Paul was so turned over backwards when he learned about the affair that he could hardly speak to Adelaide. His face was the picture of dangerous humiliation. Arthur hoped he would never have to go through such trouble, had advised Avril not to tell him, but the matter was finally sorted out in their kitchen. Paul leaned against the sink, eyes more and more bloodshot as he tried to hold in his anger, cigarette ash spilling into his beard. Arthur, who had just made some tea, could see it coming, and it did.
Paul let rip, but kept his hands firmly together, calling her a treacherous slimy whore not fit to live with anybody. She was a bag of the first water who thought only about herself. She cared nothing for the kids and even less for him, who had been working like a slave to keep the ship afloat for the last five years. He said the same thing in different ways, over and over, on and on for a good ten minutes, till Adelaide went white because she hadn’t heard so much talk from him, and certainly not of that sort, all the time they’d been together. She had been standing up during his silence, as if ready for a quick getaway should he try to smash her one, but now that he was talking, and wouldn’t become violent, she felt able to sit down. She had to, though Arthur admired her coolness at asking Paul for a fag, which he gave her, and which got them talking with no more bad language or threat of murder. She promised to give up her boyfriend, though Arthur told Avril after they had gone out arm in arm that he didn’t think she would.
He regretted his part as the bringer of bad tidings, because Paul, learning who they had come from, disliked him from then on. ‘He should have seen it as a favour,’ Arthur said, ‘because what man wants to be kept in the dark when his wife’s knocking on with somebody else? Still, I suppose it’s the worst thing, to be a messenger who brings bad news, even if it’s good news. They used to kill messengers in the olden days. I can just picture it. You see this bloke on a horse galloping over the horizon. He’s got a spear waving from his side, and a couple of arrows in his back. He’s in rags, he’s covered in mud and shit, his arse is red raw from riding through deserts and swamps and mountains. After he hands his message to the king, who’s sitting on a chair outside a big coloured tent, he can hardly stand up. The king knocks off a goblet of wine, then reads the message, which is probably about fuck-all. The messenger looks at him like a dog waiting for a pat on the head, but the king gives a nod to his favourite poncy thug, who’s drinking a bottle of four star perfume, and when he finishes it, and after a good belch, he pushes a sword into the messenger’s guts, and finishes the poor fucker off for all his trouble. Well, I wish I hadn’t opened my trap now. I’ll know better next time.’
Not long after the set-to in Avril’s kitchen Adelaide dropped in on her moped at half past eight. It was pissing down, Arthur recalled, and she didn’t say much, only stopped long enough for a cup of tea. As soon as she’d gone he turned to Avril: ‘You know what all that was about?’
‘I don’t. What’s your idea?’
‘Well, she didn’t come to see us because she loves us, but so’s she could have an alibi. She was spread out like a cushion on the chief embroiderer’s table longer than she should have been.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so. Now she can tell Paul she was with us instead of having it off in the office.’
‘I expect you’re right. You usually are, you dirty-minded devil.’
‘He was fucking her arse off, you can bet. She’s a right one, she is. She’d skin your prick like a banana.’
The embroiderer had a wife and two kids, so both families were broken up when they began living together. Adelaide left the kids with Paul, hoping, Arthur supposed, that they wouldn’t grow up to be fitters in a factory. ‘It was probably the best thing she ever did for them,’ Avril said.
‘Maybe, but I’d have tracked her down and dumped her three on the doorstep.’
From then on Paul worked his backbone to a string of conkers, double shifting as much as he could, to make sure the children wanted for nothing. In the end, seeing how he’d worked for them year after year, they respected him more than if he had been mother and father together.
‘The best part of it was,’ Arthur told Brian, ‘that one of the kids was so smart at school he passed enough O-Levels and A-Levels (and probably every other level as well) to get through all the hurdles and qualify as a solicitor. He’s got his own firm now, and you couldn’t do better than that if you think of where he started. It must have been Adelaide’s brains and Paul’s example of hard work that got him there.’ Paul encouraged and rewarded his talented son every stage of the way, at the same time getting what help he could from the system. He wasn’t dim at all, only put on by a wife who thought she was too good for him. It must be a sign of the times that with brains you can get wherever you like, but the joke is that the solicitor son is now invited to all Adelaide’s dinner parties, after Avril told her about his success when she saw her getting out of a big flash Volvo in Slab Square. Though Adelaide shows him off to her friends, she’ll never include Paul in her list of guests. When I asked him what he thought about it, after we started talking to each other again, he said: ‘Why should I mind? It’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t want to know my ex-wife’s friends. If I did go there, and met the one she ran off with, I’d murder him on the spot. I’m happy that my solicitor-son comes to see me now and again. We get on very well together.’
Arthur considered Paul to be one of the best, even though you rarely knew what was in his mind. No reason why you should, it was always best to keep your trap shut, only let people know what you wanted them to know, which was how he thought it should be for himself and everyone, if there was to be any peace in the world.
All the same, it would be hard to believe Paul didn’t think any further than what he said or what he did, because everybody had something going through their heads. With most people you don’t care one way or the other what it might be, since it can’t be very interesting, and has nothing to do with you if it is, and if everybody told you what was in their minds you wouldn’t be able to make up your own idea of what it was, which was half the fun of being alive.
Paul obviously thought more than most people, you’d be daft not to realize it, because he’d worked harder and done so much good in his life. If a wicked remark came into Paul’s mind he would think long and good before letting it go, by which time he’d decide it wasn’t worth saying, and would hold it in. But he was bound to have such thoughts, there being times when you can see the mechanism working. I couldn’t have done half the good he’s done, though certain it is that the more you talk the more you circle back to the start line, so it’s best to say no more than you’ve got to, and keep any thoughts to yourself.
As for Basford Crossing, you can stuff the place, because the only thing that matters is that Avril’s got cancer.
FOUR
When Brian parked his car some time ago he noticed that one of the streets he had grown up in had been wiped off the face of the earth. Served him right. That was the way it was. What else did you expect? When God said let there be light he painted it in, and then he painted it out. The same with the surface of cities. They needed clearing off and doing up every few decades.
A glimpse of old places set him reviewing the course of his life, though he didn’t like doing so, there being so much to anger and shame him. Such recollections should have been pushed out of harm’s way by now but weren’t. However long he lived it would be the same, otherwise he wouldn’t have left the place of his birth.
Arthur told him never to leave his car in such an area, either in daylight or in the dark, so he hoped it wouldn’t get robbed (not much to nick), vandalized for devilment, or set on fire out of malice. ‘Nothing is safe anymore,’ Arthur said, when they were settled in a snug pub on Prospect Street and could talk without music howling in their ears. ‘Nottingham’s got the worst crime rate in the country, and the worst murder rate. If you stroll through town on Saturday night you risk a cleaver in your guts. When we were kids
we walked anywhere, day and night, and nothing would happen. Nowadays, if I wanted to leave my car on the street for a few minutes I’d put a nice looking hip flask on the back seat, but it would have poison inside so that whoever broke in and took a sip would die in agony.’
‘Which would serve ’em right,’ he went on. ‘Cars are owned mostly by people who need them to get to work, but thieves and muggers who break into ’em only do so to get money for drugs, or so they won’t be bored by being too idle to work. It’s the poor who suffer most from crime. The rich have got burglar alarms and guard dogs, and when they drive through areas where druggies live they wind the windows up and put their foot on the accelerator. They could stop crime right away if they wanted, but they don’t because it keeps the poor in their place.’
‘What would you do, though?’
Arthur’s graveyard laugh signified he could think of plenty. ‘It’s unlikely I’ll get the appointment, because I’m too old for the job. But I’d be ruthless. Anybody caught for murder I’d execute in Slab Square, and show it on television. Those who say it wouldn’t make any difference if you did hang ’em, don’t think they’re ever going to get murdered. I’d train a special night force looking like old-age pensioners, but they’d know unarmed combat and carry guns, and if they found any trouble they could pull anybody in and ask ’em what they was up to.
‘I’ve worked all my life and don’t want to live in a place where some snipe-nosed fuckface is going to point a knife at my guts when I go out at night. If I carried a knife and ripped somebody apart who threatened me I’d get sent down for ten years. It’s civil war, and though I’m sixty I wouldn’t mind having a go, because I’m still stronger than most of them. It used to be pleasant living in this town, but some areas are no-go now. I was in town the other week, and when a young bloke said something I thought he only wanted to know the time. He was nearly as tall as me, and had an earring hanging from his left tab hole, and a shaved head that made him look like an Aids victim. He asked me for a quid for a cup of tea, so I told him to fuck off. He shouted after me, but I didn’t want to turn back and smash his face in because there were too many people about. He looked as if he’d never been hungry in his life, nor done a stroke of work either.’
Brian knew he was thinking of his son, Harold, who rarely had a job – a heartbreak father if ever there was one. ‘There isn’t much work these days.’
‘There is if you try hard enough.’ He stared into his pint. ‘You don’t have to beg. Nobody starves, and I wouldn’t want ’em to either. We was brought up on the dole, but we didn’t beg.’
Brian finished his drink. ‘Have another?’
He would. Both did. Brian went for them. Such views as Arthur’s would be in no way agreeable to the people he partied with in London, though after a lifetime away they remained very much his as well, always had been, and he felt no shame having them, though he softened their harshness when with his friends, unless releasing their uncensored force for the pleasure of shocking them, and to let them know there was another side to him. He unpeeled an Antico Toscano bought in Italy, as strong as all get out but tasting like honey when supping a pint of Nottingham ale. ‘I suppose the police do all they can to keep the place under control.’
Arthur blanched at the smell of the cigar. ‘I was wondering where my socks went to when I slung ’em out of bed last night. It stinks like a damp haystack on fire. Well, I expect they’re doing all they can, but I never thought I’d live to say the Nottingham force was too soft. Blokes in prison ought to know they’re banged up. There shouldn’t be any television, no drugs, no sex magazines, no visits, and they’d be locked in dungeons day and night, the walls running with moisture, with only a crust to eat now and again. Anyway, let’s drink up, and see what’s going on at the White Horse.’
The next morning they decided on Matlock, asked Avril to come, but she needed time to run up a dress on her Singer, and in any case could have a meal ready for when they got back.
‘We used to bike this way for fresh air and exercise at the weekends,’ Brian said when they were crossing the motorway. ‘Toiling up and down through the hill towns to open country.’ He had set out for Matlock with Jenny, who hadn’t biked that far before, and was soon worn out with pedalling.
‘It’s only another ten miles,’ Brian said to her in the market place at Ripley. ‘And there aren’t any hills.’ Except a big one on the way back which he didn’t mention. ‘It’s downhill to Ambergate, and flat along the valley the rest of the way. We’ll go slow. You’ll be all right.’
‘I know when I’m done in,’ she had said, and promised to wait in Ripley.
Sharp winds blew from the west, metal blue clouds charging over the livid green hills. Matlock felt dead, the line of dismal shop fronts full of artefacts he didn’t want or couldn’t afford. Hiking parties toiled up a footpath out of the valley, and he envied their freedom and companionship. He didn’t feel like queuing for a boat on the river, or shinning up the Heights of Abraham, but stood bemused by the pavement, not knowing what to do.
He turned the bike around, and every mile to where Jenny would be waiting seemed like ten, all strength necessary to pedal four miles up the hill to Ripley. The wish to see her bolstered him during the struggle, mulling on how good life would be if he could spend it with her, imagining a future of mutual comfort and support in that rhythmical pushing forward of his toecaps against the ever ascending road. In Ripley he would take her to a café for tea and cake and, by the steam of the urn, tell her he wanted them to be engaged. After military service he would say, words she had been waiting for since their first meeting, we can get married. We love each other and will be together for good, the only way to go through life. I’ll find a better job than in the factory, so there’ll be no worry about us having money to live on.
Beyond the houses of Ambergate and into open land towards the summit, trees with their spring shoots wished him well, still no view of the crest for which he was heading. A following wind laid chill hands at the small of his back but helped him to where Jenny would be waiting to greet him in Ripley market place with a kiss of relief and welcome. They would ride home side by side, the ups and downs of the road not so onerous when they were together, talking about how they were made for each other and what a marvellous life they would have.
Drizzle settled on his jacket as he did three turns anticlockwise around the square. He looked into every shop, pub and café. A stray dog followed and tried to bite his back tyre. He kicked it away, landing a good one at its second attempt, thwarting the mongrel’s bid for friendship. Then he cycled three times clockwise around the square, but she had gone home and who could blame her? He should have had more sense than to abandon her. It had been the biggest mistake of his life, and even then he’d thought so. Matlock could have waited, such a place there forever, so what had driven him to go on alone?
As more rain came he only hoped, though it was hardly a help, that she had set off home a few minutes after he had left. Working hard on piece work at the clothing factory, the fourteen miles to Ripley had worn her out. It was a marvel she had got even that far. He should have put his arms around her on hearing she couldn’t go on: ‘I can’t stand the thought of biking all that way, either. Let’s go back together.’ He ought to have cared for her as he liked to be looked after when exhausted and miserable – though he couldn’t remember a time when he had been. They should have cycled happily homewards, stopping at a café in Eastwood for something to eat so that she would have enough energy to go on pedalling.
Forlorn and alone, she would think he had failed her, that he wasn’t a young man worth having, and it wouldn’t be anybody’s fault but his if she did. If you didn’t blame yourself for what went wrong you never learned anything, a lesson best taken in sooner than later which, now that it was too late, didn’t do much for his spirit as he upped and downed the long road back, rain penetrating to his skin. Jenny’s mother and sisters would say: ‘Why are you home so early? What
’s happened to Brian?’
‘I got tired. He left me in Ripley to go off on his own.’
They would look at her gone out, as if to say (and they very likely did say it) ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he? That’s just like him. I can’t think why you bother with somebody who does a thing like that.’
How right they would have been. It wasn’t the first cold-blooded act of his life, though regret was futile. Similar situations had often been turned against him, and though everyone received only as much as they gave, his treatment of Jenny was one of the first, though when a few days later she didn’t complain he felt that maybe his mistake hadn’t been so bad after all. ‘There wasn’t much use waiting in cold old Ripley,’ she said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t come back for at least a couple of hours.’
‘I’m sorry I left you all the same.’
‘Oh, it didn’t matter.’
‘I shan’t do a thing like that again.’
‘Won’t you?’ She looked as if certain he was only waiting to do something so painful it would part them forever. She couldn’t trust him. He couldn’t trust himself, and that was worse.
Arthur cut into his thoughts. ‘Do we go through Eastwood?’
‘No. A bypass skirts it along the line of the old railway.’ Every mile brought back Jenny’s clear and all-knowing face. ‘You shoot up to Ripley, and down into Ambergate. It used to be a real slog on the old push-bike. I didn’t even have a three-speed, if I remember.’ He clocked seventy along the bypass. ‘There’s a D. H. Lawrence museum in Eastwood. I’ll take you some day.’
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