“My cousin,” Brian told him. Nosey bleeder.
“I hope you aren’t going to read it.” He passed a green-covered paperback across the counter, let the sixpenny-bit fall into the till. Brian picked the book up as though he were a thief, walked out, and paused at the curb to look at it: Book of Nature—he said it to himself, then aloud: Book of Nature, Book o’ Nature—Buckanachure—so it’s a book about nature. He’d heard of the Book of Daniel and the Book of Job, but he didn’t know there was a Book of Nature. He opened it and saw drawings he couldn’t understand, but it seemed to be about science, and he thought Dave must be clever to want a book like this.
Dave snatched it from him, munched his meat pie rapidly and skipped through the book with avid interest. When the first unnatural edge had been taken from his curiosity, he slipped the book into his pocket and set to finishing his meal. “Do you ever read books?”
“At school,” Brian told him.
“Have you read Dracula?”
“No. Is it good?”
“Yes,” Dave laughed, “it frightens yer ter death.”
Brian laughed also. “I’m goin’ ter buy a book, though. It’s called The Count of Monte Cristo.”
“I ’erd that on the wireless,” Dave said. “A serial as went on for months, so the book’ll cost a lot o’ money.”
“I know, but I’ve bin savin’ up for a long time. Whenever I get a tanner I tek it to Larker’s down town, and the manager’s savin’ it till I get half a crown. Then I can ’ave the book.”
Dave was impressed by the purposeful method: “’Ow much ’av you got so far?”
“Two bob. I can fetch it nex’ week if I get sixpence more.” Dave fleeced his pockets of every coin, looked them over shrewdly: “’Ere’s threepence, Brian, I’ll gi’ yer the rest on Monday. I’ve got a lot o’ rags ter tek an’ sell, so I’ll cum ter your ’ouse and give it yer.”
Brian could hardly believe it: weeks might have passed before the final elusive sixpence had come his way by pennies and ha’pennies. “Thanks, our Dave. I’ll let yer read the book when I’ve got it.”
“No,” Dave said, “I can’t read long books. Yo’ keep it; if I take it to our ’ouse they’ll use it for lavatory paper, or Doddoe’ll write bets out on it. Anyway, I’ve seen the picture, so I expect it’s the same as the book.”
He screwed up the meat-pie paper and threw it into the road. They talked about films and film stars, until a man began opening doors on either side, and a smell of cloth upholstery that had been locked up in the depths of the small picture-house all night wafted out into the street. Then the doors slammed and a woman went into the paybox. “Come on, Brian, we can goo in now and find a good seat.”
They emerged three hours later. Saucers of sunlight danced before Brian’s eyes, and they ached from the shock of such a bright day, when in the cinema he had expected it to be equally dark without. A trolley-bus at Canning Circus swept them down one hill and up another, past Radford Station to Lennington Road, on which the Doddoes lived.
The long straight pot-holed street of newly built houses ended at a railway embankment. “They’re all bleedin’-well Jerry-built, though,” Dave pointed out, his finger towards the doors from which paint was already peeling. “You have to prune twigs off your doors and windows every so often.” Three children flashed by on a homemade scooter, pram-wheels and a piece of board: “They’d better watch out,” Dave laughed, “or the means-test man’ll tek it away”—as he batted the tab of the rear rider.
A tune from “Top Hat” was bursting from the radiogram as they went into the house, and Dave turned it down, so that Brian heard a pan sizzling from the kitchen stove. “Where you bin, our Dave?” Ada called accusingly. “It’s about time yo’ brought some money into this bleedin’ ’ous.”
“I would if I could get some,” he said. “I’ll tek them rags in on Monday and you can ’ev a few bob.” Ada was a good-looking blonde of forty, with six kids and one expected, boss of a family reduced by approved school and borstal—Bert having been taken to the former for lifting bicycle lamps, and Colin to the latter for impersonating a gas-meter man. The table overflowed with pots and half-eaten leftovers, and Dave nearly choked on a line of clothes strung across the room. “Look where yer goin’, yer daft bleeder,” Doddoe said from the hearth, speaking for the first time.
Brian found a chair, sat, and watched fourteen-year-old Johnny mending one of his father’s poaching nets on the other side of the room. Johnny was gaffer of the kids while Colin was in borstal, a self-appointed sergeant-major with meaty fists, and a sense of righteousness because he brought money into the house without stealing. He had done time at an approved school, and had learned to recognize authority and know what it meant to knuckle under to it. If you did as you were told at approved school the masters put you in positions of power over the other boys; and though Johnny could hold dominion by toughness alone, it was double-sweet and sure to have your power sanctioned by those above you. He was generous and good-hearted, though firm and inclined to bullying when his righteous will was disobeyed. He was Doddoe’s favourite, though it wasn’t acknowledged, and they rarely spoke to each other. But Brian felt an alliance of likenesses, so obvious in fact that it was recognized and commented on by others of the family, though beyond words to Doddoe and Johnny.
The unifying quality was one of fearlessness. Unable to get work and having a family to feed, Doddoe was absolutely convinced that it was right to go poaching in order to get food. It was more a question of good and evil, for while food in the form of rabbits was running on four legs around estates of the rich, who anyway had all the grub—and more—they needed for themselves, then Doddoe was right and fearless in his pursuit of it. He went on his bike most nights into the country, dressed in an army overcoat and wearing a cap, a knapsack slung over his shoulder to carry nets and whatever fur-covered victims ran into them—of which he would have plenty by dawn. A cosh sticking from the pocket of his topcoat was useful for knocking rabbits on the head if they struggled too long in the net, or for swinging at the gamekeeper should it come to a fight.
Johnny was equally strong, though in lesser ways because still young. Brian remembered a time when a pair of shoes dropped off Johnny’s feet and he lacked an overcoat in snow-covered months. Johnny had made the best of things: knocked the high heels from a pair of his mother’s, put on one of her fur-collared coats she had cut down for him, and walked off well-protected to school. No boys had laughed, but his teacher made a reference to his woman’s attire and Johnny, the words cutting into him like knives, couldn’t hide his bitterness from Ada that night. Nevertheless, he went to school clad the same next day and halfway through the class was astounded to see his mother walk into the room. “Your name Martin?” she demanded, standing by the teacher’s desk. He was even more stunned than Johnny at the buxom fierceness of blonde Ada. “Yes,” he said, “what do you want?” Ada’s fist landed hard across the side of his face. “That’ll teach you to tell our Johnny off because he’s got no clothes”—and walked out of the room. That same day the teacher took him to the nearest shop and rigged him up with a new pair of boots. “It just shows what a lot o’ good you can do when you stick up for your kids,” Ada remarked before breaking into a laugh when Johnny clomped into the house that night.
Doddoe sat by the table, bare feet stuck on the range for warmth, a basin of tea in his hand. He turned and greeted Brian: “Hello, yer young bleeder, what are yo’ doin’ ’ere?” He was out of work and his hard grizzle-haired head wasn’t in the best of tempers. Brian was on the point of answering when Dave, just back from a scrounge in the kitchen, said: “I brought ’im ’ome, dad. He wants summat to eat.”
“He’ll get nowt at this bleedin’ ’ouse,” Doddoe said. “We ain’t got enough to feed our bleedin’ sens.” And he turned back to staring in the fire. Ada came in with a plate of bacon and tomatoes, and Dave sat down to eat. “How are you, Brian, my owd duck? Is Vera all right?”
&nb
sp; “Yes.”
“Has rotten Harold bin on to ’er lately?”
“No.”
“I’ll bet you’re ’ungry,” she said. “Are you?” His answers were short, discouraged by Doddoe. “Well, just wait five minutes and I’ll get yer summat.” Dusk filled the room with gloom and shadows, and Dave, chewing a piece of bread from his hand, stood up to switch on the light. “Yer’d better put that bleeder off,” Doddoe said, without turning round. “We’ll have the man ’ere soon to collect some money for the radiogram and we’ve got nowt to give ’im.”
But Ada said it should stay on: “When he comes for money Dave can go to the door and tell ’im we’re not in. I’m not goin’ ter sit ’ere wi’out any light.” Brian ate bacon and tomatoes, dipped his bread in juice and fat, uneasy at eating with Doddoe in the room, though so hungry he couldn’t but enjoy the meal.
Johnny finished the net, rolled it up for his father. “Thanks, Johnny. You’re a good lad. I’ll gi’ yer tuppence in the mornin’ when I’ve sold the rabbits.” Doddoe swung his bare feet from the range, dragged boots from beneath the table, and pulled them on without socks, tugging each lace tight through faded eye-holes. He went into the kitchen, and they heard him slinging cold water around his face. As he was donning his topcoat, a sharp knock sounded at the door and everyone stopped talking, eating, dressing, playing. “That’ll be the radiogram man,” Ada hissed. “Go and see ’im. You know what to tell ’im.”
Dave stood up: “I should. I’ve ’ad enough practice”—strode to the hallway. Doddoe was both into and out of his topcoat, like a half-draped statue, and Ada held the teapot, about to pour a last cup of tea before he left for the night’s poaching. Brian’s mouth was full, stayed that way until the crisis was over. The two children stopped playing on the rug, as if they had been trained like seals to be silent at such times. Only the fire flickered in the grate, and that was all right because it made no noise.
Dave opened the door—was greeted by a polite brisk voice saying: “Good evening.”
“Evenin’,” Dave slurred, towering over him.
“I’m from Norris’s,” the man explained. “Is your mother in?”
“She’s gone out.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?” He stood in the rain, trying not to get his boots wet. “She wain’t be in tonight,” Dave said, into his stride. “She’s gone to her sister’s at Leicester.”
“Will she be back in the morning?” he probed. “I can call around then.” The briskness was leaving his voice, as though he knew it was a hopeless task.
“She might be away a week. Her sister’s badly in hospital and mam might ’ave ter wait till she dies.”
“Oh dear,” the man said consolingly, “that is bad.” He had a certain technique as well, but it could never succeed. “You can’t get blood out of a bleeding stone,” Doddoe had often said.
“It is, an’ all,” Dave agreed.
“Did she leave any money for Norris’s man?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? It might be behind the clock.”
“I’ve looked everywhere for money,” Dave shook his head, “but there ain’t a tanner in the ’ouse.”
The man was on his track: “Surely she wouldn’t go to Leicester for a week and not leave any money to feed the family?”
“Well, she don’t know ’ow long she’ll be away,” Dave went on, “an’ she said if she’s away a long while she’ll borrow summat in Leicester and send us a little postal order.”
“I see,” the man said, “but what about your father? Is he in?”
Dave shook his head sadly. “I don’t know where ’e is. We ain’t seen ’im for three days. I ’ope nowt’s ’appened to ’im.” Had it not been raining, the man might have stood long enough to be fobbed off with a shilling. “All right,” he said, putting the books into his mac pocket. “I’ll call in three days, on Tuesday say, to see if your mother’s in. Tell her if she doesn’t pay something soon our men will come to fetch the radiogram back.”
“I’ll tell ’er.” Dave shut the door in his face, for he always knew when victory was at hand. The tableau inside dissolved at hearing the man walk up the street. “Poor bogger,” Ada said with genuine sympathy, “he’s come all that way for nowt.”
“If ’e’d stayed much longer arguin’,” Doddoe said, swinging into the other half of his topcoat, “I’d a knocked ’im across the ’ead wi’ this cosh.” Brian went on eating, and Ada finished pouring tea for Doddoe. Having milked and sugared it, she turned the radiogram on softly, saying: “I expect we shan’t ’ave it much longer.”
“Not if I know it,” Doddoe said, between gulps of tea. “It’ll be in the pawnshop soon.”
“Yo’ll get six months for that,” Ada said.
“I’ll get no ale if it ain’t,” he laughed. “The dirty rotten bastards wouldn’t let a bloke live these days. I allus work when there’s work to be had, yo’ know that. I’m not going to see my kids fucking-well starve.”
“Yo’ll get drowned tonight,” Ada moaned, “goin’ poachin’ in this rain.”
“Well,” Doddoe said with finality, crashing the cup down on its saucer, “we’ve got ter live, and that’s a fact, so there’s nowt else for it. I’d rather sit in the Crown all night wi’ a jar of ale, but yer’d soon start bleedin’-well moaning if there was nowt on t’ table tomorrer.” They listened to the rain a few seconds: “Anyway, it keeps the gamekeepers quiet.” He took a lamp from the dresser, walked to the back door. “See yer tomorrer”—and they heard him drag his bike from the shed, then the rickety clack-to of the gate before he rode off in the pouring rain.
The only verdict was Ada’s: “Poor bleeder.”
“P’raps it’ll stop,” said Dave.
Brian stayed to hear a thriller on the wireless, against the background of Johnny in the kitchen sawing wood to make a stool. Dave was right: the world never stayed black and wet for ever; it dried now and again to let Doddoe do his poaching and Brian make his way home to bed. Stars ran between clouds, and children played within circles of beneficent gaslight as he looked back from the railway fence. One heave took him over, and he went up the embankment with bent back in case he should be silhouetted and attract attention from cops or shunters. A light twinkled far off across the field, then went out as if someone had lit a cigarette. Signals clanked up on another branch of the line and, wanting to beat the train, he leapt wildly from one steel band to another. Stones skidded underfoot and he slipped, scabbing his kneecap when his hand went forward and didn’t hold. This unexpected let-down of his limbs filled him with panic, increased by the sound of a locomotive gathering strength from the station, and a low far-off whistle from another train on this jungle network. Gasping and crying out, he reached the end rail, and saw the dim expanse of safe and marshy fields in front.
He sat in the nearest grass to get his breath back, as the train charged innocuously by along the embankment above. A horse moved and neighed by a bush. Two people approached, merging like shadows and talking softly: a courting couple. He counted the concrete steps mounting to the bridge: thirty-two. Lights shone from the colliery below, but it was so dark walking down the lane that he imagined daylight would never come, and fear didn’t leave him until he entered the kitchen at home and sat before the fire with a cup of tea and a slice of bread and cheese.
True to his promise, Dave donated the final threepence. Saturday afternoon was warm and dusty, and he walked to Canning Circus, past old houses being knocked down, lorries lining up to transport rammel to the Sann-eye tips. Crossing the complicated junction, he descended via Derby Road, looking into each shop, wondering as he skirted Slab Square what his mother and father would say when they saw him come into the house holding a thick and fabulous book.
A large atlas was opened at a map of the world, surrounded by dictionaires and foreign-language books—the only section of the shop that interested him. He went in, and told a brown-dressed girl by the cash-desk that he wanted
to buy The Count of Monte Cristo, started to explain the simple financial system into which he had entered.
She left him standing with four pink receipts and the final sixpence, and came back with the manager. “I know him,” he said. “He’s a customer of ours.” He turned to Brian, took the receipts and money, and spread them on the cash-desk. “The Count of Monte Cristo, wasn’t it? Go and get it for him, will you?”
The book came, and he had only time to glimpse the picture-cover of a man holding a sword before it was taken away and wrapped up.
He opened the packet outside, flipped the hundreds of pages through his fingers, from cover to cover and back again. A posh woman’s voice said from behind: “You’re going to be busy, aren’t you?” He turned and said yes, ran his eyes up and down the formidable list of chapter titles.
No one was at home, and he sat by the fire to read. The room had been scrubbed and the table cleared, and in the congenial emptiness he sped on through the easy prose of the story, had reached Edmond Dantès’s betrothal ceremony before his parents came in. They took off their coats. “That looks a nice book,” his mother said. “Where did you get it from?”
“I bought it from down town.”
“Who gen you all that money?” his father put in.
“It must ’ave cost a pretty penny,” his mother said, spreading the cloth for tea.
“Nobody gen me the money,” Brian told them, closing the book carefully. “I saved it up.”
Irritation came into his mother’s voice: “How much was it?”
“Half a crown.”
“Yer’ve wasted ’alf a crown on a book?” his father exclaimed.
He’d imagined they’d be pleased at his cleverness in bringing such a thing into the house, but it was the opposite. It was as though he’d been split in half and was bleeding to death. All for a book. “It was my money,” he cried, anguished and bitter, because instead of buying the book he should have given the money to them.
Key to the Door: A Novel (The Seaton Novels) Page 19