He poked his head inside. “Chap in distress, that’s why.”
“Oh, bollocks!” I was glad she came out because it gave me the chance to look at a pouting mouth I so wanted to kiss that it brought me back to life and hope, red cardigan over a thin black sweater moulding lively little breasts I longed to get my hands over. She wore a red skirt it was all I could do not to lift, and black stockings I yearned to roll down, at least as far as her ankles. Black hair brushed back from a high forehead was tied by a ribbon, and I wondered how much of her nakedness it would cover if allowed to flow like Lady Godiva’s. “We’ll never get to Stamford if we stop for every deadbeat whose car’s on the blink.”
His laugh showed stained teeth as he pull off his leather gloves. “Ignore her. It’s my car, and I’m the driver.”
Her long nails were painted red, all death and love, and I thought she was going to vandalise his car—then mine—by scratching the paintwork. “I want to get to a hotel so’s we can fuck some more.”
“All in good time, my dear.” He turned to me. “I’ll call the AA on my radio telephone. Won’t take more than a shake,” which, after I’d flipped my card out and given the number, it didn’t, me spelling details through the window, while his girlfriend stepped up and down the lay-by careful not to go up to her ankles in sludge. “They’ll be here in about forty minutes,” he said.
I offered a cigar, and told him my name. “I’ll never forget your kindness. I’m off to see my aged and widowed mother in Nottingham. Who do I have the privilege of being eternally grateful to?”
“John Dropshort,” he said in his upper class drawl. “Lord Dropshort, actually, of Dropshort Manor.”
I used to pass the place on bike rides up the Trent as a youth, sometimes climbing over a wall into one of the orchards, to be chased off by a gardener, though once I got close enough to see the big house covered in ivy, and people playing croquet on the lawn. “I know it. A fine old pile.”
“What sort of thing do you do?” He pulled his cap straight, though it wasn’t askew. “You know, to earn a living?”
“I write novels.” He deserved to know I was more interesting than a superannuated advertising copywriter. “Under the pseudonym of Sidney Blood.”
He stood up into even more than a ramrod. “Oh, but he’s awfully good. I have a few titles in my library—on a back shelf, of course.”
“Thank you.” A touch of modesty in the right place always impressed. “I’m only sorry I don’t have a copy in the car, but when I’m back at my country cottage I’ll send you one, signed personally.”
“Alice,” he called, “come and meet Sidney Blood.”
“Who’s he when he’s at home?” the mardy cow shouted above all the traffic noise.
“She’s illiterate, really.” Dropshort leaned close. “She came through her education in the sixties with flying colours, hardly able to read or write. Her teachers were very pleased at their accomplishment. However, she can do the one thing good that matters, and because of that I saved her from getting half killed this morning.”
I could think of no better way to pass the time waiting for the AA man than to ask: “How was that?”
He guffawed—he really did. “When we came out of the hotel lift in Nottingham my wife Joan was waiting in the lobby, and went for Alice with her walking stick. Quite vindictive. Can’t think why.”
“The fucking bitch.” Alice became more friendly at overhearing her adventure retailed to a stranger, as if it gave her some importance in the world.
“My wife hit the woman next to her by mistake,” Dropshort said. “Alice was very adept at getting out from under.” He gave a dry ruthless laugh. “She’s a quick little trollop, thank the Lord. I pulled the stick off Joan, and broke it.”
“Sounds a real killpig.” I was sure Alice recognised the word, and if she didn’t she had no right to be where she was.
“Killpig?” His eyebrows, or what he had of them, went up.
“It’s a Sidney Blood expression. Means mayhem, a fracas, a real set-to, a fight to end fights, a hard bloody time in unforeseen circumstances.”
“I’m not waiting here all day.” Alice turned to me. “He’s the biggest fucking liar I’ve ever known. It was him as set his wife onto me. He’d told her where we’d be. He does things like that just to wind me up. ‘Life’s too boring, otherwise.’” She imitated him perfectly, and I wondered why she didn’t use that accent all the time, to hide every trace of the slum-dump she came from. “But I’ll show him whether it is or not. He hasn’t seen me when I really get going.”
“She’s an utter slut.” He spoke as if sorry I had to witness them together. “The roughest bit of rough I’ve ever had, but I love her, and I’m not letting her go. She keeps me fit, don’t you, darling?”
“You shut your fucking mouth. He’s such a posh fucker,” she said to me, “he thinks he can get away with everything. But not much longer with me he wont, the fucking long link of shit.”
“See what I mean?” He put his gloves back on, as if he might give her the pasting she deserved. But no: “Doesn’t she have a wonderful vocabulary? It’s perfect. What more could I want? She never puts a word wrong.”
“If you don’t get back in the car this minute I’ll start walking to Stamford,” she said, a wicked glint, “then some lorry driver will pick me up and rape me. He’ll chop me to bits in a wood, and it’ll be all your fault.”
He may have been a member of the aristocracy in his yearning for a woman like that, but there was no doubt at my belonging to the same club in wanting to sink my mutton dagger into her. In spite of her foul mouth she had the sort of lively dead common come-on I had been familiar with all through my youth. It would have felt like being seventeen again pulling her under a bush. A woman like her wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in Blaskin’s presence either. She got her hands at one of his wing mirrors, as if to try twisting it off, which jerked him to life. “If you do that you’ll get the biggest thrashing of your life.”
“Just you fucking try.” The twist of her ruby lips suggested a Pyrrhic victory if he did, and she laughed in his face when he didn’t. “Come on, I’m getting snatched in this wind. I want to get to that nice warm hotel at Stamford you told me about, and throw back a few whiskies.”
“Afraid I have to go.” He offered his hand for a goodbye touch. “Your AA chap should be along any minute. Alice,” he shouted brutally, “come and say goodbye to Mr Blood.”
She poked her head out of the window. “I’m Alice Newbold, and I live in Radford. See you in the Plough sometime, Sid. They’ve got good ale there. Tar-rar!”
He wagged his head. “It’s impossible to civilise her.”
I don’t think he tried very hard, since that wasn’t what he wanted her for. All I could do was wish him luck, as he crossed the traffic lane, missing a lorry by inches, as if the road was empty and he owned it anyway, then drifted towards the A1 at Grantham.
Ten minutes later the AA man came in a breakdown truck, and agreed with my diagnosis of a knackered clutch. “Needs replacing. I’ll load you up and take you to a depot near Nottingham that deals with this sort of car.”
Buy Moggerhanger Now!
A Biography of Alan Sillitoe by Ruth Fainlight
Not many of the “Angry Young Men” (a label Alan Sillitoe vigorously rejected but which nonetheless clung to him until the end of his life), could boast of having failed the eleven plus exam not only once, but twice. From early childhood Alan yearned for every sort of knowledge about the world: history, geography, cosmology, biology, topography, and mathematics; to read the best novels and poetry; and learn all the languages, from Classical Greek and Latin to every tongue of modern Europe. But his violent father was illiterate, his mother barely able to read the popular press and when necessary write a simple letter, and he was so cut off from any sort of cultivated environment that, at about the age of ten, trying to teach himself French (unaware books existed that might have helped him), the only met
hod he could devise was to look up each word of a French sentence in a small pocket dictionary. It did not take long for him to realize that something was wrong with his system, but there was no one to ask what he should do instead.
So, like all his schoolmates, he left school at fourteen and went to work in a local factory. Alan never presented himself as a misunderstood sensitive being, and always insisted that he had a wonderful time chasing girls and going with workmates to the lively Nottingham pubs. He also joined the Air Training Corps (ATC) where he absorbed information so quickly that by the age of seventeen he was working as an air traffic controller at a nearby airfield. World War II was still being fought, and his ambition was to become a pilot and go to the Far East, but before that could be realized it was VE Day. As soon as possible he volunteered for the Royal Air Force. It was too late to become a pilot or a navigator, but he got as far as Malaya, where as a radio operator he spent long nights in a hut at the edge of the jungle.
The Morse code he learned during this time stayed with Alan all his life; he loved listening to transmissions from liners and cargo ships (although he never transmitted himself), and whenever invited to speak, he always took his Morse key along. Before beginning his talk, he would make a grand performance of setting it up on the table in front of him and then announce that if anyone in the audience could decipher the message he was about to transmit, he would give that person a signed copy of one of his books. As far as I remember, this never happened.
In Malaya, Alan caught tuberculosis—only discovered during the final physical examination before demobilization. He spent the next eighteen months in a military sanatorium, and was awarded a 100 percent disability pension. By then Alan was twenty-three years old, and it was not long until we met. We fell in love and soon decided to leave the country, going first to France and then to Mallorca, and stayed away from England for more than six years. That pension was our only reliable income until, after several rejections, the manuscript of Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was accepted for publication. Afterward, Alan would say that during those apprentice years he had been kept by a very kind woman: the Queen of England.
It is said that an artist must choose between life and art; sometimes Alan would tell whomever questioned him that after his first book was published and he became a recognized writer, he stopped living—there was not enough time to do both. I hope that was not entirely true. But writing was his main activity: He would spend ten to twelve hours a day at his desk, reading or answering letters when he needed a break from working on his current novel. And there were poems, essays, reviews—and scripts for the films of his first two books, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning and The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner, and later others. He was extremely productive. But certainly he also enjoyed social life with our friends and going to concerts or the theatre. This was the heyday of the young British dramatists at the Royal Court Theatre.
Now, in the 1960s, there was enough money for what we enjoyed most: travel, and although in the first few years our son was still a baby, we would spend up to six months of the year away from England. Alan’s books were translated into many languages, which meant that he was invited to many other countries, frequently to literary festivals, or sometimes offered the use of a villa or grand apartment for generous periods of time. I remember a stay at a castle in then-Czechoslovakia, where we were awoken every morning by a scream from our son, who had managed to get his head or hand caught in some part of the rickety crib that had been put in our room for him. We also spent months in Mallorca, in a house generously lent by Robert Graves. During our four years on the island we had become good friends with him and the Graves family.
Time passed … the sixties, seventies, eighties, nineties.… Every year or two a new book, a trip to another part of the world. Japan, India, the United States, Mexico, and Latin America: the range extended. I usually went with him, and as by then I also was having work published, sometimes the invitation was to me, and he would assume the role of consort.
Looking back, I realize what a wonderful life we had then. But a year or two before his eightieth birthday, Alan told me he was not feeling well. It was always hard to persuade him to see the doctor; this time he suggested it himself. There were many hospital appointments for investigations and tests—the National Health Service was as excellent and thorough as ever—and a few weeks later the diagnosis came: There was a cancer at the base of his tongue. His suspicions were confirmed. Although he had continued to smoke his pipe (and the occasional cigar), now he stopped at once. The tragic program of treatments started, and the inevitable oscillations between hope and despair. Twice it seemed that he was cured; then it all began again. In April 2010, not long after his eighty-second birthday, Alan died. We had hoped he could die at home, but he needed the facilities of a good hospital. Months later, on a cupboard shelf in his study, I found the manuscript of Moggerhanger.
Sillitoe in Butterworth, Malaya, during his time in the RAF.
Sillitoe and Ruth Fainlight shared their first home together, “Le Nid”, while living in Menton, France, 1952.
Sillitoe in Camden Town in 1958, soon after the publication of Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.
Sillitoe at his desk in his country house in Wittersham, Kent, 1969.
Sillitoe in Berlin while on a reading tour in 1976.
Sillitoe sitting at his desk in his flat, located in Notting Hill Gate, London, 1978.
Sillitoe writing at his desk in Wittersham in the 1970s or ’80s.
Sillitoe and Ruth Fainlight at the PEN conference in Tokyo, Japan, 1984. They both gave readings at the conference, and Sillitoe was a keynote speaker, along with Joseph Heller.
Sillitoe standing on the porch of his wife’s apartment in Nashville, Tennessee. He visited Ruth while she was a poet-in-residence at Vanderbilt University in January of 1985.
Sillitoe (right) in Calais, France, with Jacques Darras (center), a French poet and essayist, August of 1991.
Sillitoe in front of his and Fainlight’s Somerset cottage with his friends, American poet Shirley Kaufman and Israeli literary critic and academic H. M. “Bill” Daleski.
Sillitoe on holiday in Penang, Malaya, in 2008. Sillitoe spent time in Malaya as a radio operator for the RAF in 1948.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1985 by Alan Sillitoe
First US edition
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3857-7
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Life Goes On Page 54