Enduring Passions

by David Wiltshire

  Another young affected voice said, ‘Don’t know what the world’s come to since the Strike of ’26.’

  The first voice drawled on, ‘Never been the same since the war, old boy.’

  Tom had been feeling uncomfortable up to that point. But then his blood started to boil.

  His father had been gassed in that bloodbath, and far from returning to a country fit for heroes he’d been treated shabbily after 1918, not only by the government, but by the landlord who had promptly put up the rent on his return. He was invalided out with lungs that would never work properly again.

  His mother had taken in washing – still did – to make ends meet. The scullery seemed never to be free of steam and he had stood on a bucket when he was small to turn the big handle of the mangle as she fed in the wet clothing. The family reckoned that’s where he got his broad shoulders from, that and the digging on the allotment that was his father’s pride and joy, source of all the fresh vegetables that fed them all. Only his father couldn’t dig, so the young Tom had done all the hard spade work for years.

  It was while he was tending to the patch of earth, surrounded by grass paths that was their allotment, that he became interested in the railway line that passed down the side of the field. He watched the engines labouring out of the branch line station, pistons thumping; smoke beating in a continuous rhythm from their chimneys into the sky, only for it to slow and drift in lazy clouds across the fields as the carriages clattered past. As it finally evaporated only a sooty smell remained.

  He got to know a lot of the drivers and firemen and now he worked for the Great Western Railway – but in a way he could never have imagined as a youngster.

  He buttoned up his flies and turned for the sinks. There were just two of them – both taller than he, but only one was as broad shouldered, and he barred Tom’s way.

  They looked at him as if he had just crawled out from under a stone, but if they expected him to slink away with his tail between his legs they were soon disabused.

  Tom squared up to them saying nothing. Seconds passed. It was something in the eyes perhaps, a steely glint, that could only lead to one thing – violence – this made the second one flinch and say as nonchalantly as he could muster, ‘Jeremy, the girls will be getting concerned as to where we are, impatient for their first dance.’

  He began to move towards the door.

  Jeremy did not move, eyes locked in a duel as old as mankind. The attendant seemed transfixed with fear. Suddenly the door opened and several more men crowded in, breaking the moment.

  ‘Jeremy – you coming?’

  The man took a last slow draw on his cigar, eyes never leaving Tom’s, and tossed the butt casually into a sink.

  He nodded – not in agreement, more at Tom. ‘Nothing to stop me here.’

  He walked to the door, paused – ‘Another time then, old boy?’

  Tom nodded.

  The door closed behind him.

  Tom looked down at his bunched fists, let them relax, went to the sink, paused, conscious of the time and said to the attendant with a grin, ‘I know where my prick’s been – not like some,’ and left.

  Everybody in the band was ready, the male, and a female singer in a sparkling sequinned dress, were gathered at one large microphone, Dean at another. He shot Tom a glance of pure acid. No sooner had he sat down and picked up the sax than Dean announced, ‘Lords Ladies and Gentlemen, Raymond Dean and the Serenaders are proud to perform for your pleasure. This is their big band extravaganza, as heard on the wireless, as we play out the old, and play in the New Year.’

  With that he turned to the band and shouted out loud, ‘One-two-three,’ and brought the baton down in an exaggerated sweep.

  They all kicked in with Whispering.

  Soon the floor was full with circulating couples, some showing more elaborate footwork than others.

  They played for three quarters of an hour, the lines of saxophones and trumpets taking it in turns to leap up and feature their instruments.

  After every three dances there was a small break announced by Dean with, ‘Next dance, please.’ They rearranged their music, adjusted instruments – got rid of over-wet reeds and fluid in the tubes.

  It was while they were at rest and he was sitting ready to restart that Tom suddenly saw a girl who quite literally – for a second – took his breath away, talking with a bunch of other girls just below his position on the platform. She was wearing a pale lilac silk dress that followed the contours of her slim body, showing off her tiny waist and cheeky little bottom, hugging her legs until it flowed out a little just above her knees. At the front he could see the slight curve of her belly and the jutting points of her hips. The top part was almost like one of those glamorous ladies nightdresses he’d seen in the films worn by Jean Harlow, the tiny straps passing over finely boned shoulders. But it was her face that struck him the most, high cheekbones, red lips forming a generous mouth, finely pencilled eyebrows and shoulder length hair with a glittering slide on one side. She was smiling, her eyes warm and intelligent.

  He must have been staring so hard that she somehow felt it, for at that moment she turned and caught him in the act. For a few seconds their eyes met, then, as he felt the blood surge into his face, she looked away again.

  She didn’t look back.

  The man next to him had seen the whole thing and leaned towards him.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas, sonny, you can’t afford her and in any case she’s not for the likes of you.’

  He tried not to watch her as Dean called out, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a Paul Jones’, but he could see her move into the centre where all the girls held hands in a ring facing outwards, as the men did the same, but facing inwards. They struck up the tune, both circles moving in opposite direction until at a sweep of the baton, Dean abruptly cut the music. There was a roar from the crowd, as whoever they stopped opposite, they had to dance with. Dean then restarted with a slow foxtrot – only to repeat the whole process another four times.

  He only caught an occasional glimpse of her in the throng. She never once looked in his direction, but seemed to be laughing and enjoying herself immensely with all her different partners.

  But she did glance towards him – several times – but always when he was occupied.

  The great moment came and a piper appeared and a man dressed as Old Father Time, complete with scythe, as over the speakers came the solemn, reassuring gongs of Big Ben as it struck midnight. On the last one, to a tremendous roar from the crowd and the sound of party bugles, the band played a fan-fair and a young lady, scantily clad in a flesh-coloured body costume with wings on her back, waved to everyone from the floodlit balcony – the emblem of the New Year.

  The cheering continued as the piper played.

  He suddenly saw her – head back, being kissed, and to his crushing agony she seemed to be very happy. Utter dejection came over him. The balloons rained down, some being burst, as they struck up ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

  They played on, but for Tom there was no joy, only a bleakness in his soul, as the champagne corks popped, some bouncing into the band. He deliberately concentrated on the sheet music even though he could play most of the tunes from memory. There was no way he wanted to catch sight of her again – it was too upsetting. So he never did see the continuing surreptitious looks she flashed in his direction, over the shoulder of whomever she was dancing with, as she passed the band time and time again.

  The programme called for carriages at four, with hot soup served from three o’clock onwards, but time seemed to stand still, the hour of his release always a long way away.

  So when it came, he was utterly exhausted and fed up. As they cleared away, packing up their instruments and stands, Raymond Dean moved amongst them, dishing out buff coloured envelopes with their names on.

  When he got to Tom he glowered.

  ‘I’ll need to speak to you before we hire you again – your timing and commitment leave a lot to be desired.’

/>   Tom just took his money, in no mood to tell him what he could do with his part-time job – there were plenty of other bands looking for good saxophone players and he could turn his hand to the clarinet and piano if need be. He found his raincoat and trilby, but on a whim of cussedness, decided to walk out through the hotel rather than a staff side door. He knew he was doing it on the off chance of bumping into her again.

  It was as he turned a corner that he saw her – back against the wall, being leaned over by the same fellow he’d seen her kissing. And to make matters worse, he now realized, it was the prick from the lavatory.

  She seemed to be trapped, frowning and moving her head from one side to the other to avoid his face as he leant closer to hers, murmuring something.

  For a slight second he was uncertain as to what to do, but then remembered the kissing. It really was none of his business. He was about to pass, but as he did so he heard her say, ‘Please, Jeremy, I don’t want to.’

  Hearing her voice for the first time and seeing her distress made him shift the saxophone case under his arm making it bulkier and more difficult to pass them in the older narrower corridor.

  He paused. ‘Excuse me.’

  The man straightened up.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t our little Bolshevik friend.’

  Tom felt his temper rising, but controlled it enough to say, ‘Excuse me, I couldn’t get by,’ made to move on, but Jeremy ‘Prick’ had other ideas, obviously angry at the interruption. He sidestepped to obstruct his progress. Tom could also smell the alcohol on his breath.

  ‘Where do you think you are going?’

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘Not this way you’re not – use the tradesmen’s entrance.’

  Tom ignored him.

  ‘Excuse me.’ He tried again but again found his way blocked.

  ‘Jeremy – let him go.’

  Somehow that made him really angry. Who the hell was she speaking about, as though he was some person who was beneath them, being bullied. Christ, it was she who had needed the help. What was the matter with the woman?

  Maybe it was the training he’d received in restraint lately, but he was amazed as he heard himself say, ‘That’s right, let me go, Jeremy.’

  That’s what he said, but Jeremy seemed to think he was being funny.

  ‘Why, you sarcastic little bugger.’

  The blow came out of nowhere and struck him right in the eye in an explosion of stars and flashing lights. He stumbled back, dropping his saxophone and tripping over a delicate rosewood table, sending a lamp flying and collapsing in a pile of splintering wood. There was a tearing sound as his mac caught in a screw that had fixed the electric flex to the wall. It tore his coat from the side pocket right up to the armpit.

  ‘Jeremy – that’s enough – please.’

  Her irritating voice sounded more cut glass than ever.

  Tom looked at his mac, could have wept. Instead he got to his feet.

  ‘You’re going to pay for that, Jeremy.’

  The latter sneered.

  ‘Sorry, old sport, I haven’t got any loose change left.’

  That did it. As Jeremy assumed the classic boxers stance that had won him a house blue he was taken by twelve stone of bone and muscle, head down, that drove him back into the opposite wall, forcing every bit of air from his lungs.

  Before he could recover, two great pile drivers to the guts and chin ended all knowledge of his New Year celebrations for the next twenty minutes. Tom’s fight however had only just started. The girl’s scream brought a host of men running, and seeing one of their tailed brethren unconscious on the floor, they asked no questions – it was obviously an assault on one of their own.

  Ten minutes later the side door into the alley opened and a bloodied and torn Tom was thrown amongst the kitchen dustbins, his saxophone case crashing on to a metal holder, spilling the contents.

  He lay for a while, tasting the blood in his mouth and the foul wetness of the concrete. In the doorway the girl made towards him, as if to help, but was pulled back and the door slammed shut.

  It was daylight by the time he reached home. He was putting the kettle on the hob on the range when his grandmother appeared, hair in a net, feet in brown indoor bootees, plaid dressing-gown wrapped round her ample frame. Her hands flew to her face.

  ‘Oh my godfathers I knew this would happen.’

  He grunted through fat lips, trying to see her through his one eye, the other swollen and closed.

  ‘It’s all right, Gran – just roughed up a bit. It’s worse than it looks – honest. A couple of them won’t look so pretty for a while either.’

  She fussed over him.

  ‘I’ll get a bowl and bathe your face.’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  His body ached. He knew it must be covered in bruises, and it hurt to breathe, a cracked rib was a possibility. Luckily he didn’t have to work until the day after next.

  ‘And your coat, darling, it’s ruined.’

  He looked at his ripped and stained pride and joy. There were still six instalments to go. He never found his hat.

  ‘Take it off.’

  He did as he was told, but could not help wincing as he did so.

  Apart from creases and one stain, his maroon jacket was untouched. Ironic that, because he wasn’t going to be playing with The Serenaders again by the look of it. His trousers were all muddy, and there was blood on his collar and shirt front. His tie was missing.

  ‘My God, son – who did this to you?’

  Breathing carefully he managed, ‘I told you, about three or four of them, no reason, just drink,’ he lied. ‘Outside the Norwood Arms.’

  His grandmother’s eyes blazed.

  ‘They ought to be birched within an inch of their lives. They’re scum.’

  He didn’t argue with that.

  And if he could have got his hands on that young woman – stunning or not – she wouldn’t have been able to sit down for a week.

  It was next day when he found that there was a big chunk missing from the cover of the saxophone case, the white wood like a scar against the surrounding cloth-covered surface. Worse, he’d found that one of the lever mechanisms of the instrument was jammed. It would cost to have it repaired. He shuffled despondently down the stairs.

  What a disastrous night. What a bloody way to start the year. It would have been better to have stayed at home and listened to the wireless – Henry Hall and his Orchestra had been on.

  His mum and dad were sitting at the large table, waiting for him to appear in the doorway. Gran was out, but had obviously told them what had happened. His mother stood up and held out her hands.

  ‘Oh, darling, what have they done to you?’

  ‘It’s OK, Mum.’

  His dad started to say something, but then went into a paraxym of coughing that went on and on. Anxiously, his mother switched her attention from him to her husband, placing a hand on his back, rubbing and gently tapping to help get up the phlegm. When it was over she told him to stay quiet. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  Tom mumbled, ‘Tell me what?’

  His mother smiled, transforming her pale drawn face, taking away the lines of fatigue and disappointment and revealing a bit of the happy young woman of another, earlier time, long since past.

  ‘Your father has decided to pay off your coat – don’t argue now, it’s decided.’

  ‘But Mum—’

  ‘No, that’s it.’

  He felt wretched, and relieved at the same time. He would be able to pay for the sax’s repair straight away and start earning some extra cash again.

  He shook his head, but said, ‘I’ll make sure you get it back – I promise. It’s just a loan.’

  His father managed to speak, his voice hoarse and whistling. ‘You’re a good lad, never given us any bother, and you’ve helped us keep afloat this year. So take it – we want to help you for a change.’

  A lump came into his throat, and a burning resolve
that he would make something happen to help them have a better life.

  But what? There wasn’t much scope for immediate wage improvement in his day job, even though it was dependable, respectable and had good prospects.

  But he’d start looking around – think of something. Meanwhile tomorrow, aching or not, he had to drag himself off to work.

  The ringing was like a fire alarm exploding in the blackness of the room. His hand came down smack on top of the twin bells on the alarm clock, cutting off the murderous noise. He leapt from the bed. As the eiderdown was thrown back it crackled with the icy film that had formed during the night from his breath.

  He reached for his underpants, pulled free the tie in the white cord of his pyjama bottoms, stepping out of them and kicking them away.

  His collarless shirt was soon on, hands fumbling at the buttons. In seconds he was into his trousers, pulling the braces over his shoulders, wincing with pain from his beating, before tucking the shirt tails around his bottom. He didn’t do his flies up straight away, getting the chamber pot from under the bed.

  Downstairs, his face in the pitted mirror, he applied a thick white lather as he soaped up with brush and stick. He used a Gillette safety razor, not like his father who still used a cut-throat, but even so he managed to cut himself under his chin.

  When he was satisfied he cupped his hands with water and splashed his face several times to try to remove all the soap. He finished the job, dabbing with the towel.

  Teeth cleaning came next. He rotated the brush head in the flat tin of Gibbs paste, the metal showing through in the middle.

  His hair was the last thing to be tackled. He scooped up some Brylcreem and spread it on the palms of his hands before vigorously attacking the crown of his head, finishing with a comb, making a pencil sharp parting on his left side, and sweeping the gleaming black hair almost straight back.

  He checked his appearance. Everything seemed in order. He regarded his nails. Clean. He rinsed his fingers and palms. After a struggle he fixed his collar and stud, and then his tie. Between sips of tea he did up his waistcoat, careful to leave the bottom button undone.