by David Nobbs
He stumbled into the submerged path that ran round the outside of an air-raid shelter. He sat against the wall where he had fallen and let his head fall back until he felt the pressure of the wall upon it. For a moment he slept, but then the light awoke him.
He groped his way into the hut, out of the reach of the wind, and gazed out at the growing dawn. It was angry, and patches of fierce cloud were approaching swiftly from the west. He recalled that other dawn which had been so very much less angry, and which he would have remembered more than a year ago, if Mrs Pollard had not disturbed him. He recalled the awakening of Miss Daisy Wilkinson.
He had awoken first. There had been steam on the windows, and the light had been very faint. She was sitting opposite him again, with her back to the engine. Grey slivers of dawn were beginning to rise, illuminating a huge carpet of snow which glowed light pink to the east and was sullen and purple elsewhere. The snow had stopped for some while and the winds had blown it off the line and piled it against the hedges.
Miss Wilkinson seemed to grow lovelier with every moment that she slept. Each clouded breath thumped his heart. His hands fluttered as if they wanted to take hold of her, but he turned back to the window and continued to watch the dawn. It was all pink now, and as he watched the pink deepened to a livid red, prior to bursting, and behind it, among the faint clouds, a series of suns arose, pale echoes spreading over the sky and tapering away into space.
The wheels began to beat their insistent promise more slowly. The dawn was over. The sky had burst. The sun rose steadily above the horizon. The sky took up its position behind it, and in the west, where the sky was still the colour of brawn, the last remnants of the night were steadily chased away. The injured monster stirred in its bandage of snow and began to sparkle.
Miss Daisy Wilkinson moaned, lifted her head as if to moo, and then flopped back into her seat again. The train slowed down still more. They were passing a wood, a plantation of young larches. The wood was left behind. A field. A road. On the road a green single-decker bus travelled slowly over the soft, grey snow. High in the sky a flock of rooks idled. The workmen in the bus wiped the windows with their hands and stared up at the wheeling birds. The travellers in the train rubbed their eyes with their hands and stared up at the wheeling birds. The scarecrows in the fields swung tinnily on their axes and stared up at the wheeling birds. The train slowed to a halt.
Miss Wilkinson blinked, sat up abruptly, and tossed back her hair reproachfully, as if it alone had been responsible for her sleep.
“Where are we?” she asked.
Lewis glanced at his watch.
“Ten past seven,” he said.
She giggled sleepily. “You are a one,” she said. “Never a dull moment with you around.”
For a few dull moments there was silence. Then suddenly he understood her question and he said: “I don’t know.”
“What?”
“Where we are.”
“Oh.”
“We must be very late. We were held up for hours in the hills.”
“I must have been asleep.”
The train began to move once more. She stood up and attempted to comb her hair in the north transept of Hereford Cathedral. Her skirts rose above her knees, and he looked at the dimpled crack at the back of them. She sat down beside him when she had finished, and patted his hand. He could smell the sleep of her.
“Oh, Lewis,” she said.
The pink in his face deepened to livid red, prior to bursting. Another day was beginning. She looked up at him expectantly and when nothing came she said: “It’s been a very nice ride.”
“I’m glad.” He smiled at her.
“I had a good sleep.”
He could think of nothing further to say. He was glad, absurdly glad, that she had had a good sleep, but no good could come of repeatedly saying it. She seemed disappointed that he said nothing more, but he could do nothing about that. He did not trust his impressions of her. At times he felt that she was fascinated by him, and he kept silent out of embarrassment on that account. Then he would convince himself that she had no interest in him whatever, and was holding his hand out of pity, and he would keep silent out of embarrassment on that account. He knew enough of girls to realise that in any case she would expect some reaction out of him, and he could think of none. Why it should be his duty to break the silence he didn’t know, but it was. He had been born into a society in which it was so, and he must learn to bear it. He did his best, delving around frantically for a word, any word. All that came to him was the clackety-clack of the train. Of course he could say that. He could say: “It’s funny, but I can think of nothing except the clackety-clack of the train.” He could, but he didn’t, and perhaps it was just as well.
Nothing came. Not a spark. No ignition. Her hand fell limply from his, and he hardly noticed. And then, suddenly, he wanted to be with her and was frightened that she would go. The train was moving, it was impossible for her to get away, but it was no comfort to him. He turned to her to plead with her, and then he paused in panic.
“Rooks,” he said.
“You are odd,” she said, smiling, and then she added; “I love nature.”
“Yes.”
“There’s not a lot in Bromley.”
“I suppose not.”
“Very little indeed. I’d like to move. See the world. Wouldn’t you like to go on a tour, Lewis?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you’re on one, in a way.”
“A mystery tour.”
They were talking!
“I suppose it’s more business than pleasure with you.”
“It won’t be. I mean…” he paused.
“I know what you mean.” He was glad she did, since he didn’t. “And it’s beautiful. No-one in Bromley would ever mean a thing like that.”
Surely under the circumstances…but did he want to? There was so much that he had to achieve.
“I think we’re reaching a town,” said Daisy.
Sure enough, suburbs and railway yards were appearing on either side, and the train was slowing down. In a few moments they were sidling into a station.
“Crewe,” said Lewis.
“But that’s nowhere near London,” said Daisy. “I’m on the wrong train. I’ll never get home.”
They removed their suitcases from the rack and stared helplessly at each other, each wishing that it was possible to burst into laughter and collapse into each other’s arms. There was a great deal of bustle in the corridors as the train bumped to a halt, and as they waited their turn to face the cold winds on the platform he could feel her breath tickling his neck.
Once on the platform the crowd forced them towards the exits. There, on the indicator board, they saw that there was a train to London in twenty minutes, but neither of them commented on that. Instead, Lewis said: “There’s a train to Congleton in ten minutes.”
“Congleton?”
“That’s where I’m going.”
“You said you didn’t know where you were going.”
“I didn’t. But I do now.”
“But why Congleton?”
“Why not?”
“Why?”
“I must go somewhere.”
“What will you do there?”
“I don’t know yet.”
There was silence for a few moments. He was about to offer her his hand, not daring to offer anything further.
“Why not London?”
“Well, I—I can’t explain. The train’ll be off in a moment. I must go. Good-bye, Daisy.” He held out his hand awkwardly, blushing.
“I’ll see you off.”
She followed him to Platform Three, and stood on the platform while he stood at the open window of his compartment. She wanted to jump on board the train with him, but didn’t dare be so forward.
“You don’t know how awful my life is in Bromley.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help that.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do
without you.”
“I—you’ve only known me for a few hours.”
She looked embarrassed. He smiled weakly at her and she tried a watery smile in return, but it froze on her face.
There was a whistle and a hoot from the diesel.
“I think you’re off,” she said.
There was still time, and even when the train was beginning to move there would still be time. The sudden renewed uncertainty of it was dreadful, doubly so since they both knew what would happen. It would never be possible for Lewis to jump off. That sort of thing would never be possible.
“Don’t miss your train,” he said, choking lightly.
“What will you do?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll find something.”
The train began to move.
“Good-bye,” he said.
“Good-bye.”
“Look after yourself.”
“Yes. Write to me.”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“All right.”
But he never would. He hadn’t her address. She was falling back now as the train gathered speed, but he felt compelled to wave and prolong the agony. He waved, she waved. He receded, she receded. He was just a speck, she was just a speck. It was over.
Now at last he could let the tears flow. He stood by the window, and they slid gently down his face. The train clanked rhythmically towards Congleton, and away from Miss Daisy Wilkinson, the great love of his life. For he knew now, as he sped away from her—and she from him—that he loved her, and that she loved him. He knew that through that wonderful and perfect love he would have found the purpose of existence with no trouble at all. It was too late now, but he knew that she was the only woman in the world for him, and as the distance between them increased at a hundred miles per hour his tears were accompanied by mild convulsions.
Having tied up the loose ends of his reverie and made himself even iller than before, Simpson felt the tears freezing on his cheeks and he remembered where he was. The dawn was almost complete now, and the wind was colder than ever in the last fierce spite before it gave way to the warmth of the day’s activities. He clambered stiffly out of the submerged path and set off in the direction of Trebisall Avenue, sensing by instinct which road he should take. His steps were still unsteady and his head still ached, but now the full sun was shining brightly on him between the clouds. A new spirit entered his heart. He no longer doubted her, no longer wondered whether she would be awaiting him. This time—provided only that she was still alive—there would be no mistake. He felt a new sensation glowing within him, a feeling of being, or at any rate being about to be, Baker. From now on he would be a different man—bold, forthright, strong in word and deed. His new sense of purpose urged him on, and he walked swiftly through the steep, empty streets. This new sense swept joyously through his whole body, banishing his nausea as if it had never been, and he would have sung, had he not been tone deaf.
He reached Pantons. There, across the road, was Trebisall Avenue. Up there lay number 38. And somewhere in number 38, he hoped, was Mrs Pollard.
He knocked on the door. There was the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing. A face flattened itself against the frosted glass, and the door was slowly opened. Mrs Pollard stood before him.
“My love,” she gasped.
Chapter 19
BAKER SPENT THE NEXT FEW DAYS PRETENDING TO write poetry, and Mrs Pollard spent them pretending to find new recipes for her stews. Between them there had sprung up a deep restraint from the moment of her confession on the doorstep. The unexpectedness of it had prevented either of them from preparing any defence against it or any way of admitting it without awkwardness, and there were long periods when they had no conversation at all. From time to time Mrs Pollard made polite enquiries about his life in prison—she told him that she had read about the case in the Telegraph and Chronicle and had been embarrassed to come and see him now that she knew he had a wife—but they spoke impersonally. So great was the distance between them when they spoke that Baker was unable to summon up any misery at the memory that she had not come to see him in prison, whatever the reason.
Each day, when he was alone, he decided that, come what might, he would face up to the situation before nightfall. And each day, as darkness fell, he decided that it was too late and that it was better to wait until the next day, when she might be in a better mood and he might be feeling bolder. And the longer he did not broach what was in his mind, the harder it became for him to do so.
Mrs Pollard was experiencing the same difficulty with the added complication that, being his landlady, she didn’t want to give the impression that she was being at all forward. She spent much of the time in Veal’s room, but found that she did not get as much sympathy as she wanted. If anything was impervious in these troubled times, it was Veal. In fact she was finding more and more as the days went by that her visits to Veal were not having their old effect. Something had died. She still went to his room, to tend him and make him comfortable in a thousand little ways, but she went as a landlady rather than as a woman.
And so they lived under the same roof, in conditions that were rapidly becoming intolerable. And in the end Baker spoke. He spoke very calmly and quietly, as if he was no party to the utterance, and indeed he felt that he was not.
“I was wondering if it was a good idea if I came and took my meals with you,” he said. “I’m getting rather tired of this room.”
“I have no objection,” said Mrs Pollard. “Nobody can ever say I didn’t ask you.” Their voices were quiet and muffled, as though a window had been closed between them.
And so, three times a day, Baker visited Mrs Pollard in her kitchen, and she poured rich stews from the casserole into great bowls, and they sat at either side of the huge black shining range, eating slowly and with satisfaction while great logs were burning on the fire and tracing mellow flashes on the thick stone walls.
“It’s much nicer here than in my room,” he said, and then he looked confused. “Not that my room is in any way inadequate for what I’m paying, but here…” his voice trailed away. He had been using the room for nearly a fortnight, but there was particular tension in the air that evening.
“You wouldn’t think I was fifty one, would you?” asked Mrs Pollard.
“No.”
“I’ve always believed in keeping myself fit. Not that I was ever what you’d call a natural athlete, but I’ve always kept fit. You never know. Take the bandages with you and somebody may bleed. And of course mother was a Methodist and it’s not often you find Methodists running to seed.”
As she spoke Baker was continually smiling and ceasing to smile, nodding and ceasing to nod, murmuring agreement and ceasing to murmur agreement. It was the sort of outburst for which nature had fitted her, and it was amazing that she had not launched on it before and that it was so short when it finally came. Baker found it restful to sit and listen.
“Not that I’m a religious woman,” she was saying. “I’m not. There’s no reason why, but I’m not. It’s just that it’s never really occurred to me to be, I suppose. I have my connections with the other side, I won’t pretend I haven’t, but it’s not religious. It’s just that I like to keep in touch. I’ve kept my end up, and that’s more than can be said for some. Nobody’s ever told me what to do. Not that I’m a sinner. Let’s have that understood. I don’t hold with it. It’s like grumbling. You’re happier without it. I’ve had enough to grumble about, but what’s the use of it? Life’s been hard to me. I’ve lost Pollard. I’ve lost them all sooner or later. It hurt, I don’t mind telling you, but I got over it. Not that I don’t miss them. They meant something to me. Things went on, I won’t pretend they didn’t. We had our moments, and what’s the harm of it, when you’re fond of someone? Don’t wait for the crumbs and you won’t go hungry. After all, what use are you if you’re hungry? Fainting away all over the place, what good’s that? It worries me sometimes, what Pollard would say. But then
you see he had his consolation. But I mean, how can you just sit there, day after day, having your consolation, while all those poor Syrians are having another earthquake? Pollard couldn’t see it that way. He was very good in the garden, green fingered, but a lot of things escaped him. Not that I’d run him down. Don’t blacken the dead, and the dead won’t blacken you. But you have to ask yourself, where’s it all got him? He’s been dead for nineteen years and I’m still as large as life. You can’t get away from that.”
Baker had no wish to get away from it, but he could see that if one did want to it might be very difficult. All he wanted to do was to love this woman. Not yet, though. The time was not yet ripe. First he must prepare the ground. So he spoke to her about his hopes, and told her how important it was all to be. He even hinted at what an important part she might have to play. For a woman who liked to do the talking herself Mrs Pollard was amazingly attentive. She was pleased to see him so talkative at last and flattered by his confidences.
“You’ve made me very happy,” she said when he had finished. “I won’t pretend you haven’t. None of the others ever spoke to me like that.”
“Tell me about the others.”
“There was Pollard, of course, and poor Mr Veal. There still is him. And then there was poor Mr Grant. He died. And then there was Mr McGregor. He died too. Very quiet they were, Mr Grant and Mr McGregor, and shrewd investors both. Two eggs from the same hen. And then there was Mr Phelp. Quite a change, after the others. Always up to something, was Mr Phelp, and no table manners at all. He travelled in novelties. Many’s the time I used to find mechanical lizards in my bed, but you couldn’t hold it against him. He died, too. And then there was Mr Jennings. He was a footballer. He played centre-forward for the United, not that I’ve ever watched football. But I’ll say this, I never had cause to complain about Mr Jennings. Sometimes he could be quite select, when the mood took him. I was very sorry to lose him.”
“He died?”
“Mr Jennings die? Never. No, I transferred him to Mrs Bowen—33, Cemetery Lane—for £3,000. I needed the money. It’s my nest egg.”
