The Death of William Posters: A Novel (The William Posters Trilogy Book 1)

by Alan Sillitoe

  All this stung his brain. Lincolnshire had been further away from Nottingham than London. He walked into the comforting lit-up dark, but after a hundred yards he hated it, and entered another pub as if the street had driven a nail into his back and pushed him through the door.

  ‘What are you jumping into me for with such force?’

  A pub was like a church, full of altars and incense, beer and biscuits, where you could either be with someone or alone. Frank eased the man out of his way: ‘If you want a drink, say so.’

  ‘I want nothing that belongs to you, but if you jump me like that again, I’ll swing this pick handle I’ve got under me coat, and there’ll be no mistake about that.’

  Frank stood at the bar: ‘Drop dead. I tripped on the way in.’

  The man hung at his elbow: ‘Not at all, friend, not at all.’

  Through the face he saw the snow-loam of Lincolnshire, the features that poached and wrote begging letters, the snow-tanned sun-lined phizzog of Albert Handley with the dark-brown eyes and short lips topped by a clipped moustache. The dawning came slowly, because Albert in his translucent joking had used a mock brogue. He also wore a new cap, a heavy good quality overcoat, buttondown shirt, tie, smart shoes and gloves. A long thin cigar hung from his mouth. He stank of prosperity, and a few whiskies: ‘You’re not dreaming, Frank. It’s your old pal. I knew you a mile off, that square walk of yours, as if you’d hump through any door that wouldn’t open. I’m only up this way tonight because I’m slumming. I got fed up with staying at the Metropole. Too posh for me, though I’ve only been there a week.’

  ‘Two doubles,’ Frank called. ‘If this happened often I’d die from shock.’

  ‘So would I. Let’s down a few while we’re at it: on me.’

  ‘I’ll pay my rounds,’ Frank said. ‘But what went on?’

  Albert motioned him to a table. ‘Let’s sit down, then I’ll tell you. It’s something I’d always expected, but never knew would come. I often joked about it to Ina, to burn us up when there was no coal for the fire. It’s so new to me I’ve hardly sorted it out myself yet.’

  Frank wanted to ask him about Pat, to catch any fact or rumour of what took place after he’d left. ‘You see,’ Albert said, ‘I was discovered as a painter, as the bastards say. Last week I lugged fifty prime canvases and a roll of drawings to London for a show I’m going to have. That was after the owner of an art gallery here in London, the Arlington, had spent two days at the village getting photos of them, and another bloke had been taking down my life story for publicity. I got more money than I’ve had for all the paintings I’ve so far sold put together. I still can’t believe it, Frank. I can’t, my boy. It’s bloody fantastic. If I took any real notice of it I’d be in chaos. Have another on me. You remember all them drinks I sponged off you in the village that snowy day?’

  Frank downed another double. ‘That still don’t tell me how it all started.’

  Albert grinned, swallowed. ‘It was all your fault. You’ll be surprised to hear it.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘You see, after you left, Pat Shipley’s husband came up, to get her back.’

  ‘Not after I left,’ Frank said, ‘while I was there.’

  ‘Was it? Well, I never knew much of what went on in the village. But one morning I sent a lad of mine around the houses with a painting, and a book of raffle tickets at a bob a time. Everybody was dunning me, and I hadn’t got a penny. I was desperate, always am when I come down to raffling a picture. So he calls at Nurse Shipley’s, and who should come to the door but her husband. He’s a fine man is Keith, a very good chap, quite a big advertising man here in London. Well, he asked who had done the picture, and to cut a short story shorter he comes up to the house and asks to see my other work. Then he goes back to the village and phones a telegram to a pal of his who owns the Arlington Gallery. This chap comes up after a couple of days, and the ball starts rolling.’

  ‘This is the best thing I’ve ever heard about,’ Frank said. ‘When I saw that picture of “The Lincolnshire Poacher” I was crazy about it. Remember?’

  Albert laughed. ‘I offered it to you. You’d have been worth a good bit now if you’d gone off with it.’

  ‘That doesn’t worry me. That would have been robbery.’

  ‘It’s getting pride of place in the exhibition,’ Albert said. ‘That one knocked ’em all flat, so I’m glad you didn’t take it.’

  Frank came back with two doubles and two pints. ‘Did Pat’s husband stay long?’

  ‘About ten days, I should say. He was well liked in the village. Bought four of my paintings even before the Arlington man came up. Not that he’s my sort though. I can forgive a person anything, except when they buy one of my paintings.’

  ‘You just paint to make enemies then,’ Frank taunted. ‘I’m glad I didn’t take the one you offered.’

  Albert laughed: ‘So am I! I had a couple of reporters today at the hotel, and they kept asking me why I painted, so I got fed up and said: “If anybody asks me why I paint again I’ll punch his clock.” Then I got my fists ready, expecting them to come for me, but they just wrote down what I said, thinking it was a gimmick, I suppose. But I happen to be serious. I’ve been painting for nearly twenty years, working all the time, going at it alone in between making a living and writing begging letters, not many people knowing that I even painted, and those that did wondering when I was going to get a job.’ He sagged over his drink, head looking into it as if into the bulb of a flashlight. He swung to Frank, one eye closed, showing his teeth in a grin. ‘Stop me, Frank. I still think I’m talking to reporters, or that fat get Teddy Greensleaves who owns the gallery.’

  ‘All right, it’s time,’ the waiters and publican shouted. ‘You’ve had your lot. Outside now.’ Frank hated the way pubs closed in London. Customers were treated like dogs who’d been allowed to sup at the common trough. In Nottingham serving often continued twenty minutes after time, the pumps pulled surreptitiously, one eye on the towels and the other on the door for the coppers.

  ‘Teddy Greensleaves is a strange chap,’ Albert said. ‘He tries to dazzle me with all his learning, and thinks I can’t see him doing it. Talks about Oxford and rattles off the big art names, goes on theorizing about art till the cows come home – but they never do because it doesn’t mean a thing. Lucky Dip I call him, because whatever you say he’s always dipping into the sackbag of his mind to pull out a quotation from some book or other. I don’t think he’s got a mind of his own. He’s consumptive in that way, a fat consumptive,’ he affirmed, ‘not a thin one. As long as Teddy sells my paintings, I should worry. Let me get back to the clean fields covered with cow shit.’

  Frank shook him: ‘Listen, Albert, I’ve got to know something.’

  ‘Anything,’ Albert said. ‘Anything. Greensleaves said: “The hotel’s on me. Where do you want to stay?” So I said: “The Metropole” – which was the only one I’d heard of and cost ten pounds a night. He nearly dropped through the floor, but he kept his word. It’s comfortable, central, but that’s about all as can be said for it. I get paint all over the carpets. Had to smuggle it in. Wrapped canvas around me like corsets. Use the wardrobe for an easel. Not too boring like that.’

  A waiter snatched their glasses. Frank pulled his back, still half filled with beer. ‘You’d better get out,’ the waiter said, ‘or there’ll be trouble.’

  Frank finished his drink. ‘I’d like to see it.’

  ‘You will, mate,’ the waiter said.

  Albert woke up. ‘Clear off,’ he said. ‘Get them glasses washed.’ He winked, and slid a pound note across the table. The waiter took it and walked away.

  ‘You’ve learned quick,’ Frank said.

  ‘It’s easy when you’ve got money.’

  ‘You won’t have it long though, like that.’

  ‘Plenty more where that came from. My wife and kids are swimming in it. I like to see people like that waiter crawl. They’ve got no backbone here in London.
The other night in the hotel it was ten o’clock and I hadn’t got a bean till the bank opened next morning. I was in my room reading the paper. I picked up the phone and said to the bloke at the desk: “Put two half-crowns on a silver tray, and have it brought up to me here.” I wanted to go out for a pint in one of them pubs up the Strand. So this waiter comes up and stands by my bed with the two half-crowns on his tray. I pick one up and put it in my pocket. “The other one’s for you,” I say. “It goes on Mr Greensleaves’s bill.” And he says: “Thank you, sir,” and humps off. I don’t stand any fucking nonsense from this lot down here.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Frank said, ‘where’s Pat Shipley living?’

  Albert opened his eyes. ‘You don’t know a thing, do you? Something funny happened at that house. She sold it, by the way, and got a good price for it. I would have bought it but it was too small for my mob. I’m buying the house we live in, remember? I’ll have an extension built on, and a studio down the garden to keep me away from the sound of battle. All on private mortgage. The place is falling to pieces, but I’m softhearted.’

  ‘What did happen?’

  ‘She crashed in her car one night. Plenty of ice on the roads. It worn’t bad. She was lucky. Broke her arm, got a few bruises and cuts. The car was a write-off though, but she got the insurance. Can’t put a foot wrong that woman can’t. She’s back in London now with old Keith. I saw them the first night I was down, and they look happy enough. They’ve got a little house, in the Royal Borough of Kensington – Dogshit Borough, I call it. I’ve never seen so much dog shit on the pavements as down there. You’ve only got to step out of a taxi and splut! you’re in it. Still, it’s royal dog shit, so you just look happy and scrape it off on somebody’s doorstep. But it’s funny, when you go in that house it looks exactly the same as the one she had in Lincolnshire. She brought all her stuff down, but even so, it’s bloody weird.’

  They stood up. Albert swayed. The pub was dark except for light behind the bar. The waiter stood at the door: ‘Good night, sir.’

  Frank took his arm. ‘I’ll get you a taxi. We’d better cut through to Camden Road.’ The council blocks had had most of their eyes knocked out for the night – a few yellow squares remaining, squat and baleful, as if kept in by the intermittent flush of traffic on the downhill road. It seemed darker, though the same lamps were lit, upturned orange troughs high in the air. Albert rallied: ‘Greensleaves is going to throw a big party when my show comes on. Swill for everybody. I’ll get him to drop you a card.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Frank said, his mind flying across the wastes of other things. I can’t see her again, burned my boats and sunk ’em, blocked the river and collapsed the banks, blown up the bridges as well. Only swamp left. ‘Good, then,’ he said.

  They walked as far as the canal, and no taxi passed. Albert leaned against the wall and looked over. ‘It’s not deep enough,’ Frank said, thinking that he might go in first if it was. A train hobbled over the bridge. ‘I’ve thought of that a few times since all this fuss began. But I’m pleased and happy that something’s happening. I can’t wait to get back home though and start work again. This fuss – I feel as if a great shovel comes out of the sky and scoops my willpower away. Then I want to drop under a train. I wouldn’t live in London, not even for a pension.’

  ‘I’ve seen the last of Pat,’ Frank said.

  ‘I reckon you have,’ Albert agreed. ‘So you ran out on her, did you?’

  Through fire and dead soil, the pain unearthed itself out of his guts, tried to pull his eyes backward into the depths of his head, then to ram the back of his head into his eyes. Holding his face with both hands he spun into the middle of the road, roaring between the fire-lamps of traffic: ‘Taxi! Taxi! Taxi! Taxi!’ I didn’t run away from her. I jumped from the snow and ice of her life, and of mine. I was the odd man in, then the odd man out, the third man in a crowd, the trickster who is supposed to have no heart, who pulls the string and gets buried in the avalanche he makes. The only person she loved was her kid, and the one way she could go on loving him was by living with Keith, and I was dead right when I left her after she left me. The sky turned to water, froze, and slid under his feet.

  ‘You can’t stand up,’ Albert said, ‘and I’m the one that’s drunk.’

  ‘I can’t take you in that state,’ the taxi driver said.

  Albert still held him. ‘He doesn’t want a taxi, I do.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Phone me,’ Albert said, gripping him at the arm like iron. ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Metropole Hotel.’

  ‘Who are you kidding?’ the driver said.

  ‘I’ve never felt less like kidding in my life. I don’t work there either. If you don’t want to take me though, I can walk. I’d rather walk than put you out, mate.’

  ‘All right, all right, get in.’

  Frank stood apart. ‘I’ll see you.’

  ‘On the big night,’ Albert smiled. ‘Don’t forget. Come and support me. I’ll need it. Greensleaves said everybody’ll be there, though I don’t see how he’s going to get forty-eight million people into that gallery.’

  The taxi drove off gracefully, making speed along the shining road towards the tube station.

  14

  The Arlington was re-opening with Albert Handley’s show. His work hung finely framed around the room, honoured in one of the smartest Bond Street galleries. It was difficult to see his paintings, for the huge, long, low-ceilinged hall was crammed with people who seemed to be holding them up by a collective gaze, meshing them to the wall with admiring words. A charming, high-haired woman stood by the door, Handley’s face looking seriously up at her evening dress from a pile of handouts on the table containing his life story, list of exhibited works, and a few reproductions, including one of ‘The Lincolnshire Poacher’ in full colour. This celebrated picture at the far end was impossible to get at, except perhaps over the mass of elegant, poshly coiffeured heads. Cigarette smoke made her eyes sore, or maybe it was the lighting which wouldn’t normally allow one to linger too long at any picture – brilliant and merciless, like the wit overheard when pushing towards some scrap of paint and canvas.

  After all, it was a party, so she’d be lucky to see anything – or perhaps unlucky, since it wouldn’t be fair to make judgements on a night given over to publicity rather than simple pleasure. Not that she’d be able to afford the Arlington prices, and was curious as to why or how an invitation had been sent to her. No doubt she was on the mailing list, having bought a couple of drawings in the days when prices weren’t so fancy.

  She took a glass of champagne, wondering how the waiter could manoeuvre so freely when she had been jammed five minutes in one place. She recognized living images from the Sunday papers and the rich sleek weeklies. A shadow-faced novelist from the north was saying to a famous American painter: ‘When’ I have a cold I can only smoke cigars’ – in a loud, bell-clear accent totally unlike any used in his books. The collective noise deadened all thought of speech. Her voice was normally soft, and toning it up would call for some forceful inner assertion that she didn’t feel inclined to use, shy of drawing notice to herself in case it should be unfavourable and so erode her long nurtured feeling of aesthetic superiority to these newspaper and television people, critics and middlemen, fashion-mouths and party-liners. Yet they impressed her as figures because they had the courage of their non-convictions, hired beliefs that they had grown to regard as their own, and which, to give them their due, they now put over with a certain amount of panache and literacy. Living in the country so long had given her a sense of detachment – which was something to be said for it – had taught her to appreciate the power and value of London’s amenities, while occasional visits inclined her to despise them. On balance she took from it what she wanted, and was only contemptuous of what it tried to make her want.

  Such a crush disturbed her. Also looking as if he didn’t belong there a man made way, squeezed
himself aside so that she could get through. Another bubble of conversation broke: ‘My analyst said: “There’s too much death in you.” “I know,” I told him, “but death is better than suicide.”’ Glasses didn’t stop smoke paining her eyes. Her body pressed by, and he held her arm, unable to give free way: ‘Have you met Albert yet?’

  ‘I’ve not long been here. I think it’s impossible to meet anyone.’

  ‘You’ve met me,’ he smiled. ‘I’m feeling a bit like a … spare man at a wedding. Greensleaves asked too many people. Come and see Albert though. He’s an old pal of mine.’ His middle-strong height cleaved between the backs of talking drinkers. He gripped her hand, turned to see if she were still the same person: ‘There’s plenty of booze, I will say that.’

  She was intrigued at the thought of meeting the man responsible for ‘The Lincolnshire Poacher’ especially after the articles that had already garnished the fat Sundays. ‘My name’s Frank Dawley,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Myra’ – and felt him press her hand in acknowledgement. He pushed one upright back too hard, a tall bald man in a lounge suit who stared furiously but said nothing. Frank wore a grey pinstriped two-piece, charcoal tie under a white collar, black high-sided shoes. He’d taken a day off from the car park, unworried as to whether he got the push or not, being flush for money from having saved much of his pay in the last few weeks. He was feeling the need to lift himself out of London, light off for the country, or drift over to France. A letter from his sister in Nottingham told that Nancy was living with someone else, a bachelor of the old days who had courted her even before Frank turned up, who had never married, whose mother had not long died, and who at last saw his chance. Another solid door of his past had locked – in which there couldn’t be anything but a lasting good. ‘What do you do?’ Myra asked, as he paused to get a bearing on Albert.’