The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

by Alan Sillitoe

  The riches lasted for an hour, and Colin couldn't remember having been partner to so much capital, wanted to guard some from the avid tentacles of the thousand-lighted fair. But it fled from their itchy fingers--surrendered or captured, it was hard to say which--spent on shrimps and candyfloss, cakewalk and helter-skelter. They pushed by sideshow fronts. "You should have saved some of that dough," Colin said, unable to get used to being poor again.

  "It's no use savin' owt," Bert said. "If you spend it you can allus get some more"--and became paralysed at the sight of a half-dressed woman in African costume standing by a paybox with a python curled around her buxom top.

  Colin argued: "If you save you get money and you can go away to Australia or China. I want to go to foreign countries. Eh," he said with a nudge, "it's a wonder that snake don't bite her, ain't it?"

  Bert laughed. "It's the sort that squeezes yer ter death, but they gi'

  'em pills to mek 'em dozy. I want to see foreign countries as well, but I'll join the army."

  "That's no good," Colin said, leading the way to more roundabouts, "there'll be a war soon, and you might get killed." Around the base of a Noah's Ark Bert discovered a tiny door that let them into a space underneath. Colin looked in, to a deadly midnight noise of grinding machinery. "Where yer going?"

  But Bert was already by the middle, doubled up to avoid the flying circular up-and-down world rolling round at full speed above. It seemed to Colin the height of danger--one blow, or get up without thinking, and you'd be dead, brains smashed into grey sand, which would put paid to any thoughts of Australia. Bert though had a cool and accurate sense of proportion, which drew Colin in despite his fear. He crawled on hands and knees, until he came level with Bert and roared into his ear: "What yer looking for?"

  "Pennies," Bert screamed back above the din.

  They found nothing, retired to a more simple life among the crowd. Both were hungry, and Colin told himself it must have been five hours since his four o'clock tea. "I could scoff a hoss between two mattresses."

  "So could I," Bert agreed. "But look what I'm going to do." A white-scarfed youth wearing a cap, with a girl on his arm working her way through an outsize candyfloss, emerged from a gap in the crowd. Colin saw Bert go up to them and say a few words to the youth, who put his hand in his pocket, made a joke that drew a laugh from the girl, and gave something to Bert.

  "What yer got?" Colin demanded when he came back.

  Ingenious Bert showed him. "A penny. I just went up and said I was hungry and asked 'im for summat."

  "I'll try," Colin said, wanting to contribute his share. Bert pulled him back, for the only people available were a middleaged man and his wife, well-dressed and married. "They wain't gi' yer owt. You want to ask courting couples, or people on their own."

  But the man on his own whom Colin asked was argumentative. A penny was a penny. Two and a half cigarettes. "What do you want it for?"

  "I'm hungry," was all Colin could say.

  A dry laugh. "So am I."

  "Well, I'm hungrier. I ain't 'ad a bite t'eat since this morning, honest." The man hesitated, but fetched a handful of coins from his pocket. "You'd better not let a copper see you begging or you'll get sent to Borstal."

  Some time later they counted out a dozen pennies. "You don't get nowt unless you ask, as mam allus tells me," Bert grinned. They stood at a tea stall with full cups and a plate of buns, filling themselves to the brim. The near-by Big Wheel spun its passengers towards the clouds, only to spin them down again after a tantalizing glimpse of the whole fair, each descending girl cutting the air with animal screams that made Colin shudder until he realized that they were in no harm, were in fact probably enjoying it. "I feel better now," he said, putting his cup back on the counter.

  They walked around caravans backed on to railings at the Forest edge, looked up steps and into doorways, at bunks and potbellied stoves, at beautiful closed doors painted in many colours and carved with weird designs that mystified Colin and made him think of a visit once made to the Empire. Gipsies, Goose Fair, Theatre--it was all one to him, a heavenon-earth because together they made up the one slender bridgehead of another world that breached the tall thickets surrounding his own. A connecting link between them was in the wild-eyed children now and again seated on wooden steps; but when Colin went too near for a closer look a child called out in alarm, and a burly adult burst from the caravan and chased them away.

  Colin took Bert's arm as they wedged themselves into the solid mass of people, under smoke of food-stalls and traction engines, between lit-up umbrellas and lights on poles. "We've spent all our dough," he said, "and don't have owt left to go on Noah's Ark wi'."

  "You don't ev ter worry about that. All yer got ter do is get on and keep moving from one thing to another, follering the man collecting the cash so's he never sees yer or catches up wi' yer. Got me?"

  Colin didn't like the sound of it, but went up the Noah's Ark steps, barging through lines of onlookers. "I'll do it first," Bert said. "So keep yer eyes on me and see how it's done. Then yo' can go on."

  He first of all straddled a lion. Colin stood by the rail and watched closely. When the Ark began spinning Bert moved discreetly to a cock just behind the attendant who emerged from a hut-like structure in the middle. The roundabout soon took on its fullest speed, until Colin could hardly distinguish one animal from another, and often lost sight of Bert in the quick roaring spin. Then the world stopped circling, and his turn came: "Are you staying on for a second go?" Bert said no, that it wasn't wise to do it two times on the trot. Colin well knew that it was wrong, and dangerous, which was more to the point, yet when a Noah's Ark stood in your path spinning with the battle honours of its more than human speed-power written on the face of each brief-glimpsed wooden animal, you had by any means to get yourself on to that platform, money or no money, fear or no fear, and stay there through its violent bucking until it stopped. Watching from the outside it seemed that one ride on the glorious Noah's Ark would fill you with similar inexhaustible energy for another year, that at the end of the ride you wouldn't want to come off, would need to stay on for ever until you were either sick or dead with hunger.

  He was riding alone, clinging to a tiger on the outer ring of vehicles, slightly sick with apprehension and at the sudden up-and-down motion of starting. He waved to Bert on the first slow time round. Then the roundabout's speed increased and it was necessary to stop hugging the tiger and follow the attendant who had just emerged to begin collecting the fares. But he was afraid, for it seemed that should only one of his fingers relax its hold he would be shot off what was supposed to be a delicious ride and smashed to pieces on hitting the outside rail--or smash anyone else to pieces who happened to be leaning against it.

  However with great effort and a sinking heart he leapt: panic jettisoned only in the space between two animals. In this state he almost derailed a near-by couple, and when the man's hand shot out for revenge he felt the wind of a near miss blowing by the side of his face. The vindictive fist continued to ply even when he was securely seated on a zebra so that, faced with more solid danger than empty space, he put his tongue out at the man and let go once more.

  He went further forward, still in sight of the attendant's stooping enquiring back. In his confused zig-zag progress-for few animals were now vacant--he worked inward to the centre where it was safer, under a roof of banging drums and cymbals, thinking at one point to wave victoriously to Bert. But the idea slipped over a cliff as he threw himself forward and held on to a horse's tail.

  The roundabout could go on faster, judging by shouts and squeals from the girls. Colin's movements were clumsy, and he envied the attendant's dexterity a few yards in front, and admired Bert who had made this same circular Odyssey with so much aplomb. Aware of peril every second he was more fretful now of being shot like a cannonball against wood and iron than being caught by the money-collector. "Bogger this," he cursed. "I don't like it a bit"--laughing grimly and lunging out on a dow
ngrade, pegged by even more speed to a double-seated dragon.

  A vacant crocodile gave a few seconds enjoyment before he leapt on to an ant-eater to keep his distance equal from the attendant. He thought his round should have finished by now, but suddenly the man turned and began coming back, looking at each rider to be sure they had paid. This was unprecedented. They weren't lax, but once round in one direction was all they ever did--so Bert had assured him--and now here was this sly rotten bastard who'd got the cheek to come round again. That worn't fair.

  The soporific, agreeable summer afternoons of Masterman Ready, having laid a trap at the back of his mind, caught him for a moment, yet flew away unreal before this real jungle in which he had somehow stumbled. He had to move back now in full view of the attendant, to face a further apprenticeship at taking the roundabout clockwise. It seemed impossible, and in one rash moment he considered making a flying leap into the solid stationary gangway and getting right out of it--for he was certain the man had marked him down, was out to wring his neck before pitching the dead chicken that remained over the heads of the crowd. He glimpsed him, an overalled greasy bastard whose lips clung to a doused-out nub-end, cashbag heavy but feet sure.

  How long's this bleeding ride going to go on? he asked himself. It's been an hour already and Bert swore blind it only lasted three minutes. I thought so as well, but I suppose they're making it longer just because that bloke's after me for having cadged a free ride. This jungle was little different from home and street life, yet alarming, more frightening because the speed was exaggerated. His one thought was to abandon the present jungle, hurl himself into the slower with which he was familiar--though in that also he felt a dragging pain that would fling him forth one day.

  He went back the same way, almost feeling an affection now on coming against a nuzzle, ear or tail he'd already held on to, going from the sanctuary of ant-eater to dragon to crocodile slowly, then gathering speed and surety in leaping from horse to zebra to tiger and back to lion and cock. No rest for the wicked, his mother always said. But I'm not wicked, he told himself. You'll still get no rest though. I don't want any rest. Not much you don't. Clear-headed now, he was almost running with the roundabout, glancing back when he could--to see the attendant gaining on him--dodging irate fists that lashed out when he missed his grip and smiling at enraged astonished faces as if nothing were the matter, holding on to coat-tail and animal that didn't belong to him. Things never turn out right, he swore, never, never. Ranka-tank-a-tank-tank went the music. Clash-ter-clash-ter-clashclash flew the cymbals, up and down to squeals and shouts, and bump-bump-bump-bumpity-bump went his heart, still audible above everything else, lashing out at the insides of his ears with enormous boxing-gloves, throttling his windpipe with a cloven hoof, stamping on his stomach as though he were a tent from which ten buck-navvies were trying to escape, wanting a pint after a week of thirst.

  A hand slid over his shoulder, but with a violent twist he broke free and continued his mad career around the swirling Ark. "He'll get me, he'll get me. He's a man and can run faster than I can. He's had more practice than me." But he lurched and righted himself, spurted forward as if in a race, making such progress that he saw the man's back before him, instead of fleeing from his reaching hand behind. He slowed down too late, for the man, evidently controlled by a wink from the centre, switched back. Colin swivelled also, on the run again.

  Compared to what it had been the speed now appeared a snail's pace. The three-minute ride was almost up, but Colin, thinking he would escape, was caught, more securely this time, by neck-scruff and waist. He turned within the grasp, smelling oil and sweat and tobacco, pulling and striking at first then, on an inspired impulse kicking wildly at his ankle, unaware of the pain he was causing because of stabbing aches that spread over his own stubbed toes. The man swore as proficiently as Colin's father when he hit his thumb once putting up shelves in the kitchen. But he was free, and considered that the roundabout up-and-downabout was going slow enough to make a getaway. No need to wait until it really stops, was his last thought. It was like Buck Rogers landing from a space ship without due care, though a few minutes passed before he was able to think this. Upon leaving the still-swirling platform his body fell into a roll and went out with some force, crashing like a sensitive flesh-and-bone cannonball between a courting couple and piling against the wooden barrier. The ball his body made without him knowing much about it slewed out when he hit the posts, arms and legs flying against the carved and painted woodwork of the balustrade. Clump-clump--in quick succession--but he wasn't aware of any standstill either beyond or behind his soon-opened eyes. The rank-a-tank-tank-tank played him out, a blurring of red-white-and-blue lights and coloured animals, and a feeling of relief once he was away from his pursuer, no matter what peril the reaching of solid earth might surround him with.

  Bert had watched the whole three minutes, had tried pushing a way through the crowd to catch Colin as he came off-a small ragged figure elbowing a passage between lounging semi-relaxed legs that nevertheless were not always easy to move, so that he reached him too late. "Come on," he said in a worried voice, "gerrup. I'll give yer a hand. Did yer enjoy your ride? "--trying to make him stand up. Turning to an enquirer: "No, he's my cousin, and he's all right. I can tek care on 'im. Come on, Colin. He's still after you, so let's blow."

  Colin's legs were rubber, wanted to stay against the sympathetic hardness of wood. "He slung me off after speeding it up, the rotten sod. It was a dirty trick."

  "Come on," Bert urged. "Let's blow town."

  "Leave me. I'll crawl. I'll kill him if he comes near me." No spinning now: he felt floorboards, saw legs and the occasional flash of a passing wooden animal. They'd started up again. "It's your turn now, ain't it?" he said angrily to Bert.

  No time was lost. Bert bent down and came up with him on his shoulders like an expert gymnast, going white in the face and tottering down the wooden steps, towards warm soil and dust. On the last step he lost his strength, swerved helplessly to the right, and both donkey and burden crashed out of sight by the bottom roundabout boards where no one went.

  They lay where they had fallen. "I'm sorry," Bert said. "I didn't know he was looking out for us. And then you go and cop it. A real bastard." His hand was under Colin's armpit to stop him sliding sideways. "Are you all right, though? I wun't a minded if it 'ad bin me, and I mean it. Do you feel sick? Are you going to spew? "--hand clapped over Colin's mouth, that was closed tight anyway. "The snakey bastard, chasing you off like that. He ought to get summonsed, he did an' all."

  Colin suddenly stood up, leaned against the boards and, with more confidence in his legs, staggered into the crowd, followed by Bert. Abject and beaten, they walked around until midnight by which time, both dead-tired, the idea occurred to them of going home. "I'll get pasted," Colin said, "because I'm supposed to be in by ten." Bert complained that he was knackered, that he wanted to get back anyway.

  Streets around the fair were shrivelling into darkness, took on the hue of cold damp ash. They walked arm-in-arm, inspired enough by empty space to sing loudly a song that Bert's father had taught him: "We don't want to charge with the fusiliers Bomb with the bombadiers Fight for the racketeers We want to stay at home! We want to stay at home! We want to stay at home!" words ringing loud and clear out of two gruff voices slopping along on sandalled feet, mouths wide open and arms on each other's shoulders, turning corners and negotiating twitchells, singing twice as loud by dead cinema and damp graveyard: "We don't want to fight in a Tory war Die like the lads before Drown in the mud and gore We want to go to work...." swinging along from one verse to another, whose parrotfashioned words were less important than the bellows of steamy breath fogging up cold air always in front of them, frightening cats and skirting midnight prowlers, and hearing people tell them to shurrup and let them sleep from angrily rattled bedroom windows. They stood in the middle of a bigger road when a car was coming, rock still to test their nerves by making it stop, then charging off
when they had been successful, to avoid the driver's rage, to reach another corner and resume locked arms, swinging along to the tune of Rule Britannia: "Rule two tanners Two tanners make a bob, King George nevernevernever SHAVES HIS NOB!" each note wavering on the air, and dying as they turned a corner; at least it would have sounded like that, if anyone had been listening to it from the deserted corner before. But to Colin, the noise stayed, all around their heads and faces, grinding away the sight and sound of the Noah's Ark jungle he had ridden on free, and so been pitched from.

  On Saturday Afternoon

  I ONCE saw a bloke try to kill himself. I'll never forget the day because I was sitting in the house one Saturday afternoon, feeling black and fed-up because everybody in the family had gone to the pictures, except me who'd for some reason been left out of it. 'Course, I didn't know then that I would soon see something you can never see in the same way on the pictures, a real bloke stringing himself up. I was only a kid at the time, so you can imagine how much I enjoyed it.

  I've never known a family to look as black as our family when they're fed-up. I've seen the old man with his face so dark and full of murder because he ain't got no fags or was having to use saccharine to sweeten his tea, or even for nothing at all, that I've backed out of the house in case he got up from his fireside chair and came for me. He just sits, almost on top of the fire, his oil-stained Sunday-joint maulers opened out in front of him and facing inwards to each other, his thick shoulders scrunched forward, and his dark brown eyes staring into the fire. Now and again he'd say a dirty word, for no reason at all, the worst word you can think of, and when he starts saying this you know it's time to clear out. If mam's in it gets worse than ever, because she says sharp to him: "What are yo' looking so bleddy black for?" as if it might be because of something she's done, and before you know what's happening he's tipped up a tableful of pots and mam's gone out of the house crying. Dad hunches back over the fire and goes on swearing. All because of a packet of fags.