Sometimes they sensed the moment coming, and slipped away before he could strike, thinking that when back within range he would have forgotten his anger. Hope stayed during their escape, but he never did forget what they had done or said before running away, so they always got whatever battering the lapse of time had convinced him even more they deserved. He’d never crushed them, though, oh no, but they did grow more bitter as they got older. Or at least she had.
She pictured Burton arriving at the gates of hell, where he was made into his prime of thirty-three. He would be at Old Nick’s throat in no time. There’d be some argument or other, such as when Burton, a lifetime blacksmith, wanted to get closer to the fire, while others did what was expected by running from the flames. At the first sign of authority from Old Nick, who as the gaffer demanded fear and respect from everybody, Burton would send a wicked knucklebone crack at his chin, because at thirty-three Burton had been a smith of long standing, with five of his eight kids already born, and took no chelp from anybody. Old Nick, having more than his work cut out to hold Burton in check, would get the pasting of his life. All hell would break loose, you might say. The defence of Burton’s behaviour could only be that he had only been himself, at a time when to be anybody else would have brought him and his family to destitution.
On hearing the din, and being told what it was about, God Almighty would send word for the culprit to come up and explain himself. Out of curiosity Burton would go, to see if there really was a God, and if so what He looked like, because hadn’t he all his life heard from his chastised children, and even from Mary Ann, that God would one day pay him out for his wicked temper? All that could be said in his favour was that at least he had heard of God.
‘Nobody in hell has ever made such a fuss.’ God would shake a finger, though not too harshly, reluctant to upset anyone unnecessarily. ‘So tell me what it was about.’
‘He asked for it,’ Burton would reply, if his mood was mischievous, which it rarely had been, certainly not at thirty-three. Though aware of being talked to by no less than God Himself, he wasn’t the sort of man to answer a question from anyone.
‘What do you mean by that?’ God would ask more sternly, committing the ultimate sin, as far as Burton was concerned, of answering back, and before any of the angels realized what was happening God would be knocked from his golden throne and crawling around the floor looking for his glasses, as well as for the scythe that only a blacksmith like Burton could have made.
Burton would go back to where he knew he belonged, to live in as much peace as could be expected after the life he had led.
Ivy made a pot of tea for Mary Ann, who had only left Burton’s side because, unable to fight off sleep, she had come down to doze in her rocking chair by the fire. Burton was beyond needing a cup, but Ivy wouldn’t take him one, unless he asked her politely, which he was incapable of doing.
Standing on the doorstep a week ago she had seen him coming back from the pub with one of the last pints he would drink settled inside him. Under the sodium lights of the boulevard he held himself straight-backed, fully erect, striding along in his best suit, as if knowing that everyone would step aside for him. Halfway to the house he touched his cap to a young woman going by.
Ivy had been too close to know why women had always found him so attractive, but they had. She remembered standing in the jug-and-bottle to get some Guinness for Mary Ann, and when the door into the saloon bar opened for a few moments there was Burton talking to a woman young enough to be his granddaughter. She was all dolled up, smiling and nodding and looking ready to eat him, and happy that he laughed and touched her arm, as if he would like to eat her. God alone knew what he was telling her. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him trying to get off, unable to imagine why a young girl could be so taken by such an old man.
The last to know about a man were his own children, and all of them were between forty and fifty now. They had never acknowledged how hard he worked to keep them fed, shod and housed, but on the other hand his lifelong struggle had stopped him getting close to them, and had not allowed them to get close to him. Perhaps the only way of keeping himself going was to fight against any kind of bother.
Providing for a wife and eight children hadn’t been easy on the money a blacksmith earned, and she admitted that he had never complained, or blamed anyone for whatever unpleasantness he’d had to face, even though such endurance had cut him off from getting love or consolation from his children. He had never wanted to know himself, thinking, if he had thought at all: ‘I’m me, therefore I am.’ It had always given her satisfaction to recall that God had got back at him twice in his life.
Those who had lived under his reign might dispute that they were the last people to know him. They could say it was easy to know all there was to know, because the expressive fist and vitriolic mask had been only too plain to understand, and that if they didn’t know what was behind it, on running away with aching ribs or a sore back, then who could?
At the groan from upstairs she told herself that whatever pain he was in served him right. It was as well for God to pay him out as much as possible before he died, because who in fact could be certain there was a hell for him to go to afterwards?
The only thing was that he was about to kick the bucket, for which she had waited till the age of forty-five, more years than she’d ever wanted, but when you were born into a situation from which you couldn’t escape there was nothing to do but put up with it. None of them had been asked to come into a family lorded over by Burton.
Every day since birth she’d vowed she couldn’t bear another day under his cold unblinking eye. Maybe her mother had thought the same from the time of their marriage, but it was hard to believe, at her lying so peacefully in the chair.
The arrow of another cry came down the stairs and into the kitchen, bedding its tip into Mary Ann’s heart. At the sound of her feet ascending the narrow wooden stairs Ivy thought that those who suffer most are more punctilious in their obligations to those who put them through it. No one had borne the brunt of him more than Mary Ann, whose loving care for the rest of the family had been the only balm for her endurance. All her married life she had fortified herself by recalling the love that had surrounded her like a halo in those early days.
She had never heard Mary Ann speak a word of complaint against him, as if leaving that to the five daughters and three sons, herself in particular, who always had and always would say what she thought about him, though she’d never done so to his face because, as old as he was, his hand would have been unavoidable.
The framed oleograph above the parlour mantelshelf, a wedding present from Burton’s brother George (who had been no angel either) showed a curly-headed debonair youth with a kerchief around his neck, by his sweetheart in a flowered frock. From the couplet beneath it wasn’t clear which of the pair was speaking, but Ivy assumed the sentimental thought was shared by both, though it was the young man who offered the bunch of flowers. Mary Ann must often have looked at the picture, and wondered about her life with Burton.
Its mysterious quality had appealed to Ivy even before she could read the words, a scene between two people promising a life of happiness and mutual understanding, and kindness towards any children they would have. She had gazed at it as a little girl, and the bitterness of her intense disillusionment was enough to spoil her life.
Still, the picture had been a strength to Mary Ann, because there was no doubt that in spite of his sins Burton was about to die knowing he had never been loved so much by any other woman. He had loved her, as well, and perhaps he had turned against his children thinking they had formed a barrier between himself and Mary Ann.
Ivy realized that for all Burton’s dislike of her, and knowing her hatred of him, he had never threatened to pitch her into the street. He might have thought it often enough – she was sure he had – but he hadn’t said it, because having females in the house who daren’t answer back was something he couldn’t live without. Any
way, the family was the family, and because he had had to put up with the hardships, so must they.
The gate latch clicked, and Oswald came in, tall and ruddy-faced, with the thick hair of Mary Ann’s Irish ancestors. He looked worn and raddled, as if caring for Helen rather than his work had tired him out. ‘Thomas isn’t home yet, but I expect he’ll call later,’ he said. ‘How is Burton?’
‘Mother heard him moan, and went up to see what she could do. I don’t think he’s got long.’
‘Everyone has to die sometime.’ He recalled how Burton had comforted him after the death of Howard. ‘But I do feel a bit upset about it.’
‘I suppose you would.’
‘Well, he’s not dead, is he? He could suddenly recover enough to walk downstairs and be more or less his old self for another five years.’
Ivy’s face reddened with horror at the idea. ‘No, no he couldn’t. He’s too far gone.’
He smiled. ‘It’s been known,’ but didn’t want to argue with such a sister. ‘Has the doctor been?’
‘He was in this morning, and just told us to keep him as comfortable as we could. I’m to go and fetch him, if anything happens.’
‘I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘Mary Ann will need you here.’ He looked out of the window as if to see Burton’s soul already lifting across the plot of yard, illuminating the darkness before fading into rest. ‘You always think your father’s going to last forever, and it comes as a shock to know he won’t.’
She disliked his melancholy, so often noticed in Burton. ‘Well, he can’t.’ Arms folded across her bosom, she wanted to say he had lasted too long as it was, but Oswald wouldn’t like it, so she didn’t. If his sons thought differently it was because they had been quicker at standing up to him and getting out of his way. They found it easier to forgive than women, who’d had more to put up with. ‘I don’t care what you think. I just wouldn’t want somebody like that to last forever.’
‘He didn’t know any better than to treat us like he did.’ Oswald took a spill Burton had made a few days ago, touched a light from the fire for his cigarette. ‘I know he was hard, but not all the time with me.’ Burton had become easier to get on with in the last few years, and was dying just as he was ready to enjoy life. Maybe the longer two people live together the more they get to be like each other, and being married to Mary Ann for sixty years it was natural that her tolerance should pass onto him – as he’d said to Sabina only last week.
Emily came in, without saying hello, a half-filled basket on her arm. The war had been over more than a year, but times were no easier. You’d be daft to expect it, Ivy thought. Food was still rationed, and all the buildings were shabby and needed a coat of paint.
Emily put the weekly rations in the cupboard. The put-upon aspect of her features that had been there since birth made everyone look on her as a bit touched. It helped to recognize herself in the mirror, which was better than not seeing anything unusual at all.
‘I had to queue half an hour. A lot of people jumped in the line just as they saw me coming. Then some pushed in front of me. I wanted to kill ’em, but they pushed and pushed. When I couldn’t put up with it any longer I told them to fuck off or I’d blind them.’
‘Don’t swear.’ Ivy remembered her doing so in front of Jane Middleton, who’d been shocked. Tears came at the memory of poor Jane, who’d died of a heart attack two years ago.
Emily gave a wickedly triumphant smile. ‘Well, I got my place back, didn’t I? And I brought all the groceries home, didn’t I? So don’t fucking well tell me what to say.’ She poured tea, and made a face on tasting it. ‘You let it get cold,’ glancing at Ivy, who she thought capable of putting ice in it specially for her.
Ivy, knowing better than to argue, was glad to see Sabina and Edith, followed by Thomas. All six crowded the living room, both men still in their working clothes. Sabina kept her coat well-wrapped, looked fearful, as if incapable of tears after her baleful life with Harold. ‘How’s Dad?’
‘The old so-and-so’s about to go.’ Ivy when in Kent heard Rebecca say she wouldn’t bother to come and see Burton when he was ill and looked like kicking the bucket, so everybody was here who should be.
Edith set out cups for the tea Emily was making. ‘I know he was a bit of a bogger to me, but I’m sorry he’s going.’
Sabina was too miserable to speak. He had been a devil to her as well, though she couldn’t forget how he had taken her back into the house after she had run away from home.
Burton shouted, like a much younger man, ordering his sons to start work at the forge: ‘Nobody can do a job as well as yourself.’ Then he was in the doorway of the house handing out jobs to all and sundry like a sergeant-major. Oliver was walking across the Cherry Orchard towards Robin’s Wood, about to vanish in the mist of a warm spring morning. He called for him to come back.
Ivy shook with rage. ‘It should be Mary Ann he wants.’
‘He loved Oliver more than anybody else except her.’ Oswald dried tears with a large white handkerchief, wondering whether Burton had wept when his father had died. Probably not, because he hadn’t been born of a mother like Mary Ann. He stood with Thomas by the bed, the first time they had been in the room while their father was there.
Come to see me go, Burton thought. Mary Ann hadn’t slept by his side the night before, which meant that Old Nick was about to have him. Narrow stairs curved upwards, dark and dusty in his waking dream, but he was beyond the effort of climbing.
‘What are you doing here?’ Oliver stepped from the frame in the parlour, to see him off, or welcome him, his smile no more than a subtle alteration of the lips, as if to start softly whistling, make perfect music to cut himself off from the surrounding tribulations. Burton hoped for love and forgiveness, but Oliver turned like a plaster dummy and walked away.
He shouted, but his son wouldn’t listen, had only been happy when by himself as a youth. Burton called again, looked hard and long. ‘He’s not far off, Mam,’ Oswald said, though it took some believing, till he heard Mary Ann crying, poor soul. Impelled by his last strength, Burton sat rigidly upright, the flannel nightshirt buttoned to his neck, a look of inflamed wonder when the velvet patch fell from his skull-like head and revealed the ugly terracotta hole of his dead eye.
He was still for a moment – as if to give traffic on the road outside the chance to stop at his going – until a spark the size he had never imagined spread through his heart and lungs, causing gouts of pink froth to erupt from his open mouth. Blood flowed down his chin, and he saw with a blacksmith’s clarity Old Nick coming towards him on a horse. There was shock on his face, and then the eye stopped looking because it could see no more. Never afraid of the dark, he went into it wondering what was there.
Feeling more alone than he ever had, Oswald stepped onto a trolley bus going into town, and paid for an announcement in the Evening Post saying that Ernest Burton, blacksmith, was dead. The world would be a different place from now on, and they who had been borne from him would feel themselves different people. He wanted to sit in the Peach Tree over a pint and think about the family’s loss but, fearful that something might happen to Helen if he delayed, took the same numbered bus towards home.
One or two men who had worked with Burton at the pit came to Lenton churchyard to see him buried. Many people had heard of his death, but Mary Ann wondered what the dumpy and spectacled woman by the wall, and the tall young man by her side, were doing there.
Old Morgan, thin and upright, was the height of formality in his wing collar and bowler hat, and silver-handled stick pressed firmly to the ground. He stood next to Tom who was dressed equally high and out of fashion, both upright but close together, as if to support whoever might fall, and looking beyond the grave into space they would be entering soon, to find Burton. When the priest had finished his words Tom turned to Morgan: ‘There’s a dewdrop at the end of your nose, old pal,’ and passed the ironed handkerchief from his top pocket.
Morgan snatched it, dab
bed, then handed it back. ‘Mind your own bloody business. There’s one on yours as well.’
Dyslin came to the graveside, and said to Mary Ann: ‘My family knew Mr Burton as a young blacksmith in Wales.’
The mention of Burton’s youth brought back the days when he had courted her, so she felt momentarily young in her grief. He was the same smart chap who had called at Old Engine Cottages fifteen years ago. ‘You mean your mother knew him?’
‘Yes. I saw from the paper that he’d died. It’s a sad day for me as well.’
He looked like Burton’s son, clipped moustache, hard unblinking eyes, a strong line of jaw, tall and spare. Perhaps Burton had fathered more than one child before meeting her.
His laugh made an uncommon noise in the churchyard when she told him. ‘In my profession I hear even more outlandish stories. But I must go now. If you ever need anything, you have only to let me know.’ He gave her a newer version of the card she had found among the things of Burton he had thought worth keeping.
Oswald saw him walk away under his large umbrella. ‘Who was that?’
‘He was my captain in the Home Guard,’ Thomas put in. ‘Wasn’t it nice of him to come? I didn’t think he thought so much of me. I suppose he found out about it from the Post.’
‘He was Burton’s son,’ Mary Ann said. ‘Your half-brother, from before Burton married me.’ She walked away from their astonishment. A man can scatter children everywhere, she thought when out of the rain and in the car to go home, but if a woman brings one into the house that isn’t her husband’s, and he finds out, she gets murdered.
Alma, a pale spinster of fifty, hair grey under her rain hat, peered at the ceremony through small gold-rimmed spectacles. The heavy gaberdine mackintosh wasn’t quite warm enough to stop her emotional shivers. Thirty-one-year-old Oliver was by her side, both standing well apart from the Burtons. She hardly knew why she was there, except that she had wanted him to see his father buried, but he seemed bored, even irritated.
A Man of his Time Page 38