Harry Doing Good

by Canaway, W. H.

  ‘Look,’ Cheryl said, and paused again. Ann breathed steadily and deeply opposite her, fast asleep. ‘Look. You can’t call a saint normal, can you? I mean, you’ve got some people who are below normal. Idiots and that. And then you’ve got people who’re above normal. Brains of Britain. Well, then if you’re a saint you’re above them, even, aren’t you? But if you’re way out up above normal, you can’t be normal.’

  ‘I’ve had a tiring day,’ Linda said with some asperity, ‘and I’m too beat to work my way through all that. Now shut up, love, and go to sleep.’

  Obediently, Cheryl lay quiet, and presently slept; but Linda lay awake for a while. She heard eleven strokes sound from a church clock, a dog yap in the village. Linda thought about an occasion in the early summer, recalling it in some detail and in the light of what Cheryl had been saying. After a long morning’s tramp under a hot sun, the LYF had halted for lunch and a rest by a tributary of the Lune. A little spinney reached almost to the water’s edge, the hazel and blackthorn giving way to alder and willow, leaves bursting into green among the blossom of the thorn.

  They had thrown themselves down upstream of the spinney, all of them tired and thirsty, and with little inclination for high spirits or horseplay. They lay in cool mowing grass interspersed with buttercups and thistles; the field sloped up to a hawthorn hedgerow. In the distance they had heard the busy sound of a tractor, and somewhere high above, a lark had been singing.

  Harry had said, ‘That water calls me. Anybody else for a swim?’

  No one had wanted to move. In theory the idea of swimming had been pleasant, but the energy hadn’t been there. Languidly the others had discussed the possibility of swimming or paddling in a little while, but none of them had felt that overmastering desire to plunge into what was probably icy water…none of them except Harry, who had gone into the spinney to undress. The others, perhaps secretly pleased that the presence of Harry’s furious energy, had retreated for a short space of time, had dozed off or lain tranquil and idle, cooling off gradually and in their bodies’ own time, grateful for the occasional fingers of breeze, listening to the tractor and the lark.

  Linda had left the others unnoticing her departure, and gone into the spinney to obey a call of nature. Finished, she had risen, and her attention had been caught by movements away through the mist of green branches and the white hanging drifts of the blossom. Curious, she had moved closer, a sudden hand at her mouth as she had realised what had been happening. A man and a woman had been making love, quivering and naked on a heap of clothes, making scarcely any noise, but moving together with concentrated dedication to prolonging the act; it was no hurried first encounter, but lengthy and ritualised, an ebb and flow of precise motion seen through the shifting sprays of foliage and flower. At first abashed by what she had been witnessing, Linda had felt her nipples lift and smart in sudden empathy — and then had caught sight of Harry, nude and holding his clothes in a bundle, ready for swimming, but distracted by the same scene. He had not noticed Linda, and she had shrunk deeper into the bushes, watching the couple still, but even more interested in Harry’s reaction: she knew well enough what a normal man’s would have been. For all the virile response to the erotic display, Harry might have been simply looking at the trees. The couple had begun to gasp and sigh, and Linda had moved stealthily away, with one final glance to confirm that Harry remained quite outwardly unmoved.

  After a few minutes, Harry had rejoined the group, telling them that the water was ice-cold. His hair was wet, so Linda assumed that he had gone on to bathe, however briefly, but the thought had nagged since then, and her speculation had been revived by the conversation with Cheryl. The clock donged the quarter-hour. She told herself that Harry must have been disgusted by the couple, or too good a man to have been affected by their unwitting exhibition, and in the end settled for the second explanation, wondering just before she went to sleep whether it was indeed an explanation, or an excuse.

  2

  Peter sat with his mother in the small and stuffy room of the terrace house where they lived. His mother was a faded widow in her early fifties. She was watching Coronation Street on television, and Peter was talking about his holiday plans.

  ‘Marvellous,’ he was saying. ‘I don’t know how Harry thinks these things up. To think I wanted to go and do judo! Why, it’ll be a real exploration trip: better than any old judo.’

  His mother nodded abstractedly and said, ‘Judo. My word, I could think of a word or two to say to that cat Ena Sharples.’

  Peter said, ‘I’m all packed up for an early start in the morning. We’re going to leave about four. Not that Harry would mind if I’m a bit late; I mean, it’s not as if we were going by train.’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ his mother said. ‘Oo, do you know what that old bitch is up to now?’

  Peter got up and said, ‘Well, I’m off. Ten to eight seems a funny time to go to bed, but that’s how it goes. You won’t need to get up in the morning. Night-night.’

  He leaned over and kissed his mother.

  ‘You’ll be sure to send me a postcard,’ she said. ‘Good night. Peter; you mark my words, that old cows’s got it coming to her… Why, are you off to bed already?’

  He had gone; and the next morning, when his mother brought him his cup of tea at eight o’clock, he had gone again.

  *

  Cheryl lived with her parents in a little semi-detached house, built in the 1930s; her mother was watching Coronation Street on television, and her father was Going On about the holiday.

  ‘Don’t forget, now,’ he was saying. ‘Don’t get separated from the others when you’re up there. You’ve got to watch out for a sudden mist; they can come down on you like a blanket before you know where you are. If it happens… I’m not saying it will…but if it does, then the best thing to do is follow a stream.’

  Cheryl said, ‘Have you seen the map? Follow a stream, and you’ll end up following it over a five-hundred-foot drop.’

  Her father said, ‘Taking reasonable care, I mean. You’ve got to take reasonable care.’

  ‘Dad, Harry knows what he’s doing. And so do we by now. I am eighteen in a few weeks.’

  ‘That’s another thing,’ said her father. ‘You keep close to Harry. I respect that man, but them young chaps…’

  Cheryl’s mother said, ‘That Ena Sharples, she’s as artful as a cartload of monkeys.’

  Cheryl stood up impatiently.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ she said. ‘Going on at me.’

  ‘Well, you remember,’ her father said. ‘A stiff tool has no conscience.’

  ‘Dad!’ said her mother.

  *

  Ann’s mother was at bingo, and her father was watching Mission Impossible.

  He said, ‘Hey, I thought you said Harry told you to be in bed by eight. It’s ten to eight now.’

  ‘I’m having my cocoa first,’ Ann said. ‘Can’t you see? I won’t be two ticks. Anyway, I’ll never sleep tonight, I know I won’t. I’m too excited.’

  ‘Excited? What’s exciting about traipsing round North Wales in the rain? It always rains in North Wales; they export rain. Rain and bloody schoolteachers. Both wet. You could be jetting off to Greece or Spain or somewhere. That’d be more exciting.’

  Ann said, ‘Well, when will you take me? I’ll book the tickets as soon as you say.’

  Her father said, ‘When I get another job, that’s when. You want to marry one of them young fellers and bring a bit of money into the house. No monkeying around, though: I don’t want you getting married with a bun in the oven.’

  Ann finished her cocoa and stood.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t wake me up in the morning when you leave,’ said her father. ‘It’s a blessing she’s gone out. Else I’d be watching that bloody Coronation Street.’

  *

  Simon and his parents lived in the caretaker’s house in the grounds of a comprehensive school. Simon’s father was at the school do
ing something with the central heating, and his mother was washing dishes while Simon sat at the kitchen table eating fried sausages and baked beans.

  Simon’s mother said, ‘I still think it’s a daft idea, going off into the middle of nowhere. What if you have an attack?’

  ‘So what?’ Simon put down his fork and swabbed at the juice on his plate with a piece of bread. ‘I’ll be safe enough. They all know what to do. But I haven’t had an attack since we started the LYF. Only a couple of funny turns.’

  ‘I’d rather have you at home,’ his mother said through a clatter of plates. ‘I don’t mind those weekend trips, but a whole week seems a bit much.’

  ‘You’re just an old fuss-bag,’ said Simon.

  ‘Oh, well,’ his mother said. ‘I’m sure it’ll be an experience for you. Since you started up with your LYF thing you’ve been worlds better, I will say that. But you watch those young girls.’

  Simon said, ‘They’re good girls.’

  ‘I’m sure they are, duck. But when you get to know women a bit better you’ll see that they’re only as good as they’re able to be; and from time to time that isn’t very good at all, believe me. And if you’ve quite finished your supper, you can come and dry these dishes before toddling off for your early night’s sleep.’

  *

  Linda sat in the YWCA lounge and watched the clock from her armchair, glancing past the group of girls who were watching some tripe on television. Normally she hated her cubicle of a bedroom, but that night she positively itched to hurry up and sleep. Just to teach herself a lesson, she was going to wait until one minute to eight before she went up: that meant she would be late, which would have annoyed Harry had she intended to tell him; but she had no intention at all of doing that. The smooth-sweep second-hand of the clock went round, lapping the minute-hand fifty-nine times till both hands touched the minute together; and as they did so, Linda came out of the armchair and hurried away, calling good nights to acquaintances and running up the stairs like a girl going to her lover after an intolerable absence.

  *

  Lumpy sat in Egan’s flat, playing with himself in front of the television set, both hands in his trouser pockets, his head quivering and his face set in an expression of abstracted pain; he was no longer seeing the images on the screen, and he didn’t see Egan come in.

  Egan walked across and hit him on the side of the head with a flat hand, and with a lot of strength: the sound cracked in the room as Lumpy’s head swivelled sideways with the force of the blow. He leaped to his feet, struggling to get his hands out of his pockets.

  ‘You rotten git,’ Egan said. ‘You great rotten stinking git.’

  Lumpy sniffed and rubbed the side of his head.

  ‘There was these birds on the box,’ he said. ‘Then I went to sleep. I must have been doing it in me sleep, Egan.’

  Egan said, ‘I’ve no doubt you do do it in your sleep, but you are not doing it in front of my telly. Let me catch you at it again, that’s all.’

  ‘I need a bird, Egan,’ Lumpy said in an attempt at extenuation. ‘I ain’t had a bird for a week.’

  Egan said, ‘When this job is done you can have fifty birds all at once. And in the meantime, if I catch you doing that again, I’ll get Genius to cut it off for you. He’d enjoy that, would our Genius. He’s just been on the blower. The truck’s ready, and we’re all set for the morning, all systems go. Why do you think I’ve kept you here all this time, Lumpy? Because I like the look of your face? No: because you’ve got form ten miles long, and I can’t afford to have you picked up on suspicion. I want you because you can shoot, and remember I want you with your hands steady, and not a wanked-out shivering wreck. Now bear in mind what I’ve said.’

  ‘All right,’ Lumpy said, and sat down again.

  ‘Get out of my chair!’

  Lumpy changed to the sofa, and said, ‘It all sounds funny. I mean, why won’t we get nicked? I might have to use five or six hundred rounds.’

  ‘Because there’s nobody there. There’s never anybody there, because there’s nothing to see. No climbing, no fishing, no ramblers. You might get a few odds and sods in the summer holidays, but not now. It could be snowing up there, I tell you. Genius has been up there six times, and there’s never been another soul within miles. Nothing, except what we’re after. And that will do us nicely.’

  3

  Harry drove the Kombi steadily westward, the sky brightening behind them in accord with their high spirits. They sang, raggedly at first, and then in a fine unison: The Cumberland Mine, When the Ship Comes In, The Company Store and The Quartermaster’s Store. At seven-thirty they stopped at a roadside cafe for sausage and bacon, with cups of dark, sweet tea.

  Harry said, ‘When I was a kid I used to read a lot. We had a good school library where I went: hundreds of books. Did any of you ever read anything by Arthur Ransome? Books like Coot Club?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve read that,’ Ann said, while the others shook their heads. ‘I don’t remember much about it. Sailing and that, wasn’t it?’

  ‘On the Norfolk Broads,’ said Harry. ‘But that’s not the point. These books I used to like, they were about holidays. Kids going on holidays, and adventures that used to happen to them. You all must have read books like that.’

  This time there was general agreement, and they all began to remember having read books about holiday adventures, though they were uncertain about authors and titles. What followed was not so much a discussion as a vociferous batch of monologues, each of them trying to recall a different story. Harry banged on the table with his empty cup.

  ‘Never mind all that,’ he said as they lapsed into silence. ‘Just think of this. Here we are, on the way to adventure! We might find buried treasure or anything. We aren’t just going to the seaside to sit on some beach; we’re doing something special!’

  He beamed at them all, his open brown face radiant and quite unmarked by passion, or indeed any profound emotion or experience: the passage of an endless progression of small and sedate happinesses interspersed with occasional and equally trivial worries had left no trace at all.

  ‘Just look at us,’ he went on. ‘Me, servicing dishwashers. Simon, unemployed. Linda, a trainee social worker. Ann, a typist; and Peter, helping a bread roundsman zoom that supercharged old van round the breath-catching circuits of the suburbs. Cheryl, learning to be a telephonist. Not exactly the jet set, are we?’

  Ann said, ‘My old man wanted me to go to Spain or somewhere.’

  ‘And lie on some beach with a crowd of human sardines, and then drink tea and eat fish and chips,’ Harry said with contempt. ‘Not on your life. I mean we’re nothing special, any of us, but it isn’t who you are that matters. It’s what you do.’

  Linda said gravely, ‘Harry’s right.’

  He was playing with the ball bearings, rubbing them fiercely together.

  He said, ‘And it’s what it means to us that counts. Don’t ever forget that.’

  *

  Harry’s words had induced a mood of sober pride into the LYF, and they drove on in comparative silence towards the hills which began to loom to the westward. Simon had read some way into The Lord of the Rings, and reflected how very right Harry was. The biggest adventures happened to the small people: it wasn’t the mighty warriors or the elf princes who were appointed to cast the ring of power into the fires of doom, but the very ordinary hobbits. Simon had thought of the Speedwell Cavern and the Blue John mine as the Mines of Moria, and, on seeing the Mirror Lake in the Blue John mine, had said, ‘Cold are the springs of Kibil-Nala, and dark are the waters of thingummybob!’ So, as he peered at the rising hills, he thought of them as the Misty Mountains, and wondered what was in store for the company of the LYF.

  They halted for a picnic lunch, and Peter wrote a few words on a postcard which he took from his pocket.

  He said, ‘I promised the old lady I’d send her a postcard. This’ll do nicely, big deal.’

  He handed the postcard to Harry, who
said, ‘It’s a bit grotty, isn’t it?’ Harry looked at the view. ‘The Winnats. Why send a postcard of some place in Derbyshire when you could send one of somewhere up here?’

  Peter said, ‘It was in my pocket. No point wasting it, is there? If the old girl gets a postcard she’ll be happy, never mind what’s on it.’

  ‘Oh well,’ Harry said, ‘stick it in the glove box, and we’ll post it sometime. Now let’s get a move on.’

  *

  At the end of a series of sharp bends there was a long, straight stretch of road. Harry, who was driving, and Peter, who sat next to him, could see the small figure at the roadside from a considerable distance. It raised a thumb; and, as the Kombi approached, Harry and Peter saw a long-haired young man in faded jeans and leather jacket. In front of him was a rucksack with the Stars and Stripes prominently displayed.

  ‘American,’ said Peter, as they came within two or three hundred feet.

  Harry said, ‘We don’t want that sort.’

  The young man picked up the rucksack and began to walk, thumb still raised.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Peter said. ‘Don’t you see? He’s…’

  Harry was braking; slowing rapidly, the Kombi passed the young man, who broke into a shambling trot: Simon and the girls all called to Harry, who was already stopping, to stop.

  The young man opened the sliding door, slung his rucksack inside, and said. ‘Hi, everybody.’

  They watched him, taking in the flowing hair, the headband, the beads under the jacket, the suede boots. His eyes were light blue, his nostrils aquiline, and without his tan he would have been very pale. He struggled with the sliding door.

  ‘Get in, then,’ Harry said over his shoulder.

  ‘If I could close this thing…’

  ‘Just get in,’ Simon told him, and as he did so and Simon closed the door, the girls made room for him as he moved across. One leg was about two inches shorter than the other, they all calculated silently and simultaneously, while the light blue eyes took in Cheryl’s hand.