The Likes of Us

by Stan Barstow

  ‘Look,’ Bob said, ‘I believe in a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay.’

  ‘No more na me.’

  ‘An’ if t’boss is satisfied with me work he gives me fair pay.’

  ‘He does if t’union’s made him.’

  ‘He does without that, if he’s a fair man. Look at Mr Whittaker.’

  ‘Aye, let’s look,’ Luther said. ‘I’ve worked for Whittakers now for thirty years. I know Matthew Whittaker and I knew old Dawson afore him. Neither of ’em’s ever had cause to grumble about my work an’ by an’ large I’ve had no cause to grumble about them. When t’union’s put in a wage claim they’ve chuntered a bit an’ then given us it. But they wouldn’t if we hadn’t been in force, all thinkin’ an’ actin’ together. There’s fair bosses an’ there’s t’other sort – that I’ll grant you. But then again, there’s bosses an’ there’s men. Men think about their wages an’ bosses think about their profits. It’s business, lad. It’s life! I’m not blamin’ ’em. But you’ve got to face it: they’re on one side an’ we’re on t’other. An’ when we want summat we’ve got to show ’em we’re all together an’ we mean to have it. That’s what made us all so mad at thee. Everybody out but thee. We listened to t’union an’ tha listened to t’bosses callin’ for wage restraint.’

  ‘I don’t listen to t’bosses,’ Bob said. ‘I listen to the telly an’ read the papers an’ make up me own mind.’

  ‘Well, tha reads t’wrong papers, then,’ Luther said. ‘Tha’ll be tellin’ me next tha votes Conservative.’

  ‘I don’t. I vote Liberal.’

  Luther stared at him, aghast. ‘Liberal! Good sainted aunts protect us! An’ is this t’chap you’re goin’ to wed?’ he said to Bessie.

  ‘As far as I know,’ Bessie said, putting her chin up.

  ‘Well, he’ll be a fiancy wi’out a job afore long.’

  ‘Why? He worked, didn’t he? It’s you lot they should sack, not Bob.’

  ‘But you see,’ Luther said with enforced patience, ‘they can’t sack us because there’s too many of us. We’ve a hundred per cent shop up at Whittakers an’ t’men’ll not work wi’ a chap ’at isn’t in t’union. An’ your Bob won’t be in t’union for much longer, or I’m a Dutchman.’

  ‘Well, if that isn’t the limit!’ Bessie gasped.

  ‘I do think it’s a cryin’ shame ’at a young chap should be victimized because of his principles,’ said Mrs Stringer.

  ‘You keep your nose out,’ Luther said. ‘This was nowt to do wi’ women.’

  ‘It’s summat to do wi’ our Bess,’ his wife said. ‘Your own daughter’s young man an’ you’re doin’ this to him.’

  ‘Nay, don’t blame me. There’s nowt I could do about it if I wanted.’

  ‘Which you don’t,’ said Bessie, her colour rising.

  ‘I’ve said what I have to say.’ And Luther retired behind his paper again.

  ‘Well, I’ve summat to say now,’ Bessie flashed. ‘It doesn’t matter what your flamin’ union does to Bob. He’s headin’ for better things than t’shop floor an’ bein’ bossed about by a pack o’ tuppence ha’penny workmen.’

  ‘Shurrup, Bessie,’ Bob muttered. ‘There’s no need to go into all that.’

  ‘I think there is,’ Bessie said. ‘I think it’s time me father wa’ told a thing or two. Who does he think he is, anyway? I don’t suppose you know,’ she said to Luther, who was reading his paper with a studied show of not listening to her, ’at Bob’s been takin’ a course in accountancy at nights. An’ I don’t suppose you know that Mr Matthew Whittaker himself has heard about this an’ that he’s as good as promised Bob a job upstairs in the Costing Office if he does well in his exams. What do you think about that, eh?’

  The paper slowly lowered to reveal Luther’s face again. ‘I’ll tell you what I think about it,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better take that young feller out o’ my house an’ never bring him back again.’ His voice began to rise as his feelings got the better of him. ‘So he works because he doesn’t agree wi’ t’union policy, does he? He thinks we ought to have wage restraint, does he? He stuffs me up wi’ that tale an’ now you tell me he’s anglin’ for a job on t’staff. It wasn’t his principles ’at made him go in yesterday, it wa’ because he wanted to keep on t’right side o’ t’management.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Luther,’ Mrs Stringer said. ‘You’ll have a stroke if you get so worked up.’

  ‘I’ll have a stroke if ever I see that... that blackleg in my house again,’ Luther shouted.

  ‘I shall marry him whether you like it or not,’ Bessie said.

  ‘Not at my expense, you won’t.’

  ‘C’mon, Bessie,’ Bob said. ‘Let’s be off.’

  ‘Aye, we’ll go,’ said Bessie. ‘You’d better see if you can control him, Mother. He’s yours. This one’s mine.’

  Bessie and Bob left the house and Mrs Stringer went to wash-up, leaving Luther pacing the living-room, muttering to himself. In a few moments he followed her into the kitchen, in search of an audience.

  ‘Wage restraint,’ he said. ‘Think for yourself. Don’t be led off like a flock o’ sheep. Oh he knows how to think for hisself, that one does. You know, I half-admired him for sticking to his principles, even if I did think he was daft in the head. But that one’s not daft. Not him. He’s crafty. He’s not botherin’ hisself about wage restraint an’ principle. He’s wonderin’ what Matthew’ll think if he strikes wi’ t’rest on us. He’s wonderin’ if Matthew mightn’t get his own back by forgettin’ that job he promised him. That’s what he calls a fair boss. He knows bosses as well as’ t’rest on us. Principle! He’s no more principle than a rattlesnake…’

  Mrs Stringer said nothing.

  ‘Well, our Bessie can wed him if she likes. She’ll go her own road in the end, an’ she’s too old to be said by me. But there’s no need to plan on bringin’ him here to live. They’ll have to find some place of their own... An’ what’s more, I won’t have you havin’ ’em in the house when I’m out. You hear what I say, Agnes? You’re to have no more to do wi’ that young man.’

  It was at this point that Mrs Stringer, who had not said much so far, suddenly uttered a long drawn-out moan as of endurance taxed to its limit. ‘O-o-oh! For heaven’s sake, will you shut up!’ And bringing a dinner plate clear of the soapy water she lifted it high in both hands and crashed it down on the tap.

  Luther’s jaw dropped as the pieces clattered into the sink. ‘Have you gone daft?’

  ‘I shall go daft if I hear you talk much longer.’

  ‘That’s a plate from t’best dinner service you’ve just smashed.’

  ‘I know it is, an’ I don’t care. You can pay for it out o’ that rise your union’s gettin’ you. As for me, I’ve had enough. I’m havin’ my one-day strike tomorrow. I’m off to our Gertie’s first thing an’ I shan’t be back till late. You can look after yourself. Aye, an’ talk to yourself, for all I care.’

  ‘You’re not feelin’ badly, are you?’ Luther said. ‘What’s come over you?’

  ‘Principle,’ Mrs Stringer said. ‘Twenty-seven year of it, saved up.’ And with that she walked out of the kitchen and left him.

  Luther went back into the living-room and picked up his paper. He switched on the radio for the news and switched off immediately when he got the amplified roar of a pop group. He tried for some minutes to read the paper, and then threw it down and wandered out into the passage and stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the landing as though wondering what his wife was doing. He remained in that attitude for several minutes, and then, as though reaching a decision, or dismissing the problem as not being worth the worry, he reached for his cap and coat and left the house for the pub on the corner where he was sure to find someone who spoke his language.

  Closing Time
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br />   By the time Halloran had backed his fancy and got out of Mulholland’s Betting Shop and gone along the road, the landlord of the Greyhound, Jack Marshall, was shutting his front door. Halloran shouted, ‘Ey! Ey, Jack!’ Marshall looked round the door as Halloran crossed the road in a stiff-legged run.

  ‘Am I not in time for one?’ Halloran asked, catching his breath.

  ‘Nay, Michael, it’s gone twenty past three.’

  ‘I was hoping to see Tommy Corcoran,’ Halloran said.

  ‘He was up and away half an hour ago. They’ve all gone. And I’m closing.’

  Halloran pulled at his long thin nose, his brow wrinkling in thought.

  ‘There’s no harm in me comin’ in for a minute. If I could just see the telly for the three-thirty.’

  The landlord hesitated, then stood aside. ‘Come on, then, before t’bobby sees you.’

  ‘Sure, they can’t object to a man lookin’ at the telly.’

  ‘They object to all sorts o’ things on licensed premises.’

  Halloran went into the big lounge bar where the television set stood high up on a shelf at one end of the long counter. He watched as Marshall switched on and the screen flickered into life. In a moment his eyes fell and passed over the pump handles. His seeming to catch everything in the tail of his gaze, as though his brain were a fraction slow in registering what his eyes moved across, gave him an appearance of slyness.

  ‘Ah, you’ve got the... the towels on.’

  ‘I have,’ Marshall said. ‘And they’re not coming off.’

  ‘Ah!’ Halloran nodded several times. Then he held up a tentative hand, the thumb and forefinger an inch apart. ‘Perhaps a...?’

  ‘You’ll get me shot,’ the landlord said. ‘I expect you’ve spent all dinnertime at the Black Horse.’

  ‘No, no.’ Halloran shook his head. ‘I haven’t had a drop today. Honest.’

  ‘I’ll believe you, where thousands wouldn’t,’ Marshall said. ‘All right. What’s it to be?’

  ‘A rum an’ pep. You’re a decent man, Jack... Did Tommy Corcoran ask after me at all?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Was it summat special you had to see him about?’

  ‘He thought there might be the chance of a job on the site.’ Halloran took the glass the landlord placed on the bar counter and felt for his money. ‘Will you, er...?’

  ‘No, thanks all the same, Michael. I’ve had me ration for this dinnertime.’

  He put the coins in the till and gave Halloran his change.

  ‘A job, eh? You’re not going back to carryin’ the hod at your age, are you?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve still plenty of life in me,’ Halloran said.

  ‘Oh, aye, I don’t doubt that.’

  At fifty-five, Halloran, with a wife ten years younger than himself, had just fathered his eleventh child. With the dole and family allowances, plus various supplementary benefits, they managed to live in the periods when Halloran was out of work – periods which were now longer than those in which he was employed. Sometimes he would be technically in work but playing sick with one of his recurrent disabilities: his back, his chest, or his legs. His contempt matched that of others when discussing the work-shy who lived off social security and were kept by the dues and taxes of more conscientious men.

  The landlord washed and polished glasses as the runners lined up for the three-thirty race.

  ‘You’ve got summat on this, have you, Michael?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And what is it you fancy?’

  Halloran held up a quietening hand as the commentator began to speak. Marshall shrugged and went back into the private quarters to have a word with his wife.

  ‘Is there anybody still through there?’

  ‘Only Michael Halloran. He popped in to watch the three-thirty.’

  ‘He’s not drinking, is he?’

  ‘Only a small rum and pep.’

  ‘You’re daft, Jack, risking trouble with the police for a feller like Michael Halloran.’

  ‘It’s all right. If they come in, he’s with me.’

  ‘You’d think some of them had no homes to go to.’

  ‘His must be a bit crowded.’

  ‘Whose fault is that?’

  ‘Aye, all right, then, don’t get on. He’ll be away in a minute.’

  ‘You’re the wrong type to keep a pub, Jack. You lean too much to your customers.’

  ‘Don’t talk so daft. How much drinking after time have you seen here? I run this place as well as anybody else could. A bit more interest from you ’ud be a help.’

  ‘You know how I feel about it. You’ve never done. It’s after half-past three now. You’ll be open again at six and you won’t get to bed till one. What kind of life is that?’

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t say all this before we came.’

  ‘I did, but you wouldn’t listen.’

  It was true. He’d known he was persuading her against her real wishes, but he’d persisted, hoping she would take to the life in time. Instead, she had become more bitter and dissatisfied than she had ever been. With their children grown up and gone away, Marshall had looked for something they could tackle together, which they could build on towards better things. His idea was to acquire experience here for the time when they could have their own business – perhaps a small hotel, or in some branch of catering. But to his wife they had gone from the voluntary bondage of the family to the enforced one of licensing hours and regulations, the need to be pleasant to people they didn’t care for, and all the endless comings and goings of pub life. She had never cared for pubs. It was all beneath her.

  Marshall looked at his watch. ‘The race’ll be over now. I’ll get him out and finish clearing up.’

  When he went back into the bar there was no sign of Halloran. Marshall switched off the television set and washed out Halloran’s empty glass. He waited a while for Halloran to come back from the gents, then went to look for him. He was not there; nor, with the front door still bolted, was there any indication that he had left.

  ‘Now, where the hell’s he gone to?’ he said out loud.

  He took cloth and bucket and went round into the lounge to empty the ashtrays and wipe the tabletops. It was when he turned in the process of doing this to face the bar counter that he saw Halloran slumped there on the floor. Marshall went and crouched over him.

  ‘Now then, Michael, what’s all this about?’

  His first impulse was to lift Halloran under the armpits and get him on to a chair; but when he saw that the man was unconscious and breathing in an odd, strained way, he straightened up and called along the passage to his wife.

  ‘Nora! Nora! Come here, will you?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Come here. Quick!’

  She came at her own speed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s Halloran.’

  She stretched up and leaned over the counter. ‘Oh God! Is he drunk?’

  ‘No, he’s badly. He’s collapsed. I think it’s his heart.’

  She came round. ‘Has he complained about it at all?’

  ‘He’s complained about all manner of things. Half the time I didn’t believe him.’

  ‘Can’t you bring him round?’

  ‘Nay, I don’t know how to deal with this. He needs expert attention.’

  ‘Shall I ring for a doctor?’

  ‘Better dial 999 for an ambulance. That’ll be quicker.’

  ‘They don’t like that unless it’s an emergency.’

  ‘It is an emergency. He could be dying, for all we know. And bring me that travelling-rug and cushion out of the living-room. I daren’t move him but I’d better wrap him up and keep him warm.’

  The ambulance was at the door in s
ix minutes, diverted from a scheduled call in the district by a wireless message.

  ‘It looks like a coronary,’ one of the two men said as they got Halloran onto a stretcher. ‘Have you got his name and address?’

  ‘Aye. Where will you take him?’

  ‘The General. Has he got a wife?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll go round and tell her as soon as you’ve gone.’

  He saw them out through the front door and watched the ambulance move off. His wife was in the lounge again when he went in. She held up a piece of paper.

  ‘Is this anything important?’

  ‘It’s a betting slip. Where did you find it?’

  ‘On the floor, where he’d been lying.’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’ He folded the slip and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘Are you going to see the wife now?’

  ‘I ought to. Isn’t it that stone-built cottage at the far end of Furness Street?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. You’d better watch out for a horde of kids.’

  ‘Aye. Will you finish off in here for me while I’m gone?’

  She looked round reluctantly.

  ‘There’s not much to do,’ he said.

  ‘All right.’

  Don’t bloody force yourself, he thought in a spasm of temper. Always, in everything, working against the grain. He went out through the back door to the car in the yard.

  Passing Mulholland’s Betting Shop on the way he remembered the slip and stopped. He went in and showed it to the clerk.

  ‘Is there anything to draw on this?’

  The clerk looked it up in his ledger. ‘I’ll say there is. Didn’t you hear the result?’

  ‘No. It’s not mine, you see.’

  ‘Oh. Wait a minute. Wasn’t this bet placed by Michael Halloran?’

  ‘That’s right. He was taken ill in my pub and I found it afterwards. I’m on my way to see his wife.’