‘Some.’
‘Some a lot or some a little?’
‘He’s not like himself, an’ he’s not eatin’ like he used to either, just at times.’
‘Is he still drinkin’?’
‘Aye, I suppose so.’
‘How much?’
‘He gets through two or three cans. I think he must be worryin’ about his job.’
‘Worryin’ about his job?’ Bill glanced quickly at the boy. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘He was dozing the other night and he woke himself yellin’, “I’m as fit as the next. I can do me job.”’
‘Well, he’s got no need to worry about his job. He’s a good worker is your da.’
‘I know that. He might be thick about some things but he’s a worker.’
Again Bill glanced at him; and now his voice was harsh as he said, ‘Don’t call your da thick. He’s no more thick than you or me.’
Sammy now turned his head slowly and looked at Bill as he said, ‘If anybody was sayin’ that you an’ me da were alike up top, you’d want to knock their bloody…well you would, you’d want to knock their bloody heads off.’
Bill drew in a breath that expanded his waistcoat. He wanted to check the boy straight away for the ‘bloody’, but then how could he? His father’s vocabulary was made up of bloody, buggers and sods, nothing further, just those three words. But the lad was stuck in between the private school wallahs and his da. And it was ten to one his da would always win. However, the lad was sensible enough to tone it down when up at the house.
He made to change the subject now by saying, ‘Willie tells me you’re good at maths; you came out on top in the exam.’
‘Anybody can do that if they can understand the computer. It’s that that does it.’
‘Don’t be daft. Where would the computer be without your mind or anybody else’s? In the long run they only do what they’re told.’
Out of the blue Sammy said, ‘Katie’s worried. She’s…she’s upset about somethin’.’
Bill stared ahead at the two red rear lights of the car some way in front. Nothing escaped this little bloke. ‘What makes you think that?’ he asked.
‘Well, she doesn’t cry for nowt, not Katie.’ He swung the wheel round and entered the side street before he said, ‘Cryin’? Katie? When was this?’
‘Oh, a while back.’ And then he added, ‘You want to know somethin’?’
‘Aye. Aye.’
‘She’s not worried about school.’
‘Then why did you say she was worried?’
‘I was bein’ what you could call tactful and evasive.’
Tactful and evasive, he said. Put in that way he was certainly pickin’ up somethin’ from his private education, on one side at least.
‘Well, would you mind tellin’ me what you’re bein’ tactful and evasive about?’
‘You’ll bawl me out.’
‘I don’t see why I should as long as you’re tellin’ the truth and not tryin’ to cause mischief.’
‘I never try to cause mischief. I don’t do that.’
‘Samuel Love. I’ve warned you about barkin’ at me.’
‘Aye, well. And I’ve told you once afore an’ all when you called me a liar that I didn’t tell bloody lies, ’cos I wasn’t afraid to speak the truth. I’m not afraid of nobody.’
‘Big fella, aren’t you? Big fella.’
‘No. ’Cos I’ve been a little fella for a long time; an’ been made to face it.’
Well, the private school might be puttin’ some long words into his mouth but they couldn’t do much to alter that character. It had been formed a long time ago and apparently it knew all about itself. By aye, it did. He wasn’t afraid of anybody because he had been little. He said now, ‘Well, what’s this you think that’s troublin’ Katie?’
‘Mr Meredith.’
The wheel moved sharply under Bill’s hands although he was on a straight course. ‘Mr Meredith? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘She’s got a thing about him. Always has had since I remember. An’ now he’s got this other lass. Well, she’s not a lass, it’s Miss Isherwood from along the road in the bungalow.’
‘How d’you make that out?’
‘I’ve seen them together twice. I saw them comin’ out of the pictures one day; another time I saw them goin’ into the park.’
‘Did you now? Did you now?’ Well, there was one thing sure, Katie didn’t know about this.
‘What are you goin’ to do about it?’
He had reached the Crescent and pulled the car to a stop. He turned and looked at Sammy and, putting his hand out and laying it on the boy’s shoulder, he said, ‘I can do nothin’ about it, laddie. She’ll have to get over it. You see, we all go through these phases. You will an’ all. Oh yes, you will.’ He was wondering why he was emphasising it because the boy had made no denial of what might lie before him, no protest as some boys would have done. Just as Katie was older than her years, so was this little fella. And he wasn’t so little any more either, he was sproutin’ all right. ‘Time’ll take care of it,’ he said; ‘she’ll get over it. But she must work things out for herself. You understand? Nobody’s goin’ to enlighten her about this. D’you get me?’
‘Aye, I get you. And you needn’t tell me not to open me mouth.’
‘No, Sammy, no, I needn’t. But thanks for…well, for tellin’ me. Not that I haven’t guessed somethin’ along the same lines meself; and her mother has an’ all.’
‘You have?’
‘Oh aye, yes.’
‘An’ you’ve still done noth…?’ He shook his head, then added, ‘Well, as you say, she’s got to work it out. But it’s rotten.’
There was feeling in the last words as if in some way he had experienced what Katie was going through.
‘Come on; out you get.’
‘It’s us, Da.’ The boy called as soon as he opened the front door: and Davey’s answering voice came from a room off the small hall: ‘What’s brought you back so early?’
‘I had to drive Mr B into town; he was frightened of the dark.’
Bill laughed as he followed the boy into the sitting room, there to see Davey pulling himself up from a low black leather chair.
‘Hello, boss. What brings you here? Oh—’ He pulled his neck up out of the thick sweater, saying, ‘’Cos I left the job?’
‘Sit yourself down. What I want to know is what took you from the job.’
As his father sat down, Sammy said, ‘You had any tea, Da?’
‘No, not yet. Anyway, I’m not hungry.’
‘Well, you had better ’cos I’m goin’ to make it; and if you don’t eat it I’ll throw it over you.’
As the boy walked out Davey laughed and shook his head, saying to Bill, ‘See what I’ve got to put up with? That’s what a private school does. Dear God, havin’ to pay money for that!’
‘He’s all right. You’ll not have to worry about him, but what about you? Now, what’s the matter with you?’
‘Nowt, boss, really. I just had a pain in me gut, that’s all…I’d…I’d been runnin’ all mornin’, so I thought…well.’
‘Have you had the doctor?’
‘Doctor?’ Davey pulled himself further up against the back of the couch. ‘Doctor? What do I want with a doctor? I’ve had the cramp, a bit of diarrhoea. Something I’ve eaten.’
‘From what I hear you’ve had this cramp on and off for some time. And you’re not eatin’.’
‘Huh! That ’un’—Davey thumbed towards the door—‘he’s got a mouth as big as mine already. What he’ll be like when he grows up God an’ His Holy Mother only knows. I tell you boss, I’m all right. I’ll be back on the job the morrow.’
‘You won’t be back on the job the morrow. You’ll get yourself to the doctor’s.’
‘Not me, boss; I’ve never been to the doctor’s in me life. I came into the world without one and I’ll go out without one.’
‘Big fella, a
ren’t you?’
‘Aye, from the head downwards.’
‘What’s happened to you and your lady friend?’
‘Oh, we didn’t see eye to eye. But truth to tell, boss, it was more Sammy an’ her didn’t see eye to eye. An’ you know, I’d had enough of argy-bargy with the other one and I wasn’t gona have it with this ’un. She had no claim on me, nor me on her for that matter. To tell you the truth, I’m glad it’s ended. She was after havin’ a wedding ring on her finger. Oh God Almighty, that scared me! She was all right at first, mind: anything goes; that was her attitude. Then she gets broody, lookin’ at bairns in prams. It was then I saw the red light. I think I made him’—he again pointed towards the door—‘the excuse. Anyway, you can get too much of a good thing you know.’ He pulled a face. ‘I must be gettin’ old afore me time. And I don’t know whether you’ve experienced it, boss, likely you have, but some women’d eat you alive, straight on without a sprinkle of salt or a dust of pepper and they wouldn’t leave a bit of you for the morrow.’
‘Aw, Davey.’ Bill started to laugh. ‘There must be somethin’ radically wrong with you if your night life’s gone astray.’
‘Aye, I thought that meself, boss, I thought that meself. Aye I did. God’s truth I did.’
‘Aw, Davey.’
‘What d’you really think of the young ’un, boss, I mean your real opinion?’
‘What do I think of Sammy? I think he’s a fine lad. And I’ll tell you something else, I envy you, that you’ve got a son like him. That’s not to say I don’t love my youngster, I more than love her, but there are times when…well you know what I mean, as one to another a man thinks of a son. He knows he’s goin’ to die some day but in a son he’ll live again, more so than in a daughter. You know what I mean?’
‘Aye, boss.’ Davey was looking into the fire now. ‘Aye, I know what you mean about livin’ again in your son. But I hope he makes a better job of his life than I have ’cos what have I done with it? The only peak I’ve reached is two court appearances and land meself up in jail, not forgettin’ me hundred hours community work. Let’s hope he does better than that.’
What could he say? It was quite true; that’s all Davey had done with his life. Yet, on the other hand, he made people happy. Usually he had only to open his mouth and he caused laughter. And so he was forced to say, ‘That might be so, Davey, but on the other hand you’ve caused a lot of fun in your time. You’ve made people laugh who didn’t know how to. And don’t forget, most of all, you fathered Sammy.’
The door was pushed open and Sammy entered, carrying a tray. He started straight away: ‘It’s nice boiled ham and you like cold sausages,’ he said. ‘I’ve cut the bread and butter thin.’ And turning to Bill, he said, ‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea an’ all.’
‘Thanks, Sammy. That’ll be welcome, that’s if it’s strong.’
‘Aye, it’s strong. I stuck a knife in it and it didn’t fall over.’
‘You’ll get your ears clipped, me lad’—his father was nodding at him—‘with your smart-alec answers.’
Bill now watched Davey look down on the plate, then look at his son and say, ‘Now I’ll have that with a glass of beer in a little while, but I’ll enjoy the tea. How many sugars did you put in?’
‘The usual. I should know by now, shouldn’t I?’
‘You see what I’ve got to put up with? That’s what a private school does for you. Begod! He’s comin’ away from there, and soon.’
Bill and Sammy exchanged knowing glances, and when Davey had finished his tea and lay back against the head of the couch, conversation became a little strained; and so Bill rose, saying, ‘Well, now, I’m not expectin’ to see you the morrow or the next day. You get to the doctor’s in the mornin’.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘No we’ll see; if it’s diarrhoea he’ll give you something for it.’
‘Well, that’s all it is. I know me inside. But thanks, boss, for comin’.’ His voice dropped. ‘I’m grateful. I’m always grateful to you and your family, always: for one big reason at least, and you know what that is. Goodnight to you.’
‘Goodnight, Davey.’
At the door Bill, bending down to Sammy, said, ‘Don’t you go to school the morrow; see that he gets to the doctor’s, d’you hear?’
‘Aye. Aye, I hear. But it’s easier said than done. He’ll likely turn up for work.’
‘If he does then I’ll send him back. Anyway, do your best.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair, then went out…
At home Fiona met him in the hall. ‘How did you find him?’ she said.
‘To tell the truth I don’t know. He says he’s got diarrhoea, but from what that lad says he hasn’t been eatin’, and for some time, and he doesn’t go out at nights. And you should see him, the look of him; I’d like to bet it’s somethin’ more than diarrhoea.’
‘Has he been to the doctor?’
‘No; and it’s going to take an explosion to get him there; he’s never been to a doctor in his life apparently. He hadn’t one to bring him into the world, he says, and he’s not goin’ to have a one to see him out of it. I don’t like it.’ He took her arm and walked her across the hall and into the long drawing room. ‘It’s odd, don’t you think, how he and that lad have got under me skin, under all our skins. I suppose it’s because they’re laughter makers. But like all laughter makers there’s another side to them. And I saw that side the night, and it saddened me: it was as if I too was picking up the other side of them, the lonely, lost side…Oh, as Davey himself would say, let’s stop mummerin’ and have a drink! Come on with you.’
Two
It was Boxing Day; as Bill put it, wet squib day. All the excitement of Christmas Day was over. They were eating the little remains of a turkey, a leg of pork and a ham. Yesterday had been acclaimed a grand day by all concerned: the family, and those now considered to be part of it: Nell and Bert, and Rupert, and Sammy, and the visitors: Davey, who apparently was much better in health, and Miss Isherwood. But today the family were scattered about the house, following their own pursuits.
Bill and Bert were playing snooker in the games room; Mark was up in what had been turned into his own bedroom-cum-study, one of the attics; in another room under the roof Willie and Sammy were deep into the intricacies of a computer that Willie had been given for his Christmas box; Mamie was curled up on the playroom couch admiring her gold charm bangle as she twisted it round her wrist; while in the third attic, which was still used as a lumber room, Katie stood at the window from which, through the bare trees, she had a distant glimpse of the road that led past the grounds and the bungalow on the outskirts of the paddock.
Downstairs in the drawing room, seated each side of the fireplace, were Nell and Fiona, and the baby Angela was asleep on the couch where it faced the fireplace.
Nell was bending forward, her hands clasped on her knees; ‘I’ve got to tell you, Fiona,’ she was saying; ‘I’ve been putting it off and off. I’ve fallen pregnant.’
‘Oh, Nell!’ Fiona got straight up from her seat and caught Nell’s hands and said, ‘Oh, I am glad for you, I am. I am. Why…why didn’t you tell me? Why couldn’t you tell me?’
Nell didn’t glance towards the couch, but there lay the reason. As she had said to Bert, she wasn’t afraid of having a child like Angela, but she was afraid of its being so normal that it would upset Fiona, probably a wedge between them. So she couldn’t give any explanation except to say, ‘I…I don’t know now why I didn’t.’ Yet, even as she spoke the words, Fiona knew the reason for her reticence. And she said, ‘Oh, Nell, Nell. I want you to have a child. Even if she was like Angela I would still wish you to have it. But it’ll be all right. And Bert, what does he say?’
‘Well, remember how Bill took it when you told him? Somehow similar, he just couldn’t believe it. Then he got all worked up and frightened that something would happen to me and began to talk about my age and so on and so on. But inside he’s delighted.’
&nbs
p; ‘Bill’ll knock his block off for keeping it to himself, you’ll see.’ Fiona bent down now and, pulling Nell up to her, she put her arms round her and kissed her, saying, ‘When is it due?’
‘July, early I should say.’
‘Oh, come on; let’s go and tell Bill.’ She picked up the sleeping child from the couch, ‘I’ll put her in her cot.’
As they went up the main staircase Katie was running down the back staircase and letting herself out of the side door. She was wearing her old school coat but had a large scarf round her neck and a woollen hat on. She did not make for the drive but crossed the yard by the stable block, went through the arch that led to the vegetable garden, then on down through the shrubbery and the orchard until she came to the paddock. The paddock had once been the grazing ground of Sir Roger Oliver’s horses, and so she kept to the perimeter of it as she knew it was muddy in the middle. At the row of cypresses and the low wall that marked the boundary of the estate she bent down and crept between the boles of the trees.
Leaning over the wall she looked at the cottage just a few yards to the right, and at the newer part built on to it and known as the bungalow. On the road outside stood a car, Rupert’s car. She had guessed it was when she had seen it from the attic window. And it wasn’t the first time she had seen it there, and it had no right to be there; not now, because yesterday he had been nice to her, ever so nice. When they were playing games he had chosen her and not that lanky Miss Isherwood. She hated her; she acted as if she knew everything just because she had lived here all her life. And what was more, she was two-faced: she had made believe she liked Mr Love; she had chosen him twice. And when the games-room floor had been cleared for dancing and everybody tried to do the Gay Gordons, she had hung on to Mr Love; she had even leant her head on his shoulder when she laughed so much; and when he had sung a funny Irish song she had clapped like anything. She was two-faced, she was horrible.
It took but a minute to get over the wall and to the back door of the cottage. To the left was a small window.
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