by David Nobbs
If you’re lonely in lodgings you live for your work. How could Cooper live for his work? What a job. What a self-conscious farce, in his green uniform and hat, with “Royal Hotel” inscribed in braid letters. Anything else would be better than this. If only he had capital he could start up a small business, for when he married late in life the respectable widow who had begun to figure prominently in his dreams. Nothing great, he was too old for greatness. Old men did sometimes become great but they had begun working towards it when they were fourteen. Just a modest little business. Cooper Ltd. One day it might be Cooper and Son. Cooper, licensed for the sale of alcoholic liquors. Fruiterers and Cooper Green-grocers. If only he had the capital, and maybe he did, but where? And under the circumstances who would offer him a loan?
He felt quite incapable of continuing as a commissionaire. It wasn’t the duties. These he could manage. Opening car doors, raising his hat, conjuring taxis out of traffic jams, pocketing tips without letting anyone see that you were fingering the coins to tell how much there was there—these were not totally beyond him. What he utterly failed to achieve was the manner that goes with them, that blend of massive authority, unassailable dignity and utter stupidity without which the porch of no four star hotel is complete.
Everyone looked at him. Everyone wondered what he’d been before, as if he didn’t wonder enough about it himself. It was obvious that he’d been used to better things. What better things had men who’d been used to better things been used to before they became used to the worse things they were used to now? They’d been army officers, rendered superfluous in their forties, or champion boxers, too punch-drunk to hang on to their ill-gotten gains, or clergymen, men of bottomless high-mindedness defrocked for one isolated and unspeakable enormity. The patrons could see, and so could Cooper, that he was physically incapable of being an ex-boxer or a retired officer.
The thought that he might be a defrocked cleric weighed heavily on him. It was not only that he got few of the tips that he so badly needed—people are reluctant to tip a defrocked cleric, for fear of hurting the finer feelings which may still be present beneath the vileness. It was also that it troubled him greatly, this enormity of his, this lapse, this dreadful thing that he had done and which had probably been so closely associated with his illness. He tried even harder to remember. He tensed himself sometimes in desperation till all his veins throbbed. He pressed in upon his head with his skin as if he hoped to squeeze the missing years out of the top of his head. But all that came were a few dribbling bits of childhood, therapeutically invaluable but completely useless socially. Indeed the most remarkable feature of them was that they seemed to contain no clue whatsoever towards his future bent in life.
It was after a few weeks that he began to feel yearnings. Misery he had felt. Boredom, frustration, loneliness, weariness, despair, these he had felt. But not yearnings. Now they came. He would long to be far off. He would long to be free of this canopy to which he was tethered, nibbling for tips. He longed to fly. He longed to be climbing the road to the moors, up to the granite tors and away to the great beyond. He longed for something that would be all around him, and would embrace him in its inexpressible atmosphere.
Perhaps Mrs Pollard had passed by many times, not recognising him in his uniform, and he had not had eyes to see. Certainly she passed by that evening, and he did see her. He recognised her, and was unable to breathe. He was hollow inside. He wanted to rush forward, but he did nothing. He watched her disappear among the crowds.
He walked boldly into the hotel, went to the little room where the uniforms were kept, and changed into his ordinary things. Then he walked out again, less boldly, not looking to right or left. Nobody stopped him, nobody shouted after him, but he walked the best part of a mile before he dared to look round.
He went into four pubs and drank a whisky in each, quite slowly, watching the faces, listening to the hum of conversation. And all the while his course took him nearer and nearer to the objective that he still had not consciously recalled—Trebisall Avenue.
There it was. The name sent a thrill through his nerves that made him gasp and turn away. For several minutes he gazed into the windows of Pantons, seeing nothing. Then he turned away from the windows and walked hurriedly up Trebisall Avenue. He walked up the drive of number 38. He stood there for a moment, delaying his knock, and then, without being aware of it, he had knocked. There was the sound of slow footsteps, and heavy breathing. A face flattened itself against the frosted glass, and the door was slowly opened. Mrs Pollard stood before him.
“Welcome home,” she said.
Chapter 29
“I’LL MAKE YOU A NICE STEW,” SAID MRS POLLARD. “It’ll cheer you up.”
At the thought of another stew his depression deepened. It was the second week since his return, and already he was feeling depressed. He left her to her stew, and wandered back, for the first time, to the little room where he had lived when he arrived in the city. It was empty now. Its whole spirit was empty, for it was now a dusty and neglected irrelevance. It was cold in that room, and the sofa had developed an air of prim permanence which made it difficult to believe that it could ever have been converted into a bed each night.
He felt a stranger here. Returning to the house ten days ago he had not felt that. He had welcomed the old life again with open arms. He had embraced Mrs Pollard and all that she entailed with enthusiasm, and had rejoiced to find himself once again in the warm comfort of her range, and of her bed.
From the very first moment he had felt the shame welling up inside him, and he had promised himself that he would atone for it in endless love. He would love this woman who had remained faithful to him although she believed that he had walked out on her. For she had remained faithful. She had called on Mr Begg, it was true, in Woodland Close. She had called, in the hope that her loneliness might be assuaged. She had taken tea with Mr Begg, and had discussed his old friend Veal with Mr Begg, but she had not stayed. She would never be able to assuage her loneliness except in Trebisall Avenue.
He glanced round the room. It was not meant for habitation now. No further lodgers were expected. She had waited for him, in case he should return. And he had returned, and almost as he had crossed the threshold he had recalled that horrible moment when he had believed her to have conspired against him. And the shame had poured forth, for he knew that she had not.
And now he was depressed. He lit the gas fire and sat in front of it, but it could not dispel the dust or make the walls of that room any more cheerful. He sighed, and glanced at the Scottish glen. It was grim under its lowering sky, and its sole occupant, a cow, looked wet and stupid, but he would like to be there in that glen, tramping the heather. The ivory ospreys, between which there were still no books, were unfriendly looking birds, but he’d have loved to stand beside the still, deep lake and watch them catching fish in their powerful claws.
Now Mrs Pollard was making him another stew, and he would have to eat it. He couldn’t hurt her feelings. He had never deliberately hurt anyone’s feelings, and he couldn’t start now. Already the smell of the stew was growing stronger, and as it did so Cooper began to grow heavier. His weight was enormous. His great body hung in folds all round him. He began to sink. He sank into a swamp, where it was dark and the mud sucked around his mouth and nose, frothing as if it was alive, spitting and sucking and popping as if it had a thousand mouths. It grew darker and darker, and he grew heavier and heavier. He was sinking fast. He forced himself to rise up, to raise his chest out of the mud. His hair and his body were tingling with sweat, and then he began to see a thin point of light deep down at the bottom of his eyes. It grew steadily brighter, bringing with it a physical lightness. Now he found that he could raise his legs, that he could move his arms, that he had the energy to climb out of the morass. It was the most joyous experience he had known—a warm and wonderful relief.
He went to the window. It was dark, and there were plenty of things to be seen. Between the lights of the
houses on the hills he could see gardens filled with all manner of beautiful things—sunsets, birds, mountains, forests, pagodas, waves breaking on the shore, sands that were pocked where the worms had been, trees bending with an approaching storm.
He knew that he must go, and he went upstairs, and fetched from his suitcase the quarto sheets of writing paper, covered now in green stains. He fetched his H.B. pencil, covered now in green stains. He fetched his souvenir rubber, on which the letters E TO M suggested a section of the alphabet of utterly no significance whatsoever. And armed with these things he went downstairs, and as he made his way to the little room Mrs Pollard came out of her kitchen to ask him what he was doing. “Writing,” he told her with thumping heart.
“In there?” she asked, looking towards the little room with disgust.
“Yes.”
“Authors!”
He arranged the various writing utensils on the table in the little room, and he wrote on one of the sheets of writing paper: “Small Ad, by Cooper.” As he wrote he was conscious of odours of stew coming from the kitchen, odours which were constantly changing in the strangest ways. But he cast them from his mind, and eventually, after a few false efforts, he managed to complete his small ad to his satisfaction.
“Middle-aged gentleman, quiet, good education, desires simple comfortable accommodation with meals,” it ran.
All that was needed now was to find a market for it. In the morning he would go down to the Central Library, and there, in the admirably comprehensive periodicals section, he would study the small ads columns of various papers, until he found one which suited the style of his. He felt confident that if he studied his market his small ad would be accepted.
He was ready for his meal, and now he felt hungry. He heard the kitchen door open and suddenly he dreaded the arrival of Mrs Pollard upon a scene that was so complete without her. Poor Mrs Pollard, he thought.
“Well, I don’t know,” she said, standing at the door and looking down on him as if he was a naughty child. “Back in your own room, catching your death from the dust.”
“I’ve finished now.”
“I should think so too. At your age.” She paused, embarrassed. “It’s the stew. I was wondering if you could come and help me with it. It’s not going well, and I wanted it to be especially nice tonight, with your being depressed,” she said.
Cooper brushed the mud off his clothes and followed her.
Chapter 30
LIGHT, PERSISTENT SNOW WAS FALLING ON THE morning of his departure. He got up early, washed, dressed, shaved, packed, and went into the kitchen. Mrs Pollard followed him down.
“You’re early,” she said.
“I may as well make an early start.”
“Are you sure you won’t stay? You haven’t changed your mind?”
“No.”
“Only sometimes people see things differently after a night’s sleep.”
“No. My mind is made up.”
“Well, let it not be said that I let you go with an empty stomach.” Her voice broke just a little, and when she turned away he knew that she was crying.
She had cried the previous day when he had told her, after the reply had come. His advertisement had been accepted by a newspaper in Stoke-on-Trent, and a Mrs Wills had replied. It had been very difficult to tell her, but he had managed it, and then he had felt very miserable indeed as she had cried. She had beseeched him, but not for long. She had asked him why, and had not accepted his explanations, but she had taken it well.
“I don’t know why you don’t say what’s wrong,” she said, handing him his breakfast.
“I told you. Nothing is. It didn’t work out.”
“It could. With time.”
“I can’t stay. It’s not personal. I told you.”
“It is with me.”
“You know what I mean. I told you. I came and now I have to go.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
“No, but I did.”
“You don’t have to go, then.”
“I do.”
“You’ve got to discover the universal panacea for all mankind.”
“Yes.”
“Panacea, my hat.”
“Do you think it’s easy for me? Do you think I like this situation?”
“It’s easier than it is for me.”
“Please.”
“Give it one more try.” She looked at him beseechingly, and he found himself compelled to return her gaze.
“No.”
She busied herself about her things then, and he went to their room and fetched his suitcase.
“Well,” he said, putting the case down on the kitchen floor and standing awkwardly beside it.
“I’ll come and see you off.”
“There’s no need.”
“I want to. I don’t want you to go all at once.”
He wanted to offer her some rent, in lieu of notice, but he knew that he couldn’t. She’d be insulted. He’d have to feel guilty about that. Once or twice, as they walked in silence to the bus stop on the main road, he thought that he would offer it, but he did not.
The bus took them rapidly towards the station.
“E. F. Hebblethwaite.”
“What?”
“That shop.”
“Yes. Nearly there.”
Soon they were there. Soon they were on the platform, with no train in sight.
“It’s not in yet.”
“It isn’t due.”
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Perhaps it’ll be late.”
She slipped her hand unobtrusively into his, so that he could ignore it if he wished, and, so quietly that he was under no obligation to hear it, she said: “Stay.”
Then, louder, she said: “It’s cold.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you. Not unless you would.”
“No. I’m all right.”
“There may be a buffet on the train.”
“Yes.”
He led her round the corner, where a wall would protect her from the wind. They stood there awkwardly, hoping that the train would soon come, hoping that it would never come at all. Occasional flurries of snow drifted in under the platform canopy.
“Well, it’s a change, seeing my gentlemen off,” said Mrs Pollard. “It’s been the hearse, as often as not.”
Cooper made a sort of sympathetic noise.
“Poor Mr Veal. I miss him.”
“You’ve been unlucky.”
“I’ve had my share of fatalities.”
He didn’t ask her whether she would take other lodgers. They fell silent for a moment, each with their thoughts, and then the diesel came throbbing in.
“Well, I’d better get in,” he said.
“Yes. You don’t want to have to stand.”
He held out his hand, and she said: “Haven’t you even got a kiss for your poor old landlady?” He kissed her awkwardly but affectionately on the cheek, laying his cheek beside hers for a moment.
“That’s better,” she said hoarsely.
He found a corner seat, put his suitcase on the rack, and lowered the window.
“It’s not very crowded,” he said.
“Don’t get anything in your eye.”
“I’m all right.”
“I’ll miss you.” A tear trickled down her cheek.
“Yes.”
“Look after yourself.”
“Yes.”
A whistle blew.
“Take care.”
“Yes.”
“I think you’re off.”
“Yes.”
“The whistle’s gone.”
“Yes.”
“You’re off.”
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. 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.
Chapter 31
IT WAS USELESS TO TELL HIMSELF THAT HE WAS ONLY arriving at lodgings—and unknown lodgings at that. He was arriving at the beginning of life itself. As the bus wound its way through the shabby industrial streets he forgot the mistakes and miseries of the past. He thought only of the future, the great future that was before him. He was growing nervous, as he had known he would. The dryness in his throat was growing tighter.
Here he was, at this moment, at this very moment in time and space, old Cooper himself, on the threshold of a new life, in which he would discover the universal panacea for all mankind. He got the letter out of his pocket and read it for the third time, to make sure.
“Dear Sir,” it ran. “I have an excellent, newly decorated room on a pleasant housing estate. £4 IOS. Only per week with full board. You would not know it was the Black Country. There is a community centre, affording a good outlet for your education. I am sure it will suit you. I enclose a photograph. Yours sincerely. Mrs Wills.”
The photograph showed a middle-aged woman, with a rather tight, prim face.
“Bannockburn Avenue,” said the conductor, and Cooper hastily dismounted.
It was cold in these residential streets, and the sky was heavy with snow, but despite the cold he walked slowly. Soon, all too soon, he found Bannockburn Avenue. Somewhere up there was number 23, and somewhere in number 23 was Mrs Wills, who had answered his advertisement.
