by David Storey
He got up from his chair, set his mug on the table by the bed, straightened the cover, and went to the door: having opened it, however, he came back in, picked up the mug once more and went to the kitchen.
The sound of the tap running came from the open door, accompanied by the rattling of crockery in the sink.
A moment later, standing in the door – a tea-towel in his hand, his hand inside a mug – he declared, ‘I admire you for not taking your misfortune lying down. Here you are, with a family to support – even larger than mine, considering,’ he went on, ‘your overheads – and, instead of accepting your fate, you sit here each morning and afternoon and night, writing your way out of a mess which has crucified many a man before, is crucifying many a man at present, and will crucify many more in the future, and refusing to take a hand-out from anyone.’
Attercliffe looked up from his typing and announced, ‘I shall have to get on. I haven’t much time.’
‘I wish I had your gift of self-expression. There’s so much I’d like to say. There’s so much I’ve seen in the past few months, the past year and a half, to be precise.’
The sound of a baby crying came from the flat downstairs; he returned to the kitchen and brought back another mug.
‘Once you find yourself in a society where everyone expects something to be done about anything that goes wrong on the assumption that it’s not really his or her responsibility, the apathy that that induces even undermines those who have a job. Like my wife and daughter: without their money we couldn’t live, yet they were only taken on because they were women, and yet neither one of them complains or feels the least inclined to do anything about it.’
‘They could join a union.’
Wilkins dried the mug, fisting his hand in the cloth.
‘If my wife and daughter joined a union it would only make them more of what they are already. The union creates this mess in the first place by creating the wage demand which reduces profitability, which reduces investment, which reduces jobs, which brings us exactly to where we are at present. The unions create unemployment and, in this country, have created it on a scale greater than in any other industrialised nation.’ He came further into the room. ‘Do you think it’s because the Japanese have got two heads, four arms and six legs that they work, man for man, two and a half times more efficiently than we do? The only difference between this country and the rest of the technologically industrialised world – lower productivity, lower wealth and lower living-conditions for the working classes apart – is that this country is unionised more completely than any other.’
He fractured the mug: he held one piece and the cloth in one hand and the remaining piece in the other. Indicating the typewriter, he concluded, ‘A message to the nation from one who knows.’
A little later he came back, the baby in his arms, and, a feeding-bottle in his hand, added, ‘If this doesn’t change,’ indicating the baby, ‘and I’m left like this for another year, I might run for the local council. I’ll have more time than anybody else. I’ll have had the opportunity to examine the world as it really is, and I’ll have learnt from my elocution and my correspondence courses how to put myself across.’
He sat down in the chair in which, earlier, he had drunk his tea; the baby, suckling at its bottle, murmured.
‘My grandchild.’ He went on, ‘Its father is out of work and sends my daughter one pound 50p a week. She and her mother, however, steal enough to keep us going. The staff at each of their shops have a corporate thieving system which allows them a certain amount each week. It’s taken into account by the owners: so much to shop-lifters, so much to faulty packaging, so much to the staff. It’s the world we live in.’ He removed the teat from the baby’s mouth. The child burped; its head fell sideways: after a moment it puckered up its mouth and cried. He reinserted the teat in the blistered mouth. ‘With what we steal, their wages, family allowance, a rent and rate rebate, my redundancy and unemployment pay, together with the contribution from my unofficial son-in-law, we get along quite nicely. Not enough to make a killing, nor to go on holiday, nor to run a car, and we might have to move out of here, as I’ve said, and take a derelict council flat, but,’ he concluded, ‘taking it all in all, when it comes down to it, looking at it from both sides of the fence, in the long term, it’s not a bad old ticket.’
He watched Attercliffe type for several seconds, adjusted the baby’s bottle, rearranged its head against his arm, stroked its bulbous leg, the thigh protuberantly expanded from the elasticated edge of the plastic nappy cover, and, gazing to the window, whistled.
‘More peaceful up here than it is down there.’ His bald head glistened. ‘No one above you. No noise. You can’t get a workman nowadays to do a job without his putting down a radio. Ask him to turn it off and it’s as if you’re denying him his freedom.’ He laughed, removed the teat from the baby’s mouth and watched it as, its eyes closed, it writhed against his arm. ‘A book I’ve been reading explains the difference between men and women. It explains,’ he went on, ‘why women don’t do any of the things that they complain that only men are allowed to do. When this ’un,’ he indicated the baby in his arms, ‘was in the womb it was subjected to certain chemicals secreted by my daughter. Because it was a girl, it was subjected to one kind of chemical but if it had been a boy it would have been subjected to another. It’s the chemical structure of the brain that makes a boy behave one way and a girl another. This same chemical structure is the basis of masculine assertiveness. With a girl it has the opposite effect and even though they might be like my daughter, who’s an absolute cow, it’s not the kind of assertiveness that creates new religions, great paintings or new technologies. It’s a resigned aggression which accommodates the world as it is rather than instinctively seeking to change it.’
He raised the baby to his shoulder, winded it, lowered it and, wiping milk from the corner of its mouth, added, ‘All these women trying to do what men do are not only wasting their time but forfeiting their intrinsic nature, distorting and perverting it for good.’
The baby slept, its head propped on his arm.
‘I should have changed its nappy,’ Wilkins said. ‘I’ll have to leave it now. I don’t want to wake it again.’
He stood, adjusted the baby against his arm and, the bottle in his hand, tip-toed to the door. ‘All this,’ he went on, ‘is the latest fashion. When women have given up capering around like men and are reconciled to a world of male assertiveness, they’ll go back to what they were before. All this upsurge,’ he continued, ‘will have been for nothing.’
A moment later, from the hall, came the sound of his door.
The house grew silent.
Attercliffe typed; the table shook: from below came the squealing of a set of pram wheels as, having perhaps disturbed the baby, his neighbour Wilkins pushed it to and fro.
‘It’s a friend of your Cathy’s,’ the voice announced.
‘What friend?’ Bleary-eyed, Attercliffe gazed at the open door of the Wilkinses’ flat from within which came the sound of a baby crying.
‘Benjie,’ the voice declared.
‘What time is it?’ he asked as a light went on behind the Wilkinses’ door.
It had been the Wilkinses’ daughter, a wire-haired figure in a raincoat, who had come upstairs and called, ‘Telephone!’
Her white, dark-caverned, still rouged and made-up face glanced out before the flat door closed.
‘About three o’clock.’
‘Anything the matter?’
Benjie was not alone; there was the sound of a scuffle, perhaps of the receiver being dropped, then the voice announced, ‘She’s been arrested.’
‘What for?’ he asked.
‘I dunno,’ the voice continued.
‘Where is she?’
‘In the nick.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘An hour ago.’
‘How do you know it’s happened?’
‘I saw her.’ Benjie’s voice
was lowered as he spoke to someone else, the receiver covered at the other end, then he announced, ‘She was stopped by a copper.’
‘Have you been to the station yourself?’
‘I have to go,’ he said, and added, ‘I haven’t got any more money.’
The phone was put down the other end.
‘Anything up?’ Wilkins said, appearing at the flat door, only his head and his shoulders protruding.
‘I have to go out,’ Attercliffe said.
‘We heard the phone ringing and had to answer it in case it woke the kiddies.’
‘Will you shut that flaming door?’ came a shout behind his back.
Wilkins asked, ‘If there’s anything I can do to help?’
‘No thanks,’ Attercliffe said.
‘Otherwise,’ he said, opening the door a little further, ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
The door was closed; Attercliffe went upstairs, got dressed and, with the baby still crying, came back down.
The street was deserted; a light went back on in the Wilkinses’ flat as he started the engine: the bonnet of the car was covered in frost.
Off the city centre he turned from a narrow sidestreet into the yard of the station, an ancient, stone-built edifice with a recent concrete structure behind.
A flight of stone steps took him into a glass-doored foyer: behind a counter stood a desk: a table, beyond the desk, was littered with files, folders, papers and miscellaneous boxes.
Behind a partition voices were raised: laughter broke out.
He pressed a bell on the counter.
The laughter faded to be replaced first by one voice then by several: he heard odd words: ‘Inspector’, ‘safe’, ‘car’, ‘office’, finally, ‘advice’.
He pressed the bell again.
A head appeared around the partition.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve come about my daughter,’ Attercliffe said.
The head disappeared.
Doors banged.
Laughter behind the screen was followed by laughter from a greater distance.
A figure emerged from behind the partition, buttoning a jacket and, without glancing in Attercliffe’s direction, picked up a paper, examined it, put it down, and called, ‘Did you leave the lost property file in here?’
‘With Harry,’ came a voice from behind the partition and the uniformed figure – slight, tousle-haired, and not looking a great deal older than Keith – finally glanced at Attercliffe and said, ‘I shan’t be a minute.’
There was a further exchange of voices behind the partition; a door banged; the words, ‘legally’ and ‘offence’ were followed by the stamping of a foot.
‘Yes?’ The tousle-haired figure – a faint growth of beard around its jaw (lean, sallow-cheeked) – looked up.
Pale eyes gazed out from beneath blond lashes.
‘I’ve come to see about my daughter,’ Attercliffe said. ‘She was brought in,’ he announced, ‘a little while ago. I was told she’d been arrested.’
‘Has she got a name?’
‘Attercliffe.’
Without removing his gaze from Attercliffe’s face, he inquired, ‘Do you know what time she came in?’
‘An hour ago.’
‘I’ll try and find out.’
He disappeared behind the partition.
A further uniformed figure came in, crossed to the desk, removed a sheet of paper, examined a file, sat down, took out a pen, wrote, got up, glanced at Attercliffe, and went back behind the partition.
The first figure reappeared.
‘The constable who brought her in will see you,’ he said. ‘Are you her father?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He won’t be long.’
A telephone rang; the policeman picked it up, announced, ‘City Station,’ listened, inquired, ‘Where did you say this happened?’, listened once again and, glancing up, called, ‘Sit down,’ indicating a bench behind Attercliffe’s back.
The door from the foyer opened; two girls, one wearing a skirt, the other jeans, came in, followed by two men. Behind them came two uniformed figures. A lid was raised in the counter: the girls, both made-up, and the two men, both in dark suits, one dishevelled, one neat, preceded by one of the policemen and followed by the other, passed beyond the partition. A door closed; another opened. Footsteps echoed along a corridor.
Behind the counter the policeman sat down at the table, repeated an address, then a number, said, ‘Someone will be along,’ and put the telephone down. He returned behind the partition, said, ‘It’s Mrs Kennedy, if Don’s got a minute,’ came back and, retaking his seat at the table, opened a ledger and wrote.
A dark-haired, dark-moustached, acned, uniformed figure appeared from behind the partition, glanced across the counter, said, ‘This the girl’s father?’ and, as Attercliffe got up, raised the lid, ducked underneath, and – unshaven, gaunt-eyed, his chin sprinkled with suppurating spots – announced, ‘Your daughter’s in serious trouble, man.’
He had a Scottish accent; across his forehead a red line from the imprint of his helmet exaggerated the whiteness of his face.
‘I’d like to see her,’ Attercliffe said.
The dark eyes, the corners of which were lined with mucus, peered out from beneath a pair of brows the hairs of which were flecked with dandruff. ‘I’ll do all the seeing,’ he said. ‘She was creating,’ he went on, ‘a public disturbance.’
‘Doing what?’ Attercliffe asked.
‘Breaking bottles. It’s people like your daughter who cause more trouble than they’re worth.’ He added, ‘There are problems we have to deal with affecting people’s lives and we’re held up continually by people like your daughter who have nothing better to do than waste our time.’
‘If you’d let me talk to her,’ Attercliffe said, ‘I’m sure,’ he went on, ‘I could straighten her out.’
‘The straightening out you ought to have done should have been done ten years ago or even,’ he went on, ‘before you were married. Between you and me, I’d say you’d made a mess o’ yon lassie. As it is, she’s responsible for bringing two policemen in from the beat, clamming up a cell, and commissioning hours of filling in forms and taking statements because you couldn’a gi’e her a good lathering when she needed it.’
Moving a step forward Attercliffe inquired, ‘Have you any children of your own?’
‘If I had one like your daughter I’d think I’d done the community a very poor service. I’m in two minds to charge her.’
‘You ought to,’ Attercliffe said. ‘It’ll do her good.’
The policeman glanced away.
‘I’ll go back and see what the Inspector says. It won’t do her career much good, if she’s appearing in court on a charge like this.’
‘It’ll screw up her life,’ Attercliffe said.
The dark eyes gleamed. ‘People like her are more trouble than a villain. With a villain you’re picking up somebody who, as likely as not, doesn’t know any better. With her it’s privilege gone to rot. There’s more time wasted on people like your daughter than any other kind I know.’
He returned to the counter, raised the lid, ducked underneath, lowered it behind him, and disappeared beyond the partition.
When, some time later, Catherine appeared, she was accompanied by a tall, grey-haired, grey-moustached figure who, raising the lid for her, declared, ‘Once more in here, it’s out of my hands. You’ll remember what I’ve told you.’
Looking cold, wearing plimsolls, jeans and a sweater, Catherine nodded, paused to receive another reprimand, which didn’t come, and ducked beneath the counter.
‘I’ve told her the score. I’m sure she understands. Once more in here,’ the grey-haired figure said, ‘and it’s whatever the magistrate sees fit.’
Lowering the counter, he turned, and disappeared behind the partition.
Outside, pale-faced, wide-eyed, gaunt-cheeked, Catherine waited by the car, shivering, while Attercliffe unlocked th
e door; after getting in she sat, abstracted, gazing out through the windscreen: as he got in behind the wheel she said, ‘I’ll never do that again.’
‘That’s all right,’ he said.
‘That’s all I have to say.’
‘That’s all right,’ he said again and started the engine.
She shivered, her hands between her knees.
‘Do you want a coat?’ he asked.
‘It’s more my nerves than cold. I’ll soon get warm,’ she said.
They drove in silence through the town; as he turned down the hill to the river, she said, ‘How did you know where I was?’
‘Benjie rang.’
‘I must have given him your number when you first moved in,’ she said, ‘and we came to stay for a weekend.’
Attercliffe said, ‘What were you doing for the police to pick you up?’
‘Fooling around.’
‘He told me breaking bottles.’
‘Oh, him,’ she said. ‘He was awful.’
‘Did he ask you for Benjie’s name?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Which is just as well. He’s still on probation.’
They passed a police car, the only other vehicle on the road. She shivered, folded her arms, and gazed abstractedly at the alternating pools of light ahead.
‘They’d caught two prostitutes who’d been picked up by two men in a car which, when the police stopped them, was found to have been stolen. The women were complaining they’d been wrongfully arrested.’ She added, ‘They’d also caught a gang of robbers. One of them was in the next cell and kept asking for a glass of water. Apparently, they’d raided the Waterworks Office and tried to open a safe. When they found they couldn’t one of them said he knew someone who could, so they all went off and fetched him. While they were away the police arrived and were just complaining amongst themselves they’d arrived too late when the gang came back. The argument was whether they could be arrested for breaking in when there hadn’t been any witnesses.’
She bowed her head, remained in this position for several seconds, then straightened: she laughed, shivered again, then, as Walton Lane came into view, fell silent.