The Rabbit

by Ted Lewis

  “What’s up then, Clacker? Are you beyond keeping an eye on them?”

  Clacker’s face set itself again.

  “Am I working or baby-sitting?” he said.

  My father smiled to himself and his attitude softened.

  “All right, that’ll do, that’ll do,” he said. “It’s only a bloody barrow. Frank can find another from kiln.”

  “Well, boss,” Frank said, “not really, you know. I mean, we need them barrows we’ve got down there.”

  “And we need one up here too so go and sort one out,” my father said, his manner changing again.

  Frank’s mouth tightened and he glared at me and turned away and stamped off back to the kiln. Clacker started flailing away with his hammer.

  “And you two want to be more careful,” my father said. “Money doesn’t grow on trees in this business, you know. New barrows have to be paid for.”

  “They don’t,” I said disbelievingly.

  “Less of that. Go down and get that barrow from Frank.”

  “I’ll go, Mr Graves,” Jackson said, setting off.

  “Anyway,” I said, “it was his bloody fault in the first place. He pushed the barrow down the tip.”

  “I don’t want to know,” my father said. “Just have a bit more sense in future.”

  He walked back to his car, got in and drove off. I stood on the platform and waited for Jackson to return with the barrow. Eventually I heard the sounds of the barrow being dragged up the chute and then Jackson appeared at the top, puffing and blowing. He saw me watching him. He grinned.

  “It’s a better’un than ours,” he called out. I ignored him and got back in the wagon. For Christ’s sake, I thought. Was Jackson going to make things even more awkward between me and the men all the time?

  Jackson trundled the barrow over to the wagons.

  “Smart, isn’t it?” he said.

  Clacker smashed a stone to smithereens. I busied myself with the flints. Jackson got in the wagon with me and followed suit.

  Gil’s wagon rolled up the slope a few minutes later. Herbert Wheatley got down from the cab, holding a four¬teen pound hammer.

  “Here you are, Jackson,” he said. “Try this for size.”

  Herbert leant over and handed the hammer to Jackson.

  “Smashing,” Jackson said, weighing the hammer in his hands.

  “Do you think you can show him how to use it, Victor?” Herbert said.

  I was embarrassed. Gil and Clacker were watching. Although I knew he wasn’t, it looked as if Herbert was patronizing the boss’s son.

  “I think so,” I said.

  I took hold of the hammer the way I’d been shown.

  “You hold it like this,” I said. “And when you swing it you just slide this hand down to the base of the shaft, that’s all.”

  “Go on then, do it,” Jackson said eagerly.

  “Well, it’s just like this,” I said, avoiding looking at the others.

  I put a stone in position and swung the hammer. It fell apart perfectly. I stood back, feeling a little better about the scene.

  Jackson sorted out a stone and placed it next to the one I’d split. He spat on his hands and lifted the hammer and swung.

  What happened next was an almost exact reproduction of the first time I’d swung a hammer. Except that I’d narrowly missed catching my shins, and Jackson didn’t miss catching his.

  The hammer clattered on to the stone and slid down into a corner of the wagon. Gil gave a short laugh.

  “Fuck me Jesus,” Jackson cried, sinking down on to the hot stone and creating a tiny landslide.

  Herbert stepped down into the wagon. Jackson writhed about on the stone, holding his shin.

  “Are you all right?” Herbert said.

  “Bloody arseholes,” Jackson said, tears beginning to course down his cheeks.

  Herbert and I tried to help him up but he thrashed away from us.

  “Leave us alone,” Jackson moaned. “I’ve broke me bastard leg.”

  “No you haven’t,” Herbert said. “Come on, get up and we’ll have a look.”

  This time Herbert and I managed to heave Jackson up from the stones. I supported Jackson while Herbert pushed up Jackson’s trouser leg. A black bruise was welling up around his shin.

  “You’re all right,” Herbert said, straightening up. “Just a little tap.”

  I let go of Jackson who immediately sank down again on to the stone.

  “I can’t stand up,” he said.

  “Have a rest till breakfast, then,” said Herbert. “You’ll be all right after.”

  Jackson’s face brightened and he manoeuvred himself to the side of the wagon and sat on the edge, nursing his shin.

  “You’ve got to know how to handle those hammers,” Herbert said, picking up Jackson’s hammer and getting out of the wagon. “When you can do this, you’ll be getting somewhere.”

  Herbert stood to attention on the platform, standing the hammer on its head so that the shaft was parallel with his trousers, like a guardsman’s rifle. Then he took hold of the shaft, one-handed, and raised his arm sideways from his body, the hammer always in perfect line with the arm, until hammer and arm were outstretched at an angle of ninety degrees to the body, perfectly parallel to the ground. He held the hammer like that for about a minute, then like a mechanical doll he swung arm and hammer so that they were projecting from the front of his body, still parallel to the platform. He then began to bend his wrist, raising the hammer from the horizontal without moving the rest of his arm. Now the hammer was vertical and slowly he bent his wrist even more so that the head of the hammer was tipping towards his face. I felt that at any moment his wrist was going to snap and the hammer head was going to smash down into his face but the hammer head kept descending at the same slow speed and eventually came to gentle rest on the bridge of Herbert’s nose. Then he reversed the whole process, slowly raising the hammer, back through the ver¬tical until it was in a straight line with his arm and parallel to the ground again, and finally he let his arm drop, just as slowly as he’d raised it, until the hammer head was touch-ing the ground.

  “Hell,” Jackson said.

  “How did you manage to touch your nose and still hold the hammer steady?” I said. “It looked physically impossible.”

  With his free hand Herbert grasped the wrist of the arm he’d used.

  “It’s all in there,” he said. “All in the wrist. It’s not strength, just control. Practice.”

  Clacker spat.

  “What is this, a quarry or a fucking circus?” he said. “We’re supposed to get some extra wagons done today.”

  “What’s up Clacker, job too much for you, is it?” Herbert said, winking at me.

  “You’ll be first fucker to moan if we’re behind.”

  “Come on,” said Herbert, indicating the wagons. “When I were your age I could have skittled this lot afore break¬fast.”

  “Fuck off and get some more wrist practice on Gil’s mucky books,” Clacker said, taking up his hammer again.

  Gil laughed. Herbert shot him a glance.

  “Have you fixed up Bennett to service yon lorry yet?”

  “Eh?”

  “Yon lorry. For the weekend.”

  “No, not yet.”

  “We want it back Monday. You can phone from office when we go back up.”

  Herbert hauled himself up into Gil’s cab. Gil offered a V-sign to Herbert’s disappearing back, then went round to his own side of the cab and got in and drove off.

  The lorry left a peaceful haze in its wake. The clankings of the kiln and the soft half-noises of the cornfield and the metallic slidings of the stone as Clacker and I moved around re-established themselves in the foreground of my mind. The heat of
the day shimmered down and distilled our sweat and dried the soft swirling limestone that our move¬ments disturbed.

  For a while Jackson sat silent on the edge of the wagon, trouser-leg concertina’d as he inspected his wound. Even¬tually he rolled his trouser-leg down and flexed his body sunward like a holidaymaker on the beach. You could see that this was the life as far as Jackson was concerned. First day at a new job and half an hour off, officially suggested by the foreman. All Jackson needed to complete the image of contentment was a knotted handkerchief on top of his head in place of his hat, or so I thought. Eventually he spoke.

  “That trick was dead good, wasn’t it?”

  I threw a flint into the barrow.

  “Thought his wrist was off to snap,” Jackson said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  A few minutes passed before he spoke again.

  “Soon be breakfast, will it?”

  “Soon.”

  “It gets thirsty with all this dust, doesn’t it?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Do you bring anything to drink?”

  I nodded. Clacker looked up and glared at Jackson.

  “I never thought,” said Jackson. “Didn’t think it’d be this dry.”

  “If you want a drink,” I said, “I’ve got some under the bush.”

  I said this mainly to shut Jackson up and prevent him from getting any further under Clacker’s skin. The atmos¬phere from Clacker was making me feel guilty.

  Jackson got out of the wagon and went over to the bush. It never occurred to me to tell Jackson that my bottle of milk was in my satchel. The next thing I knew, Clacker said:

  “Fuck me.”

  I looked up. Clacker threw down his hammer and climbed out of his wagon and walked slowly over to Jackson at the bush.

  Jackson was guzzling Clacker’s lemonade. At first Jackson was too engrossed to notice Clacker bearing down on him; the bottle was tilted high and Jackson’s eyes were closed. Eventually he paused for breath and took the bottle from his lips and that was when he became aware of Clacker’s approach. At first Jackson grinned but when his eyes locked with Clacker’s he recognized Clacker’s intent if not his reason. Jackson backed into the bush, bending his body to its shape, almost becoming a part of the bush itself. When Clacker reached Jackson he said:

  “What the fuck do you think you’re on?”

  “Having a drink,” Jackson said, trying to look beyond Clacker at me.

  “Who said you could drink mine?”

  “Nobody did. I didn’t know...”

  “You don’t know fuck all, do you? That’s your trouble, isn’t it?”

  Clacker advanced even closer. Now he was almost lean¬ing on Jackson. In his fright, Jackson tried to retreat even farther into the bush, slipped a little and dropped the lemon¬ade bottle, which smashed on the flints.

  There was a long silence. Jackson froze, not daring to look at the ground. The only movement Clacker made was to clench his fist.

  I got out of the wagon and hurried over to them.

  “It’s my fault,” I said. “I should have told Jackson mine was in my satchel.”

  Clacker turned away from Jackson and looked at me for a long time. Then, abruptly, he began to walk back to his wagon. Jackson stared at me like a frightened rabbit. His bottom lip was trembling slightly.

  I followed Clacker back to the wagons,

  “Look,” I said. “It was my fault. We can stop off in the village and get another bottle on the way up to breakfast.”

  Clacker went to work, ignoring what I’d said.

  “Or I can get my dad to get some next time he comes down.”

  Clacker threw his hammer down and whirled round and pointed his finger at me.

  “Look,” he said, “Just shut it.”

  I stared at him. My mouth must have framed the question, “Why?”

  “I don’t want any fucking favours from you,” he said. “Just keep from under my fucking feet, that’s all I want.”

  He seized his hammer and went back to work. I remained standing on the edge of the platform until I heard Jackson approaching behind me, then I got into our wagon. Jackson followed me.

  “What’s up with him, then?” Jackson whispered.

  I shook my head, more in order to keep Jackson quiet than to signify anything else.

  “I mean, all it was was an accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Look,” I said, whispering like Jackson, “I should just get on with the job if I were you.”

  “Mr Wheatley said I needn’t till after breakfast,” he said, his voice slightly higher. I felt sure Clacker could hear him.

  “Just keep quiet and get on with it, for Christ’s sake,” I said between clenched teeth.

  A hurt look clouded Jackson’s face and he withdrew to the side of the wagon and sat down again and again he rolled up his trouser leg and stroked his bruise to underline the validity of his situation.

  After a while Clacker finished his wagon and leant against the side and lit a cigarette. After he’d thrown the match away and inhaled he fixed Jackson with one of his looks and as he smoked he examined Jackson with the gaze of a Roman emperor about to give the thumbs down. When Jackson became aware of Clacker’s attention he shifted his back¬side about on the edge of the wagon and rolled his trouser leg down. Clacker’s stare didn’t waver. Jackson leant for¬ward and picked up a few small stones from off the top of the load and jiggled them about from hand to hand for a few minutes. Eventually Jackson threw the stones away and stood up and began searching for flints, in a way easing himself into the business of working, as if working had been an accidental, yet natural, conclusion to his previous actions.

  Clacker threw his cigarette away and picked up his hammer.

  On the way up to breakfast, Jackson had to sit on my knee so that there would be room enough for all of us. As he rocked to and fro with the bumps I could smell the urine¬like aroma from his sweaty cap and there was a kind of osmosis from his flabby flesh penetrating through our clothes. All the way up he made observations on whatever new thing caught his eye. It was a relief to get to the canteen.

  We filed in, Clacker first, but after he’d got his tea from Fred, instead of going and sitting on the tires, he walked towards the door.

  “Where you off, then, Clacker?” Gil said.

  Clacker said nothing and went out. I looked at Jackson but Jackson was too happily engrossed in watching Fred pour his tea out for him.

  When we went out again after breakfast, Clacker was sitting in Arthur’s cab reading the racing paper. When he saw us come out he got down and carried his empty billy-can back into the canteen. Jackson and I got in the cab of the loaded lorry, seated as before. When Clacker joined us no-one spoke. In fact for the rest of the day Clacker said nothing to either of us, and we said nothing to him.

  On the way home, after work, my father said:

  “We’ve got a visitor at home.”

  “Who?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  I could but I shook my head anyway.

  “Your Uncle Eddie.”

  I smiled. I’d been right. It couldn’t have been anyone else. Uncle Eddie wasn’t really my uncle at all. He was my father’s best friend. They’d met on a Manchester tram one Saturday afternoon thirty-odd years before, when they’d both been fifteen, and they’d been friends ever since. I sometimes thought my father liked Eddie even more than he liked my mother.

  We drove straight to the house instead of putting the car in Johnson’s yard. Uncle Eddie’s Hillman was parked in the road outside the house, slanting sunlight picking out the samples on the back shelf of the car. My father turned the key in the front door and I followed him down the hall to the kitchen. My mother was clearing some cups and saucers away from the kitchen t
able. She had on a dress she some¬times went to do the shopping in on Thursday afternoons and she wasn’t wearing her nylon housecoat. Her hair was brushed out and she gave a wry smile when she saw us. The way my father walked into the kitchen changed when he saw Uncle Eddie wasn’t there; his entrance and his accom¬panying words must have been already chosen, and now he was deflated by Uncle Eddie’s absence.

  “Where is he, then?” he said to my mother.

  “Down the garden.”

  My father took off his hat and coat and hung them behind the door. He took out his cigarettes and lit up and thrusting one hand in his trouser pocket he strolled out of the kitchen door. I went over to the kitchen window and looked out. Uncle Eddie was halfway down the garden, jacket-less, his brilliant white shirt gleaming in the afternoon sun. He was standing, hands in pockets, considering one of the flower¬-beds. My father approached him slowly, unnoticed. When he got closer he made a low barking noise in order to startle Uncle Eddie. Uncle Eddie was unsurprised and said:

  “Now then, you daft bugger.”

  They looked into each other’s faces, smiling, Uncle Eddie’s affection veiled by the drooping eyelids and the slightly disdainful smile, my father’s affection resetting the lines of his face, describing a lively childishness, but when they shook hands both men averted their eyes, as if the affection in each other was too strong to confront directly.

  “Did I frighten you, then?”

  “Did you hell as like,” said Uncle Eddie.

  “I thought I made you jump,” my father said, grinning.

  “I see you’ve done some digging, then.”

  “I’ve left a bit for you. Spade’s in the shed. You’ve a good hour before tea.”

  “I bought that bugger for you, not me.”

  On my father’s last birthday, Uncle Eddie had sent my father a spade, an ironic underlining of the fact that my father always tried to get Uncle Eddie to do the gardening when he came to see us.

  They began to stroll down the garden towards the orchard. I turned away from the window.

  “How’s Uncle Eddie?” I said to my mother.

  “Oh, the same,” she said. “You know, never stops pulling your leg. He’s a rum ’un, is Eddie.”