by David Storey
‘From Phyl. There must be a great deal that goes on in your line that no one ever hears about. If I were to offer you a hundred pounds and invite you to come back in one month’s time with a document which, in your view, amounted to a dramatic text – all it requires is a list of recurring names with a line of speech beside each one – would you consider it a challenge?’
Attercliffe laughed.
‘The money isn’t mine. It’s the theatre’s. I have so much at my disposal.’ He thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘Back in the hall I’ll give you a cheque. The contract,’ he continued, ‘I’ll put in the post. So much,’ he scrutinised Attercliffe with his reddened eye, ‘do I trust to intuition.’
Fredericks said, ‘I can’t see, Frank, it’ll do you any harm.’ He picked his nose, observed that this wasn’t something that commended him to Booth or Attwood – a small, neatly-featured man, in jeans and a sweater, typing at an adjoining desk – and, drawing out his handkerchief, blew his nose. ‘I agree,’ he glanced to the window of Holford’s Loft, in daylight nothing but a sheet of sooted glass, ‘it represents a challenge.’
Booth and Attwood – the former in a variegatedly-patterned sweater, his bald head gleaming in the combination of natural and artificial light – were listening in the hope of discovering what it was Fredericks had to be so cheerful about the better part of one and a half hours before opening-time, only, having blown his nose, Fredericks sneezed, rubbed his face, and concluded, ‘Civilisation insists that we shouldn’t have to live like rats in a sewer: you can give up this for a start.’
‘Now he’s getting close to retirement,’ Booth said, ‘he comes down here and calls the odds as if fifteen years i’ The Sump and nought to show for it is all to his bloody credit. O’er my dead body.’ He pointed to his jerseyed back.
‘O’ppened a hole in the top o’ thy ’eard?’ Fredericks pocketed his handkerchief, picked up the phone on his desk, dialled for an outside line, dialled again, winked, rubbed his finger at the side of his nose, glanced at Booth, then, less openly, at Attwood, returned his gaze to the window of Holford’s Loft, picked up a pencil, announced, ‘This is Freddie Fredericks,’ and inquired, in response to a voice in his ear, ‘Do you know how much it costs me to be in for a workman who never shows up? I hung around all morning.’ He turned over a letter, wrote on the back, called, ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ put the phone down and concluded, ‘A challenge, Frank. I’d take it up.’
‘I thought I’d find you here.’ In a pin-striped suit, and looking considerably slimmer than when Attercliffe had last seen him, Pickersgill gestured across the Buckingham Bar not only to where Fredericks and Booth (Butterworth and Hornchurch, editor and sub-editor) were sitting, but to where the group of men whom he had just left had turned in their seats to gaze in his and Attercliffe’s direction. The lunch-time clamour subsided as a name was called on the Tannoy, and he added, ‘Let me get you a drink,’ looking at Attercliffe’s glass and calling, ‘Two doubles, Clare,’ to the woman behind the bar. ‘Seen Sheila lately?’
‘At the weekend.’
A heavy face – jowled, with massive brows – was overtopped by a fringe of greying hair which, though combed to one side, enclosed, in its rearward retreat, a bald patch at the crown: the cheeks were shadowed, as were the pouches of flesh beneath each eye.
‘Make this my last.’ Pickersgill gestured at the glasses as the woman behind the bar held each one up beneath an inverted bottle. ‘Lost weight.’ He tapped the buttoned front of his jacket. ‘Doctor’s orders.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Heart.’ For the first time since coming across and clasping Attercliffe’s shoulder, he looked him up and down, and added, ‘You’re looking well. As always.’
He drew the two glasses to him, handed Attercliffe his, dropped money on the counter, said, ‘Have one yourself, Clare,’ and, turning aside, inquired, ‘Say ought daft about coming back home?’
‘She did,’ Attercliffe said, ‘as a matter of fact.’
‘Fuss about nought.’ Over Booth’s back Fredericks’s head peered round, then, half-rising, he looked across. ‘One of those funny phases she’s going through. That’s one of her chums o’er yonder. Gavin.’ He indicated the group of suited men he had left: the youngest one turned, waved, and remained for a moment half-risen in his chair; finally, prompted by Pickersgill’s look, he turned back to the table. ‘She’s alus hankering after her kiddies. I tell her, she’s the worse bloody mother they could have, but she seems to think that’s a commendation. You’re not after a new car? I can put you in line for a good ’un.’
He swallowed his drink, looked round for somewhere to put his glass, set it on a table, took out a handkerchief, wiped his mouth, unwrapped a cigar, lit it, examined Attercliffe through the smoke, and when Attercliffe himself said, ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ replied, ‘She’s with me for life. She knows she’s got a house for as long as she wants. I’ve not let her down in the past, and I never shall. I know what she gave up to come and live wi’ me.’
His hair, apart from the fringe, was cut very short: only the greying circuit at the top suggested he was not as old as he looked.
‘I don’t think it’s a passing phase,’ Attercliffe said. ‘In the past she was very single-minded, and still is.’
‘I don’t want her to leave,’ Pickersgill said. ‘I’ve told her that. The two lads and Lorna are well looked after. And the two lasses when they come across. The au pair we’ve got at the moment is an absolute cracker. She’s ne’er had ought, hasn’t Sheila, as you’ll know, and as the lads and Lorna’ll tell you, but the very best. That’s as true of the present,’ he took Attercliffe’s arm, ‘as it will be of the future.’
‘She misses the girls,’ Attercliffe said.
‘She does.’ The grip on his arm was released. ‘She misses you, in her peculiar fashion. She’s probably told you how much she regrets the past, and the misery and anguish she’s put you through.’
‘She hasn’t,’ Attercliffe said, ‘as a matter of fact.’
‘She talks of nought else.’ A grey moustache was flexed above a thin-lipped mouth, the corners of which receded – whether to indicate a smile or a grimace, however, it was hard for Attercliffe to tell.
‘Though she’s worried,’ he went on, ‘about Veronica.’ Perhaps the mention of the name in an unexpected context obviated its significance to such a degree that Pickersgill was, for a moment, unaware who Veronica was.
‘She’s nought. A bit of fun. Sheila knows Veronica’s no more a threat to her than Gavin is to me.’ He gestured across the room: only the back of the youthful figure’s head and shoulders was visible now, the hair, like Pickersgill’s, cut short, but dark, and neatly parted; he gave a feeling not only of youth, but of character, grace, gentility and strength.
‘Who is he?’ Attercliffe asked.
‘I knew his father. Which’ll show you how much out of Sheila’s way he is. He only talks to her to do me a favour. He’s a spare-parts manufacturer. It’s a line I should have gone into mesen. A few ups and downs but nought to the tribulations of a dealer. Or being a professional sportsman, come to that. We talk the same language, Frank, and always have.’ He replaced his hand on Attercliffe’s arm.
As for Attercliffe, he was wondering whether, even at this late stage, and despite the (advantageous) disparity between their ages, he might hit Pickersgill in the mouth, on the nose, beneath the jowled but nevertheless still conspicuous jaw, or even in the belly: if ever there were an individual who summed up his willingness to risk spending the rest of his life in a prison cell it must have been this balding, redolently-perfumed, dark-suited figure who stood before him now, his short-fingered, square-shaped hand measuring its grip on his arm.
‘It’s what I say to Sheila whenever she speculates about what brought us both together. “Frank and me,” I tell her, “are two of a kind.”’ He flexed the moustache again and a line like a bracket formed a little distance from each corner of his mouth.
‘She’s more dete
rmined,’ Attercliffe said, ‘than you imagine,’ and saw Pickersgill glance away: he was not contemplating the bar but savouring the content of what Attercliffe had said. ‘Who is this Veronica?’ he asked.
‘Tha knows how it is. My age, I can’t so much lake around as swan around, wi’ more in the eye than I know I can have. She’s no more a threat to Sheila than Gavin is to me,’ and, reminded that he’d mentioned this already, he added, ‘I’d never get wed to Sheila for fear o’ spoiling what we have. Maybe it’s that that gets her goat.’
Attercliffe saw the youthful figure of Gavin rise from his chair and, laughing at something someone amongst those sitting at the table had said, start in their direction.
He was a slim, slenderly-featured man: from a thickening of the bridge of his nose, and a not dissimilar thickening of his brows, he gave the impression that he might, at one time, have been an amateur or perhaps even a professional boxer.
‘Morry told me,’ he said, ‘I could come across. He’s worried that Sheila is taking her hook.’ He smiled, as if to set Pickersgill, but not Attercliffe, at his ease.
‘You haven’t met Gavin, Frank.’ Pickersgill clasped the young man’s back. ‘This is the young man, Frank, I’ve told you about.’
Gavin said, ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ seized Attercliffe’s hand, sustained his grip, his brown, black-lashed eyes flickering on a smile, and added, ‘Sheila talks of no one else. We’re both, my wife and I, very fond of her.’
‘She’s told me a great deal about you,’ Attercliffe said. ‘And how she’s concerned she doesn’t in any way upset your wife.’
‘Chris’s very fond of her,’ Gavin said. ‘I’m often away with my work,’ he added, ‘but we’ve always time for Sheila whenever I’m back.’
‘Once the wind’s blown out of her sails she’ll turn on course.’ Pickersgill, having released Attercliffe’s arm, placed his hand on Attercliffe’s shoulder. ‘Gavin’s very patient wi’ Sheila. There’s nothing he and Chris wouldn’t do. They idolise the boys.’
‘Not to mention Lorna.’ Gavin laughed.
‘Nay, Lorna’s my especial favourite.’ Pickersgill flushed.
‘It’s very good of you,’ Attercliffe said, ‘to have the welfare of the children so close to your hearts. As far as I can see,’ he added, ‘you won’t have to be preoccupied by them for very much longer.’
‘Why’s that?’ Gavin said.
‘Sheila’s determined to come back,’ he said.
‘It’s a temporary business,’ Pickersgill said. ‘She means nought serious by what she says. You have my word on that. If I don’t know her moods by now, I never shall.’
His look moved away: this time it was Fredericks who was coming across, his head – grey, close-cropped – raised only as he encountered two figures flanking a third obstructing his path; to the central one he said, ‘Not teaching these young ’uns the same old tricks, Morry?’
‘Nay, Freddie, no tricks up my sleeve.’ Pickersgill laughed, hitching up the sleeves of his jacket to reveal his cuff-linked shirt. ‘There ne’er wa’ in the past, and I’ve no need of ’em at present,’ clasping Fredericks’s shoulder and adding, ‘Freddie and me are from the days when a sportsman knew his proper place, and that was some road,’ he concluded, ‘behind the gaffer’s back.’
‘Some poor bloody sod to have you behind him,’ Fredericks said. ‘I wouldn’t have Pickersgill behind me for all the tea i’ China.’ He gazed into Gavin’s face.
‘This is an old friend of mine, Freddie Fredericks, Gavin,’ Pickersgill said. ‘This is Gavin Proctor, a man of the future. Where he goes,’ he continued, ‘others follow.’
‘Another front man,’ Fredericks said, nodding at Gavin but not shaking his hand.
‘Nay, I’m apologising, Freddie,’ Pickersgill said. ‘It’s my fault Frank’s been imposed upon. I’ve wanted, as you know, to intrude as little as I can on his private life. If I didn’t think it was important,’ he added, ‘I wouldn’t have bothered him here.’
‘And he wouldn’t have bothered you here, if he could have bothered you somewhere else,’ Fredericks said. ‘Discounts with Maurice still show a big profit.’
‘Some less than others, Freddie,’ Pickersgill said, and added, ‘I hear thy’s due for retiring.’
Fredericks smiled.
‘Bars have ears, tha knows.’ Pickersgill gestured to the room. ‘When you get to a certain age, like yours and mine, you hear some things more clearly than others.’
‘I’m not retiring,’ Fredericks said. ‘I might be deein’, but I’m not retiring.’ He laughed. ‘There’s more punch in one line from Attercliffe and Fredericks than there is in one paragraph from anybody else.’ He showed his stained, irregular teeth. ‘I wouldn’t trust these two an inch. Not that I’ve met this young ’un afore,’ he added. ‘But if he’s a friend of Maurice’s he’s no friend of thine,’ and, calling, ‘I’m off to the bog,’ released himself from Pickersgill’s hand and continued across the bar to the opposite door.
‘Never loses his flavour,’ Pickersgill said. ‘If bullshit could be sold in bottles he’d have made a bloody fortune.’ His dislodged hand returned to Attercliffe’s arm. ‘Gavin can vouch for everything I’ve said. Sheila’s going through a difficult patch. I know what an intrusion these things can be. My wife’s second husband is a case in point. He still comes to me, would you believe it, for my advice. I don’t think there’s a month gone by that I haven’t taken him out to lunch. Mind you, I’ve sold him three motor-cars in that time.’ He leaned back, his head turned to the ceiling, and laughed. Attercliffe watched the Adam’s apple convulse inside his collar, and observed the metal lining to several of his teeth at the back. ‘It’s the children we have to consider. It’s their welfare that lies at the heart of it. Keith and Bryan. The two girls. Little Lorna. Sheila’s told me the problems you have. And Gavin. He’s given me one or two insights. Sheila’s a great conversationalist, but can shut up tight the moment she’s back inside the house.’
‘We’ve everything to gain,’ Gavin said, ‘by sticking together. These things are settled better by talking.’
‘Instead,’ Pickersgill said, ‘of going behind each other’s backs. I’ve been meaning to give you a ring for some time. I could see this blowing up a while ago. I just want you to feel assured we’ll be doing all we can.’ He slapped Attercliffe’s arm and added, ‘Stay and talk to Gavin.’
He was already halfway across the room before Gavin said, ‘He’s been a good friend to Chris and me, and a hell of a brick to Sheila.’
‘Do you believe all he says?’ Attercliffe asked.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Sheila’s account of your relationship isn’t as bland as the one you’ve just described to me.’
‘I can hardly pay Morry back,’ he said, ‘by telling him his wife has asked me to fuck her.’
‘She’s my wife, as it happens,’ Attercliffe said.
‘Is this the time to go into technicalities?’ he asked.
Long before he had realised he would never have the opportunity to hit Gavin a second time – having hit him the first time as hard as he could – Attercliffe felt a pain in the pit of his stomach, followed by a second at the side of his head, and the interior of the bar, together with its inhabitants, went out of focus. All he recalled of Gavin was Sheila’s remark testifying to his thoughtfulness, his sensitivity, and to – he might have known – his capacity to see ahead; from a distance of scarcely less than a foot he scrutinised, on all fours, the toes of Gavin’s shoes – both of which were displaced by a hand attached to a cuff-linked arm, and a moment later he was drawn to his feet.
‘Are you all right?’ The inquiry was made by Gavin himself. To an inquiry from someone behind his back he added, ‘He must have slipped,’ and, to a further remark, ‘He must have had too much to drink,’ he replied, ‘I should get him outside.’
He caught a glimpse of the genial features of Pippy Booth, followed by the even – surprisingl
y – more genial features of Attwood, Butterworth and Hornchurch.
‘I can’t see how he fell. He was as sober as a judge,’ Fredericks said, coming into his field of vision. ‘Though I might just as easily have said, as sober as an Attercliffe.’
‘He’s cut his ear,’ someone said and he felt a piece of cloth applied to his head, held there for a moment, wiped, then Fredericks said, ‘Are you all right?’
A moment later he was standing in the street.
He recognised a shop.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Must have been the floor.’
‘It’s got a carpet.’ He held a handkerchief behind his ear.
‘In that case,’ Fredericks said, pursuing the subject, ‘it must have been the table.’
‘Going in for the noble art, Atty?’ Booth inquired, passing on the pavement and on his way back, evidently, with Attwood, Butterworth and Hornchurch, to the office.
‘How are you, Frank?’ Pickersgill, too, inquired, smiling, stooping. ‘Hell of a bang.’
‘The table, Maurice,’ Gavin said, but Attercliffe turned and, with someone he assumed to be Fredericks at his side, followed the group of backward-glancing figures in the direction of the office.
‘The day,’ Fredericks said, ‘goes to the younger man.’
‘I was a fool to do anything about it.’ Attercliffe drew the handkerchief down. ‘I’ve never felt so old.’ He felt the swelling behind his ear.
‘It’s not so much a question,’ Fredericks said, ‘of self-recognition, as choosing in which direction to use your resources. Everyone has their problems, Frank. A hostage to fortune. What happens to the professional athlete when all that fulfils him in life is achieved by the time he’s thirty? He can’t distract himself by behaving like he did at twenty, recapturing a grace that has gone for good.’
They walked for a while in silence.
‘Pickersgill’s intention, and Gavin’s,’ Attercliffe said, ‘is to return me to my wife. Or, rather,’ he continued, ‘the other way around.’
Fredericks laughed; even the group ahead, as they passed across the front of All Saints Church and turned down Benton Lane to Norton Square, glanced back – Butterworth, the editor, a tall, stoop-shouldered man with a mop of greyish hair detached in a corkscrew fashion at the back of his neck, calling, ‘Are you all right?’ – and, although the nodding of his head induced another sensation of dizziness, Attercliffe laughed as well.