A Kind of Loving

by Stan Barstow

  About twenty minutes later, when we’ve had a lie-down and a cup of tea, the Old Man and I are walking out through the gate, all done and dusted.

  ‘Comin’ straight down home?’ the Old Man says, and I say, ‘I suppose so; I’ve nowt else on tonight.’

  We walk down the hill till we come to the Bunch of Grapes, which is one of these nice quiet pubs with notices up inside telling you singing isn’t allowed. The Old Man fair surprises me when he stops and says, ‘Could you do with a drink?’ I’m surprised, you see, because although he must know I have a drink now and again like any other young chap, he’s never really acknowledged it by inviting me into a pub with him.

  ‘I don’t mind an odd ’un, Dad.’

  ‘Get a bit o’ strength back, eh?’ he says, and I see him grin in the light coming from the window.

  ‘That’s the ticket.’

  The landlord knows him and says, ‘Evenin’ Arthur,’ when we go in. ‘How you keepin’?’

  ‘Evenin’, Jack. Fair to middlin’, y’know. Mustn’t grumble. How’s yourself?’

  The landlord says he can’t grumble either and asks us what we’re having. The Old Man looks at me and I think it might be policy not to seem too used to all this, so I say, ‘Whatever you’re having, Dad,’ and the Old Feller gets two halves of mild (I prefer bitter really) and twenty Players and we go and sit down at a table near the fire. The only other customers are two blokes talking about football on the other side of the fireplaces.

  The Old Man lifts his glass. ‘All the best.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  He drinks and put his glass down and sits on his buffet with his hands resting on his knees. ‘What you grinnin’ at?’ he says in a minute.

  ‘Oh, nowt much.’

  But I’m grinning because I can’t help it; because I’m thinking this is a kind of milestone in my life, like my first long pants and being able to smoke in the house. It’s like the Old Man’s kind of acknowledging I’m grown up and not a kid any more.

  ‘Nice quiet place, this,’ the Old Man says. ‘Never any rowdy customers. Ever been in afore?’

  I say no, I haven’t.

  ‘You do take a drink now an’ again, though, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I like a glass occasionally.’

  He nods. ‘I see no harm in a young feller takin’ a drink in moderation. so long as you don’t have eight or nine pints an’ start wantin’ to gob everybody.’

  ‘That’s silly.’

  ‘Aye, it is, but there’s plenty on ’em do it.’

  ‘It’s a nice drink, this.’

  ‘Aye, he keeps a good drink, Jack does.’

  We sit without saying anything for a while, then the Old Man says, ‘How you gettin’ on at your work?’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ‘Still liking it, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I like it all right.’ I know this isn’t exactly the truth, somehow, but I let it go because it would be too hard to explain to the Old Feller when I can hardly reckon it up for myself.

  ‘Seems to me there’s good prospects in your line. T’evenin’ paper’s allus full o’ vacancies for draughtsmen.’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty o’ jobs about.’

  ‘What d’ye think about Whittaker’s? D’ye reckon you’ll be settlin’ there when you get on to full rate?’

  ‘Well I’m not thinkin’ o’ moving yet. I’ll have to see when I’m twenty-one. They pay union rates and the work’s as interesting as any other branch of engineering, I reckon. Course, I could probably get the same line o’ work somewhere else. I don’t know that there’s much chance of promotion at Whittaker’s. Too many keen young chaps in the office.’

  ‘If you made a move in t’same line it’d mean you going away, happen?’

  ‘Yeh, I’d have to do that. Manchester, maybe, or Birmingham.’

  ‘Aye.’ The Old Man nods and appears to weigh this up for a minute. Then he says, ‘Well, there comes a time in most chaps’ lives when they’ve to strike out on their own if they’re goin’ to make headway. And the time to do it is while you’re still single, without ties.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Me and the Old Man haven’t talked like this for a long time. Come to think of it, we don’t talk much at all except to say where’s the boot polish and pass the salt.

  ‘I’m not tryin’ to push you off or anythin’, mind,’ he says. ‘I just want you to know ’at I see the position and if you do decide it’ll be best to make a move it’ll be up to you. I don’t want you to think there’s anybody here holding you back.’

  ‘No, I see that.’

  ‘Course, your mother’ll not like it. You’re still nobbut a bairn to her.’

  ‘If I’d been in another job she’d maybe have had to like it or lump it a couple of years ago.’

  ‘You mean your National Service?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘D’ye think you’ll ever have it to do now?’

  ‘I don’t think so. There’s a lot of us up at Whittaker’s got deferment. I don’t think they’ll ever bother us now. They’ll be packing it up altogether soon by the looks of things.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right, then.’

  ‘I wish I had gone up sometimes, y’know.’

  ‘You’d just ha lost two years’ experience an’ wasted your time.’

  ‘I think it might have given me a fresh slant on things. You know, broadened me outlook. I talk to these lads who’ve had service abroad and I think I’ve never seen anything stopping at home.’

  ‘Well, it gets a lad away from his mother’s apron string,’ the Old Man says. ‘Teaches him to stand on his own feet. But for broadening your outlook, I don’t know. I reckon it depends on the man. I knew fellers in 1916 ’at were just as gormless when they came out as they were when they went in. It didn’t learn ’em owt. Except ’at politicians makes wars an’ us ordinary chaps has to fight ’em.’

  He empties his glass and I reach for it as he sets it down. ‘Have another?’

  He looks up at the electric wall-clock and says, ‘Aye, all right.’

  ‘I wa’ thinkin’ o’ poppin’ over to see Huddersfield Town a Saturday,’ he says when I come back with the new drinks. ‘Fancy an afternoon out?’

  ‘I shall be at the shop, Dad,’ I remind him.

  ‘Oh, aye, o’ course. I wa’ forgettin’. Ah well, it can’t be helped. Seems a long time sin’ we had a day out together like that.’

  It does. I can’t remember the last time. I lift my glass. ‘Well, we’re having a night out now.’

  The Old Man twinkles. ‘Aye, you’re right, lad, we are. We shan’t have to be too long, though, as your mother ’ull be wondering where we’ve got to.’

  I’m watching a little feller who’s buying a pint at the back counter and looking across at the Old Man. In a minute he comes over with his glass and puts his hand on the Old Feller’s shoulder.

  ‘How go, Arthur? How ye keepin’, lad?’

  The Old Man looks up. ‘Well, I’ll be blessed if it isn’t Herbert! Wha, I haven’t seen thee in ages, lad. Sit thissen down, lad, sit thissen down.’

  The little feller pulls a buffet up and sits down. He’s quite well-dressed in a grey tweed overcoat and a green trilby, but there’s no mistaking what he is, even without the blue marks on his face and hands.

  ‘You don’t know my lad, do you, Herbert?’ the Old Man says. ‘My eldest lad, that is. T’other’s still at school, but Victor here’s a draughtsman up at Whittaker’s, y’know.’ There’s a touch of pride in the Old Man’s voice and I’m surprised because it’s never occurred to me he might be proud of me. Of Chris, yes, and young Jim, but not me. ‘Is he, by gow?’ the little feller says. ‘A draughtsman, eh? That’s better na t’pit, eh?’

  ‘You’re dead right,’ I say.

  ‘I allus said ’at mine wouldn’t be forced into t’pit like I wa’,’ the Old Feller says.

  ‘This is a golden age for young fowk, Arthur,’ the little chap says. ‘Not like our young day
s. Then there wa’ nowt else but pit or t’mills. An’ us fathers were only too ready to send us down to addle ’em some brass. I have a lad o’ me own in t’Coal Board offices, y’know. He’s allus grumblin’ about size of his wage packet compared wi’ mine. I tell him he doesn’t know he’s born. It’s worth three quid a week to go to work at nine o’clocks an’ be able to see daylight through t’winders. My job ’ud kill him in a week. Less.’

  He lifts his glass and sinks half his pint. I watch the level fall and know he’s a chap who likes his booze. As if he’s read my thoughts, he says, ‘I don’t know what I’d do wi’out me pint, Arthur. I sometimes think it’s t’only thing ’at keeps me goin’.’ He brings a packet of Woodbines out and hands them round. ‘They ought to give us a free ration of it, like they do coal,’ he says, and laughs.

  ‘Where are you working now then, Herbert?’ the Old Man asks him when we’ve all three lit up.

  ‘I’ve been at Roundwood for t’past three year, fillin’ on t’days.’

  ‘Roundwood, Wakefield?’ the Old Man says. ‘That’s a tidy way to travel, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, I have a car,’ the little feller says. ‘Gi’n over bussing it years sin’. I can be at work in twenty minutes thru stepping out of the house.’

  ‘Doing it in style, eh, Herbert?’

  ‘Why not?’ Herbert says. ‘We’ve never had it as good as this last ten year, Arthur, an’ I’m makin’ t’best on it while it lasts.’

  ‘How d’ye mean, while it lasts? You don’t think there’ll be a slump, do you?’

  ‘It won’t allus be like this,’ the little chap says. ‘I’ve seen too much o’ t’shabby times and to think ’at this’ll last for ever.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Herbert. I don’t see why it shouldn’t.’

  ‘Funny thing happen, Arthur. You’d think ’at fowk ’ud allus want coal. An’ so they will for a long time yet. But we’ve both seen times when fowk had empty grates and coal were standin’ in mountains in t’pit yards, doin’ nowt. It’s a question of economics, Arthur; an’ chaps like thee an’ me know nowt about that. All we know is coal-gettin’, when they’ll let us do it…’

  I listen to them natter on. From coal-getting and economics they get on to politics. They’re both Labour, of course, so they’ve nothing much to argue about there. Then they get on to sport and Huddersfield Town where they can have a difference of opinion on one or two points; but all very matey like. While this is going on the little feller gets himself another pint and has our glasses filled up. Then the Old Feller buys him a pint and we have our glasses filled again. I’m thinking it’s a good job it’s mild we’re drinking because by the time the clock shows twenty to ten we’ve had five glasses apiece and the little feller’s well on with his fourth pint.

  ‘Just look what time it is,’ the Old Man says. ‘Wes’ll have to be off.’

  ‘It’s taken you some time tonight,’ the Old Lady says when we go in. The house is lovely and warm and full of the smell of ironing.

  ‘Aye,’ the Old Man says, and Old Lady takes a quick look at both of us. ‘I see,’ she says. ‘That’s where you’ve been spending your time.’

  ‘Aye, we just felt like an odd ’un,’ the Old Feller says, taking his jacket off. The beer’s put a twinkle in his eye and the Old Lady can’t bear to think she’s being laughed at any time.

  ‘You want taking Victor into such places,’ she says. ‘Learning him bad habits.’

  ‘I reckon it’s about time he learned to take a drink in moderation,’ the Old Man says. He sits down in his chair and crosses his legs to take his boots off.

  ‘They learn soon enough on their own, these days. An’ you want to remember you’ve another son an’ all. You want to set an example for him.’

  Jim’s sitting reading and taking not a bit of notice of all this.

  ‘I reckon my example’s good enough for any son o’ mine,’ the Old Man says, and winks at me while the Old Lady’s got her back turned. I wink back. I’m feeling a bit drunk and I’m keeping my mouth shut and moving very carefully so’s the Old Lady won’t notice.

  It looks for a minute as if she’s going to say some more on the subject; then she seems to decide to let it drop and goes on ironing, hanging the clothes on the bars of the clothes-horse as she finishes them

  7

  I

  ‘Was that right?’ she says into my ear. ‘Did I do it properly?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘that was right.’

  I’m down flat on my back on my raincoat by her side and looking at the branches of the trees between us and the sky. It’s a high sky tonight, big and pale, with dark shadows of clouds chasing across it, and you can’t see the moon. For a few seconds there’s nothing; I’m empty, not thinking, kind of not living nearly. Then there’s a twinge of shame; that’s the first thing that comes. I find out after it’s always the first thing that comes, but I’m a bit more hardened to it then than I am now. And now I’m thinking straight: I’ve nothing else on my mind. I’m thinking straighter and clearer than I ever have since I first looked twice at her and wondered what my chances were. I’m thinking straight and clear and it’s terrible, because I don’t love her, and that’s the awful truth. I don’t even like her much now. Not because of what we’ve done, though that’s the way I know that after the first few dates, when I wanted nothing from her except to be with her and have her like me, that was what was stopping me from seeing I didn’t love her after all. And I never did have a chance to get to know if I liked her – like you like some people just for what they are and nothing else to it – because the first time I really noticed her I loved her and I hadn’t spoken two words to her in my life. Now I wonder how I’ve stood it as long as I have: her gossip and silly scandal and her small talk about television and quiz shows and every little detail about how some lucky housewife from Wolverhampton or Tooting won a refrigerator or three thousands pairs of nylons and a holiday in America by answering questions you’d have got your arse tanned if you didn’t know the answers to in Standard Four. But now I do know how I’ve stood it and that just isn’t here any more and there’s nothing else – just nothing. And when I think that only a matter of weeks ago I’d have gone to the ends of the earth for her nearly I just don’t understand it. I don’t understand it at all.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ she says.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Haven’t you got anything to say?’

  She turns her face and I feel her breath warm on my cheek. ‘Vic.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I thought at first, you know, just then, that you wanted to… you know, do everything.’

  I did want to, I remember; and there’s nothing I want to do less right now.

  ‘I might have,’ I say, ‘but I wasn’t daft enought to try it.’

  ‘D’you think it’s anything like that?’ she says in a minute, and I think, Oh, Christ! does she have to talk about it? It’s over, why can’t she leave it alone?

  ‘I suppose it must be. I don’t know.’

  ‘I wondered,’ she says, and I think that maybe that’s her way of trying to find out if I’ve ever gone the whole hog with anybody.

  All of a sudden I feel like hurting her and I say, ‘You talk as if I’m the first chap you’ve ever been out with.’

  ‘You don’t think I’ve ever gone as far as that with anybody else, do you?’ she says. ‘Is that the kind of girl you think I am?’

  ‘How should I know?’ I say. I don’t really want to hurt her, but I’ve kind of got to work something off on her. I’m sorry when I see her look away and say, ‘I didn’t mean that. I know you haven’t. I know you’re not that kind of girl.’

  ‘I sometimes think I must be,’ she says.

  ‘Come off it.’ Now she’s wondering if she’s been too easy and I’ll like her less for it. Well I do like her less but not for that. And I can’t be bothered with her feelings – I’m too busy with my own. All of a sudden I feel about five years older, and to tell the tr
uth, a bit muckier about the edges. And I think, so that’s what it’s like after with somebody you don’t love; because as far as the feeling’s concerned there’s no difference between what we’ve done and going all the way.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says all at once, ‘I don’t think it’s wrong or anything to be ashamed of. Not when you’re fond of the person.’

  But what about when you’re not? What then? And you don’t always know till after because it kind of blinds you. I know now, and the thing is, what am I going to do about it? How can I break it off now when it’s only a few weeks since I told her I was mad about her, and meant it? How can I tell her I’ve been taken in because sex and a dream have got all mixed up inside me? How can I tell her I’ve been all wrong and we’d best call it off? How can I tell her all that after tonight, when she’s shown me she’s fond of me, that she loves me, because I’m pretty sure she does. She’ll never understand. She’ll think I’ve been working up to this all the time and now I’ve had what I wanted I’m not interested any more. And it isn’t like that at all. But then again, maybe it doesn’t mean all that much to her – as much as it might to another bint, I mean. Oh, I’m not thinking she’s nothing but a young bag. I reckon she wouldn’t carry on like that with just any Tom, Dick, or Harry; she’d have to be fond of whoever it was before she did. But maybe she gets fond pretty easily, and there’s no getting away from it, she’s a pretty hot bit of stuff. She gave me the green light okay the way she kissed me that night on the seat down there, or I’d never have gone as far as I did then. And you can look at it another way – I’m not the last word in ladykillers. There’s plenty better looking bods than me about and I’d be a bit big-headed to think I was the only bloke who ever got her worked up…