Birthday

by Alan Sillitoe

  ‘I used to think I was a good liar,’ Arthur said, ‘but I can’t spin yarns like him.’ His concern focussed on Avril, who let her half spoonful of soup fall into the bowl. She hurried out of the room, waving aside offers of help.

  ‘She’s gone to be sick again,’ Arthur said after a silence. ‘She can’t even keep soup down. She takes tablets for that sort of thing, but they don’t work anymore.’

  The day would come when she’d no longer be in her usual chair, no help to give against what was killing her. ‘Maybe there’s something else she can take.’

  Arthur shook his head. ‘It gets harder to hope. I’ll go and see how she is.’

  He stood up to look at the framed photograph of Isambard Kingdom Brunel in his stove pipe hat standing against a background of outsized chainlinks, a smallish man with sensual lips, fine hands, and narrowed eyes, a slim cigar between his lips as if its smoke helped with thoughts of some mechanical contrivance not yet in anybody’s imagination.

  A white shirt showed under his waistcoat, and a thin chain coming from around his neck would be connected to a small circular slide rule in the left pocket, while another instrument, possibly a compass, swung an inch below the waistcoat. Untidy hair sprouted from under the rim of his hat, and his wrinkled trousers had shines at the folds, as if made of thin leather.

  Hands in pockets, but with a youthful vigour in his attitude, he was relaxing after the inspection of some job in hand. Mud on his none too protective boots proved the day inclement, chainlinks behind stained with swathes of rain. He had looked forward to a sweet refreshing smoke while clambering over girders and stanchions, and his momentarily weary gaze may have been because he was impatient with the photographer and wanted to be back at work.

  Brian had read that certain people would like to see the cigar eradicated from Brunel’s lips, so that the young wouldn’t be influenced by his seeming pleasure in tobacco, but he thought it better to airbrush out the chains behind him, which were symbolic of a greater evil than that of a well deserved smoke.

  In Brunel’s day people smoked and drank, fuelled themselves with rich food (not to mention opium or laudanum) and no doubt fucked all they could, and probably died younger than they might have done, but the civilizing benefits of their works had made life less brutal for those non-smoking teetotal vegetarian politically correct bigots of the present who cast an aura of sin over the simplest of pleasures.

  Arthur, who hadn’t smoked for a few months because of a chest infection, asked for a cigar when he came down. Brian passed one from his case. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Trying to sleep. She’s better off in bed, but she wanted to put on a show, and greet you at the table.’ He blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, which relaxed his features. ‘Maybe she’ll feel better in the morning. It’s hard to know what to do, but after the nurse has been I’ll get the doctor in as well.’ He stood by the stove, and put some peeled potatoes into a saucepan. ‘There’s pork chops to slam under the grill, and mixed vegetables from the freezer.’ He turned on the gas. ‘We shan’t go hungry. And I feel better when I’m doing something.’

  ‘We could have eaten in town.’

  He fitted the corkscrew to a bottle. ‘There’s no need to splash fifty quid on a meal. Last time you did I thought them turds was a bit off.’

  ‘I’ll pay the next food bill at the supermarket, then. But maybe the three of us’ll have lunch at the White Hart sometime.’

  Arthur doubted it, but liked the offer as he filled two glasses of red. ‘They’ve ripped out all the small rooms since we last went, and made one big one, just to make more money.’ He slid the glass across. ‘They can pack more people in, though it looks the same on the outside.’

  From staring into his wine he turned and grinned. ‘With little rooms you can have a drink in each and think you’ve done a pub crawl. If it’s raining you don’t get wet, and you can talk to people. I don’t drink much these days in case I have to drive Avril to the hospital, though I’d have to drink more than a drop before I couldn’t drive.’ He scissored a packet of minestrone to heat while setting the table. ‘I’ve got to look after both of us. I never did much around the house except washing up, but I’m getting a dab hand at it now.’

  Arthur would always be able to care for himself, but the picture of him in the house alone, bereft, standing in the kitchen not knowing north from south, whether to go out or brew tea, if he should sit down or crawl into bed, laugh or cry, go and sit on a bench in the garden, or stay in and cut his throat, didn’t bear thinking about. He had never lived on his own, and though Brian had heard it was good for self-knowledge it didn’t stop you making mistakes, or lessen the suffering. Whoever said: ‘know thyself’ (and he was well aware of who it had been, but look where it had got Him) should have realized it would make little difference.

  ‘Maybe we’ll have a drink in town tomorrow,’ Arthur said, ‘I know I should stay in, but Avril gets upset if she thinks I don’t go out because of her. I drive around now and again just to make her think she can look after herself.’

  ‘We could call on Jenny. She’d like it if we nipped in to say hello.’

  ‘You’d better phone and let her know.’

  Brian found the number in his address book, did a quick tap-dance with his finger ends on the plastic base. ‘I can tell your voice anywhere,’ she said. ‘You are a stranger, though.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m all right. I always am, you know that.’

  No use expecting her to tell him she wasn’t. ‘I’m staying a few days with Arthur and Avril.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Not too good. She’s sleeping at the moment.’

  ‘Give her my love. I hope she gets better soon.’

  ‘Me and Arthur wondered if we might call in the morning.’

  ‘Of course you can. I’m always in.’

  ‘About half past ten.’

  He put the phone back. ‘That’s settled.’

  ‘It’ll give us somewhere to aim for,’ Arthur said. ‘But it’ll depend on how Avril’s feeling.’ He cut into his chop. ‘She might be all right. But she goes up and down. What the end will be don’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘She’ll win through,’ was all he could say, which neither of them could believe. Arthur had videoed a programme about an aircraft carrier sunk in the Norwegian Campaign. The English captain had locked his aeroplanes in their hangars instead of having them in the air looking for the German warships.

  ‘It’s a good job the bastard went down with his ship,’ Arthur said, ‘because nearly all the sailors drowned as well.’ Not much talk left, as he stood to wash the pots. ‘I’ll be off to bed in a bit,’ his worry and grief beyond measuring. ‘We’ll get an early start in the morning.’

  Avril had been sick every half hour, so Arthur had been awake all night. ‘We’ve got the nurse coming today, and Avril swears she can handle it on her own, but I’ll stay behind to see that it goes all right. She always says she feels fine, and there’s no cause to worry, so maybe they don’t do as much for her as they could.’

  Brian propped himself up so as not to spill coffee on the sheets. Rain swathed the house roofs, a depressing day, but after a soak in the bath he felt more lively, as he sat down to toast and coffee. ‘Here’s the key to the door,’ Arthur said, ‘in case you’re back before me. She might have to go into the hospital, and if she does I’ll go with her to see that she’s all right.’

  He put it into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do? I can fetch and carry, do anything you want.’

  ‘No, I’m better off on my own. But give Jenny my love.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘And if she pulls you into bed don’t come crying to me afterwards and saying you’ve got her in the family way. I saw how when you kissed her at the party you couldn’t tear yourself away.’

  He wove between cars parked on both sides, and stopped at the Pakistani newsagent’s for his Guardian, and Arthur’s Daily Mail. The
owner looked as if he would like him to buy something else, so he asked for a packet of cigars which Arthur could smoke later.

  Rain cleared grit and insect smears from the windscreen, and streaks of London pigeon slime from the roof. Years ago he would wash and polish the car every week, a real bullshit job, or he got a couple of bob-a-job kids to do it for a quid.

  So as not to arrive at Jenny’s too early he drove like an old age pensioner, or a happy saver economizing on petrol, keeping to inner lanes and not overtaking on dual carriageways. Beyond Basford Crossing, uncertain of the way, instinct guided him by The Crossbow of the birthday party eleven weeks ago.

  A Nottingham town plan was always in his side pocket (even when driving through France) so he pulled in, to find himself only a few hundred yards from where she lived, thinking he would have driven away if he hadn’t phoned already. The two-storeyed modern house was at the end of a quiet and peaceful drive, where those who didn’t live in the area were easily observed, neighbourhood watch never a new concept in Nottingham.

  During the time it took to get to the door he noted the lawn well kept to the kerb, and wondered what sort of car was in her garage. He followed her into the living room, her bruised legs looking as if they caused some pain.

  She sat with hands on lap, calm and smiling, waiting for him to talk, like royalty on whom such onus could never be put. It was impossible to know what lay behind her untroubled gaze. Only speech might show how happy or otherwise she was, but she gave no sign either way.

  Entertaining his girlfriends had never been a problem. They would think him empty and dull if he didn’t keep the patter going, though not so much that she would think him a motormouth. You paused now and again, to let her talk, but such calculations would make no sense to Jenny.

  ‘I’m really glad to see you,’ she said, ‘I can’t forget how you made the effort to come up specially for my birthday party.’

  There was little to say, as if she was too important for facile chat. Being there to come back to, she gave shape to his life, though he wondered if it would be more interesting to stay in the wilderness. ‘And I’m glad to see you,’ he said. ‘That’s all I came up for this time, as well.’ To forestall her calling him a liar (though she never would) he said: ‘This is a wonderful house you’ve got.’

  ‘I suppose it is, but I’m used to it. We lived in a council house at Bilborough, before George had his accident, then we were able to get this place. I know it’s big, but it wasn’t when I had seven kids running around. One of my daughters has taken one of the rooms upstairs because she got a divorce not long ago, and had to have somewhere to live. If you can’t go home again, where can you go? I sometimes think of getting a smaller place, but you can’t beat a bit of space, can you?’

  He had to agree. Maybe that was why he had left the two up and two down, and sharing a bed with Arthur and Derek. He stood by the large window, the glass so clean it might not have been there. ‘Everything looks very tidy.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t have to look after it,’ she laughed. ‘I’ve got children and grandchildren for that. I don’t have to lift a finger. How many have you got?’

  He turned. ‘Three, but I hardly know where they are, or what they are doing.’

  She was amazed. ‘How is that, then?’

  ‘They like to lead their own lives. If they needed help, I’d hear from them.’

  ‘It sounds rum to me. I thought families stuck together. What about grandchildren?’

  ‘There could be one or two knocking around.’

  ‘Don’t you want to see them?’

  ‘Now and again, I suppose.’

  She drew back, as if her questioning might turn him into the unfeeling person she knew he couldn’t really be. ‘You’re still as funny as ever. I never could make you out.’

  ‘It’s the same with myself, let me tell you.’

  ‘That’s not the way to go on,’ she said kindly.

  But he was angry at being judged. ‘It’s the way I am.’

  ‘As long as it don’t bother you. I like having my family near me, so’s I can tell ’em what to do! They’re a good lot, though, and don’t need any telling.’

  ‘Like when they fixed your birthday party?’

  ‘That was a shock, I can tell you.’

  ‘Your face looked a picture when you came up those stairs.’

  ‘I’ll bet it did. But I just couldn’t believe it. Wasn’t it good of them? They went to no end of trouble.’

  ‘You deserved it, after all you’ve been through.’

  ‘I only did what I had to do, though it was bad near the end when George kept saying all he wanted to do was die. He asked me over and over for stuff to kill himself, but I couldn’t do a thing like that.’

  He recalled talking about it with Arthur, who said: ‘She should have left him at the beginning. He’d have been just as happy, though the few times I saw him he was a miserable bastard.’

  ‘You wouldn’t leave me if I was crippled like that, would you?’ Avril said lightly.

  ‘No, love, I’d stand by you to the end.’

  ‘Well, then,’ she said, ‘how could Jenny leave him?’

  ‘But she didn’t even love him.’

  ‘How do you know? She must have done.’

  ‘Not by then,’ Arthur insisted. ‘Not with a real love. He’d have been just as unhappy with lots of young nurses looking after him.’

  ‘That’s where I’d put you,’ she laughed, ‘if you had an accident. You’d like it a lot better than being at home with me.’

  Arthur kissed her. ‘As long as you came to see me every day.’

  ‘I’d do that,’ she said, ‘but I’d have to make my toy boy wait outside, wouldn’t I?’

  Jenny came back with his cup of tea. ‘What are you going to do for the rest of the day?’ he asked.

  ‘I expect I’ll do some knitting. Then read a bit. Cook myself some dinner. I like my days.’

  She could keep them. Time to run. The tea scalded his throat because he couldn’t get it down fast enough. There had to be more in life than talking to someone with no common bridge.

  She claimed a kiss at the door, as if by right, which he took as valid so as to get away more quickly. The day palled as he drove into town via the long south wall of Wollaton Park, passed the White Hart where his grandfather had taken his beer as a farrier, over Abbey Bridge and onto the boulevard by the Grove Hotel at whose bar his mother and her second husband used to drink, every glum place getting a good wash from the rain.

  He parked by the Castle, which Arthur had always wanted to blow up. It would be a shame to destroy the works of art, but seeing it ascend into the sky even appealed to him at the moment. From the town centre he went into the Lace Market, wanting to walk his feet bloody and have them match how he felt, doubling back among the gothico-elegant warehouses and silent factories on Broadway (mentioned in Pevsner) to a pub on Bridlesmith Gate, where he sat in a sweat and had two pints of lager.

  He browsed in Dillons and bought a street map he didn’t need, then had a big tasteless five quid lunch in a tastelessly decorated open plan pub. The vast space of Slab Square wasn’t where he wanted to be, either, but he walked around it twice, bought a magazine at the top of Birdcage Walk and threw it away at the bottom, then did an almost running march back to the car.

  He drove to Wollaton Park, couldn’t be bothered to walk around the lake, stayed in the car and tried the Guardian crossword, rain sprinkling the windscreen, cigar smoke steaming up the inside and blocking visibility beyond, just as he wanted it, voices and engines blurred in the drizzle, thinking maybe the Hall would vanish as well, up the spout with everything, didn’t know what he was doing here, if it weren’t for Arthur and Avril (and Derek and Eileen) he’d slide down the M1 back to his snug hole in Highgate. He fell asleep, then woke up and set off for Arthur’s.

  Basford Crossing looming up, flick the place, why had he come this way, with so many other routes? Remembered the time when they wer
e going to Jenny’s party in Arthur’s car, Avril done with her chemotherapy and all of them optimistic about her chances.

  Two traffic islands, and on the beam to get through there was a queue and he wondered why, thinking it must be the rush hour, if ever there was one, or maybe the traffic lights were broken, glued on red. The car in front moved, and he kept close, as if to unnerve the bloke, then he shunted forward, and on the turn saw the gates of the crossing closed, lights on red.

  A train through Basford Crossing? Electric, no smoke, but a train nevertheless, and not a ghost train because it came in a hurry, electric invisible power rushing it between open gates, no kids to howl, but where was it going, and what for?

  The gates swung inwards, lights flicked to amber and then green, and he was beyond before red came back. A train using Basford Crossing was a sign of hope, that things would get better for everybody, regenerate the area. Up the hill and over the top, on his way to the refuge of Arthur’s, he stuck two fingers out of the open window, and shot down the road at fifty.

  TWELVE

  The snout of Brian’s car pointed up the road, houses at the top, and above them a painting of clouds that brought the idea of freedom to mind, an aching to be off, knowing that one day he would have to go through the Tunnel and, after a while of wandering in France, set the compass for any other place culled out of the atlas.

  Arthur walked across the pavement. ‘I saw you coming up the road. I’ve just got back from the hospital. I took Avril at four o’clock, and they kept her in. As soon as the doctor saw her this morning he got the hospital on his mobile and told them to send an ambulance. I sat with her in the ward till she went to sleep holding my hand. They doped her up to the eyeballs. I got back a few minutes ago, so you’re just in time.’ In the kitchen he pressed the kettle on. ‘It’s the best place for her. She wasn’t keeping anything in her stomach. There’s nothing else I can do.’