by Stan Barstow
‘Here – can you make this out?’
He thrust the paper at the man who had spoken to him, pointing with his forefinger at the blurred print. ‘That last result there. Is it two all or two, three?’
The man put his glass on the counter and took the paper out of Scurridge’s hands. He turned it to the light. ‘It’s not right clear,’ he said. ‘I dunno. I’d say it’s more like two, three. An away win.’
‘It can’t be,’ Scurridge said. ‘It’s got to be a draw.’ He turned to the domino-playing miners. ‘Anybody got an Echo?’ The excitement was plain in his voice and the big miner who passed the newspaper said, ‘What’s up, Fred? Got a full line?’ Scurridge grabbed the paper. ‘I dunno yet,’ he said. ‘I dunno.’ He ran his finger down the column to the result in question. It was a draw, completing his eight.
‘It’s a draw,’ Scurridge said. He crushed the paper in his hands and let it fall to the floor.
‘Hey up!’ the big miner said. ‘That’s my paper when you’ve done wi’ it.’
‘I’ll buy you a dozen bloody papers,’ Scurridge said. ‘I’ve got eight lovely draws. Eight bloody lovely draws. Look!’ He snatched the coupon from the counter and thrust it at the group of miners. ‘I’ve got eight draws an’ there’s on’y eight on the whole coupon!’ The one sitting nearest took the coupon and scanned it. ‘See,’ Scurridge said, pointing. ‘Seven on there an’ this one here.’
The collier looked at the coupon in stupefaction. ‘By God, but he’s up. He’s up!’
‘Here, let’s look,’ said another, and the dominoes were laid face down while the coupon passed round the table. ‘Lucky sod,’ one of the men muttered, and Scurridge took him up with an excited ‘What’s that? Lucky? I’ve worked years for this. I’ve invested hundreds o’ pounds in it, an’ now it’s up.’
‘It’ll be a tot this week, Fred,’ the big miner said. ‘There’s on’y eight draws altogether so there won’t be many to share the brass. Wha, it might be a hundred thousand quid!’
A hush fell over the group at the mention of this astronomical sum from which the interest alone could keep a man in comfort for a lifetime. A hundred thousand pounds! Somehow Scurridge’s mind, occupied with the fact that the prize was in his grasp, had not yet put it into actual figures. But now excitement flamed in his face and his eyes grew wild.
‘It’s bound to be,’ he shouted. ‘There’s nobbut eight draws on the whole coupon, I tell yer!’
He snatched his glass from the bar counter and took a long drink, slamming it down again as he came to a decision. ‘I’ve won six quid on t’dogs tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ll stand drinks all round. C’mon, drink wi’ me. Have what yer like – whisky, rum, owt yer’ve a mind for.’
They passed up their glasses, needing no second invitation, and soon the news spread across the passage to the concert room, bringing people from there to slap Scurridge on the back and drink the beer he was paying for as he stood flushed and jubilant, pressed up against the bar.
Shortly after closing time he found himself on the street with a full bottle of rum and an empty pocket, in company with Charlie and Willy.
‘An’ I allus say,’ Charlie said, ‘I allus say a man shouldn’t let his brass come between him an’ his pals.’
‘What’s money?’ Scurridge said.
‘That’s right, Fred, You’ve hit the bleedin’ nail right on the head. What’s money? I’ll tell you what it is – it’s a curse on the whole yuman race, a curse... An’ I wish I had a cellarful. If I had a cellarful I’d lay in a nine-gallon barrel of ale an’ I’d go down every night an’ sup an’ count it. An’ I’d let you come an’ help me, Fred. I wouldn’t forget you. Oh no, not me. I wouldn’t forget me old pals. What’s money worth if it comes between a feller an’ his pals?’
Willy belched stolidly. ‘Friendship’s the thing.’
‘You never spoke a truer word, Willy,’ Charlie said. He threw his arm across Willy’s shoulders and leaned on him. ‘Your heart’s in the right place, Willy lad.’
They parted company on the corner and as Scurridge moved away Charlie called after him, ‘Don’t forget, Is’ll want a ride in that Rolls-Royce.’
Scurridge waved the bottle of rum over his head. ‘Any time. Any time.’
As he passed along Corporation Street on his way through the town he was suddenly arrested by the thought that he should send off a telegram to the pools people claiming his win. Wasn’t that what you did? You sent a telegram claiming a first dividend and followed it with a registered letter. But the post office was closed; he could see its dark face right there across the street from where he stood. It baffled him for a moment. How could he send a telegram when the post office was closed? Why hadn’t the pools people thought of that? And then a dim glow of light by the door of the post office building reminded him of the telephone and he made his way unsteadily across the deserted street. Inside the call box he stared for some time at the black shape of the receiver before putting out a slow hand and lifting it to his ear. He had never before in his life used a public telephone and when a small voice spoke right into his ear he took sudden fright and slammed the receiver back into its cradle as though it had burned hot in his hand. Not until then, as he stood, breathing heavily, in the call box, did it occur to him that he would need some money. He began to rummage through his pockets. The search produced only two coins – a sixpence and a penny – and he looked at them where they lay in his palm, with mingled relief and regret. Regret that he could not, after all, make sure of his money, and relief that he would now have to put off the complex business of sending the telegram till tomorrow.
Outside on the pavement once more he was struck by the irony of having a hundred thousand pounds yet not having enough in his pocket to pay for a taxi home. He looked about him, getting his bearings; then he turned towards home. On the way he began to think of his wife. Christ! This would be one in the eye for her. She’d never believed he could do it. No bloody faith. All she wanted was brass for fancy foods and for keeping hens. Hens! God! And still more brass to throw away on that great barracks of a house. Well now she could have brass, all she needed. She’d see that Fred Scurridge didn’t bear grudges. She’d see what sort of man he was. And they’d get right away from this God-forsaken district to somewhere where there was life and plenty of sun, and no more dropping down into that dark hole to sweat his guts out for a living. He’d done it now. He was free... free...
Somewhere along a back street on the outskirts of town he lurched into the doorway of a newsagent’s shop, failing against the door and sliding down into a sitting position. He uncorked the bottle of rum and took a deep swallow. He shook his head then and shuddered, making a wry face and breathing out, ‘Aagh!’ A moment later through the pool of light shed by the street-lamp opposite the doorway there slid the lean shape of a mongrel dog, its rough coat yellow in the dim light. It came into the doorway and pushed its cold muzzle into Scurridge’s hand. He began to fondle it under the ears, talking to it as he did so: ‘Nah then, old feller, nah then.’ And the dog responded by licking his hand. ‘Yer shouldn’t be out on a night like this,’ Scurridge said. ‘Yer should be at home, all nice an’ cosy an’ warm. Haven’t yer gorra home, eh, is that it?’ He felt for a collar. ‘Yer don’t belong to nobody, eh? All on your ownio… all on yer own.’ The dog sat down close to him, all the while nuzzling his hand. ‘I used to have a dog once,’ Scurridge said. ‘Looked summat like you, he did. A long time since, though. He was a lovely dog... grand. He used to come an’ meet me from t’pit. He got run over one Sat’day mornin’ just as I wa’ comin’ out. A coal lorry got him. A full ’un. Rotten mess. I couldn’t even pick him up and take him home to bury him. The driver shovelled him up an’ took him off somewhere. I don’t know where. I wa’ that sluffed about it. A real pal to me, that dog was. I called him Tommy. An’ eat! That dog wa’ t’best eater ’at I ever saw
. Scoff a beefsteak while you wa’ lookin’ at it.’ He ran his hand along the dog’s spare flanks and over its ribs. ‘Long time sin’ you had a beefsteak, old lad... Aye, well never mind. Happen yer’ll get yer bit o’ luck afore long. I’ve had a bit o’ luck tonight, I’ll tell yer. Best bit o’ luck I ever had, on’y bit... never had any afore. Except maybe marryin’ my missis. I didn’t do bad there. She’s not been a bad wife to me. An’ now I’m goinna make her rich. Rollin’ in it, she’ll be. One in the bloody eye for that skinflint father of hers. Left all his brass to the chapel when we were near starvin’. Said I wa’ no good an’ never would be. Well I wish he was alive to see me now. I hope he’s watchin’ where ever he is. Never had a good word for man nor beast, that old devil. Not like me. I allus had a soft spot for animals. Like thee. Tha’re a grand old lad even if tha are a stray ’at nobody wants. What’s it feel like when nobody wants thee? Lousy, I’ll bet. Here!’ he said suddenly, lifting the dog’s jaw on his hand. ‘I’ll tell thee what – here’s thy bit o’ luck. Tha can come home wi’me. How’d yer like that, eh? How’d yer like that?’
He put his hand to his forehead and mumbled to himself. It occurred to him that he was not feeling well; not well at all. ‘Time we were off home, lad,’ he said to the dog. ‘Can’t stop here all night.’ He tried to get to his feet and fell back with a thud that shook the door. He sat there for a minute before making another effort which took him reeling out into the street. ‘C’mon, lad,’ he said to the dog. ‘C’mon, boy.’
He was a long time in coming to the path through the wood, for he walked slowly and unsteadily, staggering about the pavement and making occasional erratic detours on to the crown of the road, and sometimes stopping altogether while he slouched against a wall, the rum bottle tilted to his mouth. The steep path under snow was like narrow frozen rapids – difficult enough to anyone sober, and next to impossible to Scurridge, in his condition. After falling on his hands and knees several times in as many yards he left the path and made his way up the slope through the black, twisted, snow-frothed shapes of the trees, the dog, with infinite patience, following at his heels. Near the top of the slope he caught his foot in a hidden root and sprawled headlong, striking his head heavily on the trunk of a tree before coming to rest face down in the snow. For several minutes consciousness left him; and when it returned he was mumbling to himself and shaking his head in a dazed manner as he got up off the ground and went unsteadily upwards and out of the trees.
He was almost at the back door before he realised that the house was in darkness. He groped for the latch and pushed at the door, thinking at first that it was stuck, and then realizing that it was locked. What the hell was she playing at! He knocked, and then, in a spasm of temper, drove the side of his clenched fists at the door panel. ‘Hilda!’ he shouted. ‘Open up an’ let me in!’ But there was no sound from within and in a few minutes he wandered round to the front door and tried that. As he had expected, that was locked too. It was always locked: they had not used the door in over fifteen years. He came back along the side of the house, swearing softly and thickly to himself. She hadn’t locked him out on purpose, had she? She couldn’t have locked him out! She wouldn’t do a thing like that to him. Not tonight, after he’d been so clever. The dog stood some way off and watched him as he stood there in the snow, his head bowed as though in deep thought, wondering what next to do. He felt ill, terribly ill. It was a fit of sickness that hammered in his head and made him sway on his feet. He put a cold, shaking hand to his brow, remaining like that in a coma of illness, during which time his memory seemed to cease functioning. So that when at last he stirred himself again he could not remember what he was doing there alone in the darkness and the snow.
He slumped down on the doorstep, huddling into the corner to get as much protection as possible from the wind, and took out the bottle of rum. He drank deeply, feeling the spirit sear his throat and spread in a warm wave inside him. For a moment it seemed to revive him, and then all at once the sickness came back to him, worse than ever this time, almost engulfing him in a great black wave. He dropped the bottle and put his head in his hands and moaned a little. What was it? He wanted to get in. He had to get in to Hilda. He had something to tell her. Something good. Something she would be pleased to hear. But he couldn’t get in. Couldn’t get to her to make her happy. And now he couldn’t remember what he had to tell her. He only knew that it was something good, because he could recall being happy himself, earlier on, before he came over badly. He couldn’t remember ever feeling as bad is this... Suddenly he reared to his feet and bawled it the top of his voice, ‘Hilda! Hilda! Let me in!’ and the dog, startled, ran off into the trees.
There was only silence. Perhaps she’d gone, he thought. Hopped it. She’d said she would, many a time. He’d never believed her, though. He’d never wanted her to go. She was his wife, wasn’t she? He’d never wanted any other woman. He couldn’t live by himself. Who’d look after him? How would he manage? And if she’d gone he wouldn’t be able to tell her. Tell her what?...Something good. Something to make her happy... He turned and rambled off across the patch of unkempt land that had been the garden and looked with aimless curiosity into the mouldering outhouses with their damp and rotten timbers. The thought came to him that he might shelter there. But it was too cold and he was very ill. He had to get into the house where it was warm. He returned across the snow and looked at the house which stood out plainly in the sharp, clear light shed by the new moon. And after some moments he thought of the window.
He lurched across to the wall of the house and put fumbling hands on the stones. With some difficulty he managed to get one knee onto the sill, his fingers feeling for holds in the interstices of the weathered stonework. He pulled himself up till he was standing upright and felt for a gap across the top of the window. He moved his foot and it slipped away from him across the icy stone of the sill and he lost his balance and fell sideways, his hands clawing at the wall. His right hand described an arc against the wall and the wrist hit the rusted needle-sharp point of the clothes-line hook jutting out some inches from the stone, and his falling weight pulled him on to it, so that for a few seconds he hung there, impaled through the arm. He felt the indescribable agony of the hook as it tore out the front of his wrist and he cried out once, a cry that ended in a choking, sobbing cough, before falling in a huddled heap on the snow, to crouch there, moaning and gibbering senselessly, his good hand clawing feebly at the gaping wound and feeling the warm gush of blood spouting from the severed arteries. And then the pain swamped his already befuddled senses and he rolled slowly sideways and was still.
As he lay there the dog returned to nose, whimpering softly, about him before turning again and loping away to the wood. A few minutes later snow began to fall, swirling down in fat feathery flakes all across the valley and the town and the hillside. It fell soundlessly on the roof of the house, over the room where Mrs Scurridge lay in her drugged sleep, and on Scurridge, melting at first and then slowly, softly, drifting and falling, covering him from sight.
The Drum
‘I allus reckon you can’t judge by appearance,’ said Sam Skelmanthorpe, apropos of a casual remark I’d just made about someone we both knew slightly. He pushed his glass across the bar counter. ‘Gimme the other half o’ that, George lad. Don’t know why they ever invented gills. Gone in a couple o’ swallows…’
‘Now you take Fred Blenkinsop,’ he said, turning to me again.
‘Who’s Fred Blenkinsop?’
‘Y’know – our librarian. I must ha’ mentioned him afore.’
‘Oh, yes. The chap who works on the farm.’
‘That’s him. Now you’d never ha’ thought there was any more to him than you could see…’
With his replenished glass before him, Sam began to talk about Fred, sketching in his background. They called him Short Fred in Low Netherwood, Sam said, because he stood no more than five-feet-three
drawn up to his full height; and if the name came off their lips with dry familiarity it was because he’d lived in the village for the best part of his sixty-odd years and they naturally thought they knew all there was to know about him. But most men have little dreams and secrets locked away in the private corners of their hearts, and Fred was no exception. With him, Sam said, it was an ambition: a small enough ambition at that, but one that had troubled and pestered him for years, sometimes lying dormant for long periods, only to spring into life again without warning, like the itch comes to the born gambler, or the thirst to a man with drinker’s throat.
‘Aye,’ Sam said pensively, ‘an ambition.’ He took a drink and licked his lips, then looked down at the tobacco pouch I’d slid across as I saw him reach for his pipe as though wondering where it had come from.
‘An ambition,’ I said, prodding him, but gently. ‘It’s a curious thing, ambition –’
‘Aye,’ Sam said. ‘He wanted to play the big drum.’
‘You mean in the band? But why didn’t he, then? Surely all he had to do was –’
‘Ask?’ said Sam. ‘Aye, I suppose so. He’d have had to ask. He was our librarian an’ there was allus some strappin’ great lad tackling the drum. He’d have had to ask; an’ he couldn’t bring hisself to do that because, y’see, in his heart of hearts he thought that wantin’ to play the drum was a bit daft – more for a lad than a grown man of his age. So he never did ask.
