolled clear of the old man. He sat up and looked towards the heap where he saw a gathering crowd, heard for the first time the shouts of instruction and began to register fear. But the old man was conscious, and before Eric could move he was astride him, the gnarled hands groping for his throat. But it was easy to push him away and Eric stood up, the old man lying on the ground gasping for air. He helped him, heard a distant shout from Mrs. Haslett, waited for her, and with her help they set off once again towards the heap.

  Hector began to panic. He had been on the heap for just under an hour. His hands and knees were sore from the contact of the rough surface, and his fingernails were torn and bleeding. For a moment he loosened his grip, slithered and his foot disappeared into a cavity. It was very warm in there and it was pleasant to feel the heat on his foot after the wind had chafed his back.

  Finally they arrived, Eric and the old couple, to join the swelling, jostling crowd at the foot of the heap. The situation was complete chaos; the boy seemed to have his foot caught in a cavity and was lying face downwards, apparently unconscious. Everyone in the crowd was shouting instructions, mostly entirely individual, and the fire tender had not arrived. The combined weight of a man and an unsupported ladder might crack the outer crust—the best thing to do was to leave the boy temporarily.

  Suddenly the old man looked up, turned to his wife with desperation and said: “Dear God, Mary, it is our Hector up there!”

  The wind blew even more strongly and the warmth of the heap was comforting and inviting. The cinders had hollowed to the shape of his body, and although his foot was uncomfortably hot he felt safe and secure. Inside the heap he heard vague rustlings and his body sensed the slight movement of the surface.

  “He’s sinking in it,” shrieked a woman in the crowd, and Eric turned the old couple gently away. They were like children, quite quiet and obedient. Then he turned away himself.

  Gradually the hollow grew deeper and Hector snuggled comfortably in, whilst the cinders closed over his head.

  Hector sank as the fire tender rounded the corner. A ladder was run up, huge rakes were used. Firemen suspended from ladders desperately scrabbled at the surface of the heap. They found nothing.

  Between them Eric and Mrs. Haslett helped the old man to his feet, and they made their way over the rubble to the house.

  Six—and evening. Already they were coming up the terraces, laughing and shouting. These were the men returning, their morning slouch forgotten, work over and the evening before them. The children had come up the hill an hour before, tired and bad-tempered, dragging their feet and with homework prospects before them. Hurried greetings, hasty kisses, and high tea with gallons of muddy brown tea and plates of bread and butter. Then television and a hushed reverence—or billiards and beer, with plenty of noise. The lower slate terraces glowed with the light of a huge furnace in the valley, and late shift workers mingled with British Legionaries and Masons. Night enclosed them—those early bedders—and then up at six to walk the cold grey slate in the morning.

  To the Tables at Connie’s

  “We’re too bloody happy.”

  Connie unclasped her fat, veined hands and stared hopelessly
up at Mick.

  “It’s true—we’re just too bloody happy for it to last.”

  Mick returned her gaze with frightened grey eyes.

  “Come on, Con—who’s too happy? Why not moan about something?—that’ll make you feel better.”

  But Connie was unconvinced, and for all Mick’s attempts to cheer her she remained sad all the afternoon. Even Bunt and Harry, fooling in their adolescent way over the tea table, failed to make her laugh at their antics in the old way.

  “Con—where’s that happy smile?”

  “While there’s life, love, you know.”

  “Connie—have another cuppa and tell us all about it.”

  But she didn’t want to tell them anything. Connie looked at the grey flood-high banks of the Thames outside and something curled and lay dormant within her. It would recur, she knew—probably every minute of every hour until Alan came home.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to them. “We’re just too darned happy to stay that way.”

  Between Henley and Sonning, on the banks of the broad, flat stretch of the Thames, stands The Grotto. Built in the hazarded style of an Indian temple or perhaps a sheikh’s desert palace, this misconceived piece of architecture exudes a personality particularly its own. Formerly opened as a night club, the building soon fell into decay when bankruptcy loomed up at an early date. An unsuccessful period as a country club was followed by an equally short and unsatisfactory attempt to make it into a slightly grotesque but attractive riverside pub. Then came a period of swift and doubtful tenancies as The Grotto, under a variety of different names, was used as, basically, a drinking club. Each owner disappeared suddenly, together with the members or sometimes with their money. In one or two cases club life terminated with police action being taken for various reasons. After the last tenants had gone the building remained empty for a season until Connie and Mick, deprived of their small off-the-track pub at Henley, moved in and took over the lease of The Grotto. The pub licence had for some extraordinary reason been maintained, and knowing their predecessors’ reputations Connie and Mick decided to be very careful. Five or ten minutes the wrong side of closing time perhaps, but definitely no longer.

  Clad in a refreshing coat of white paint The Grotto took on a new lease of life. Low and rambling, the building’s cones and pinnacles glinted oddly in the sunlight and rose mysteriously from behind strategically placed spotlights in the evening. This, however, was where the glamour ended. Any visitor, and at the beginning there were few, would either have been appalled or delighted at the way Connie had furnished the sophisticated interior of the old club. Inside, fluted columns and symmetrically modernistic wall decorations surrounded what had been the ballroom. Now, roughly partitioned, the space served as bar and lounge. The cold, clean, pre-war design of the interior made a strange contrast with the horse-hair sofas, a television set, ashtrays with ‘A Souvenir of Wales’ inscribed on them, much beloved old pictures from the walls of Connie’s old premises, a battered trestle table in one corner and in the other, the bar, hung with Spanish dolls and pasted over with large posters for the French railways. An imitation wattle roof had been added to the bar, with a screen of bamboo at each side.

  “Quite the Café Continentale,” Mick had said to her proudly as he put the finishing touches to it, scanning the room and noting the contrast the horsehair sofas made with his new bar.

  Connie had smiled and given him a wet kiss, singing as she caressed him:

  “At the Café Continentale—that’s where my dreams came true.”

  Outside, someone at some time had added a sort of conservatory or loggia. Once again, a large sofa predominated, together with several battered aluminium chairs and tables that Mick had found in the cellar.

  “We could serve teas,” Connie had said excitedly, “and maybe dinner in the evening.” This spoken a little ambitiously.

  Eventually they served high tea; a ritual that they themselves had always observed. Strategically placed so near the river, The Grotto did considerable business with river traffic, and soon Connie had opened a small grocery store for the benefit of the passing craft. At this stage Bunt and Harry joined them in the enterprise. From then on life became more vivacious.

  Bunt had often asked Harry why the hell they didn’t get out and do something worthwhile. Bunt often said this and Harry regularly ignored her. He supposed, rightly, that it was her way of letting off steam.

  It could never be said that marriage had been a very romantic affair for them. They were fond of each other and acted rather like a boisterous brother and sister—they had never been in love. Bunt had married Harry because she was going to have a child. She hadn’t unduly objected and neither had Harry. Both had accepted a new way of living and they mucked along together as best they could. The child had died at birth, and although this continually pained Harry, Bunt, after a decent interval, had given it little thought. Now—at forty—both were happy. Bunt had a lover at Southsea and Harry a woman at Penge. Both affairs continued sporadically. They shared a common aptitude for short-lived but successful businesses, and had drifted from newsagents to mysterious wholesalers, from catering to floristry and from second-hand car dealing to The Grotto. Life was not without its hazards, but somehow Bunt and Harry had done all right.

  “Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside,

  Oh, I do like to be beside the sea,

  Oh, I do like to walk along the prom—prom—

  prom

  Tiddly—om—pom—pom—”

  “Why don’t you knock it off, Harry—can’t you see Con’s got a mood on?”

  “Tiddly—om—pom—pom,

  Diddly—om—pom—pom pom—

  Come on, Con—I’m a proper card—can’t you see?”

  You could never say that Connie didn’t try. She smiled, sang and laughed with Harry, determined that she would become her old self again. Tea was over—the few customers that they had had were gone—and soon it would be time to open the bar. The old man would be awake in a few minutes, and this meant action on everybody’s part.

  Connie’s father had a certain amount of money, and had contributed to the well-being of The Grotto since it was reopened. So far it had been a singularly bad investment—a fact that was growing increasingly obvious. The disorganisation and general fecklessness was the main drawback, and despite tremendous efforts with paint and whitewash the building remained brash and vulgar. This was emphasised by the contrast it made with the river, and the gently undulating, wooded countryside that surrounded it.

  The old man came in yawning, just as Harry and Bunt were performing one of their endless music-hall duologues that generally occurred at least once a day. He was a giant of a man with a shock of unruly red hair; clean-shaven, but with a sallow pasty complexion. The old man was healthy enough to have taken long walks along the tow-path and less of the continual sleep he claimed was ordered by his doctor. He looked sixty and was in fact seventy-nine.

  “Christ,” he said, “this place is so bloody predictable. For the last six months I have got up in the evening to the first house at the Met. and gone to bed with the last. And not one moment while I’m awake is there five minutes of peace. I’m an old man and I need peace; more than anything I need peace.” His voice became a whine, and Connie prepared herself to adopt a sympathetic and consoling tone. She knew that he thrived on Bunt and Harry, and before they came had been blandly telling her how dull the evenings were. And now—but she loved his contrariness. Connie knew that later in the evening, providing there was a crowd in the bar and the old man was mellow and had not been irritated by anyone, he would recite a dramatic monologue and sing a slow sad song about a gipsy wagon, a Romany Queen, and a long lonely road. He followed the erratic pattern of them all, and she loved him for it. Meanwhile, before the bar opened, he grumbled, sneered, prevaricated and was managed—which he enjoyed.

  It was half past six, Sunday evening and half an hour to opening time. Another hour yet before the small bar became smoky
and the bottles winked and glittered behind her. Connie went upstairs to change into ‘something floral’ for the evening. Bunt and Harry began an endless inane conversation about the possibilities of starting a competitive, independent bus service in the neighbourhood with no capital at all, and the old man amused them and himself by sneering, cajoling, bantering and despairing of them.

  Outside, in the soft evening light, the Thames flowed sluggishly past. Steamers, cruisers, dingies and motor-boats drove furiously by, belching out exhaust fumes, their wash slapping against the rough wooden quayside of The Grotto. Occasionally, when the water was clear, poplars shimmered in reflected misproportion, the green surface giving them new dimensions, new colours and new shapes. Reeds, spikily erupting from the shallows, remained static until wavelets, slapping daringly at their knife-sharp stems, sent them waving, dancing, swaying to the rhythm of the crazily mirrored poplars.

  Alan and Nora were quarrelling. Their arguments began out of nothing in particular and grew to immense proportions. To Nora, there was something irrationally irritating about Alan’s prevarications, and to Alan, Nora appeared obtuse and stubborn. Their differences resolved, they would make up, each vying the other in their apologetic abilities. During the quarrel, however, neither gave any quarter.

  “You don’t even want to go,” he said furiously.

  “I’ve just told you—I wanted to go until you told me I didn’t.”

  “You bloody fool—I merely suggested that you go as a kind of penance—which is absolutely true—you can’t pretend to me, Nora, I can read every part of your mind.”

  “You think you can?”

  “I can—I do.”

  “You read what you want to read, Alan.”

  “Don’t be trite.”

  “I don’t think you can ever accuse me of that, darling.”