England's Lane

by Joseph Connolly

  I think it was the first sight of him, though, with his little crutches and all—I think, looking back, that’s what tipped my Janey over. Over the edge, sort of thing. I mean, she wasn’t A1 even before. Always nervy. Delicate little thing. Spent half her own childhood in a bloody hospital. Then there was Freddie, our first. Nine months she carried him—sick as a dog, most days. All for nothing, though. And they say it, don’t they? All about God, and his mysterious ways. Yes well. Don’t go to church any more, not after that. Thing like that, some people they’ll be kneeling down and blessing themselves, blathering on about this faith of theirs being tested to the limits—yeh and all the rest of the Jesus baloney, and praying like the dickens to what they still do seem to believe is the heaven above them. Lighting candles and bawling their bloody eyes out. And others, other sorts—well like me, for instance—they just turn away from the sight of it. No demonstration, none of the fist-waving … just a cold shoulder, sort of style. Yes. And so God now, he can go on working in any kind of ways he bloody well likes, but I’m damned if I’ll be seen to encourage him. And then Janey, seeing our Anthony that way—all lopsided and a brave little face on him—well … couldn’t handle it, see? Turned away from the sight of it. Can hardly blame her: pitiful to watch, it can be. But somebody had to, didn’t they? Deal with it. Somebody had to. So now, well—it’s what I do. I do the shop, yeh—but what I really do is Anthony. It’s hardest in the holidays, when I’ve got him all day. Weren’t for young Paul, I’d be in a bit of a spot. Yes I truly would. And talk of the devil … here he is now, look—bang on time, just like always. That’ll be on account of his Auntie Milly, of course. She’s a wonderful woman, she is. And I do feel mean, sometimes, just slipping him a chew or a stick of liquorice from the penny tray. Piccaninnies and flying saucers he’s partial to as well, so I let him have a couple of those, time to time. But see, if I were to run to a packet of Spangles, or something—tube of Smarties, sort of style … well word gets out at that school, and they’ll all be down on me like a plague of flies. Bad enough as it is. And with Anthony there, well I’d have to, wouldn’t I? Give it out to all of them. And I can’t afford that—just can’t afford to, simple as that. It’s not a question of meanness, it’s a question of money. Those school fees, they don’t ever lower them, do they? Reduce them, bring them down. No they don’t, sir. Most of the people round here, of course—they don’t have that problem because they just won’t put the effort in, my way of seeing it. Happy to send their kids to the ordinary schools. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with them, the council schools, not saying they’re really bad, or anything … but I do think it’s your duty as a parent to secure for your child the best that’s on offer. That’s it in a nutshell. And it’s difficult. I wouldn’t try telling you it’s easy. But it’s duty. It’s duty. And love, of course. Dedication. Though what I’ve seen of Jim Stammer, I doubt he can be thinking like that. But Milly—it’ll be Milly behind it. Such a nice woman. Handsome woman. Hard worker. He’s a very lucky man, Jim is. To have such a woman as that. Very lucky man. I’ll never forget: she was in the shop, one time—stocking up on her parma violets and getting in some Tizer for Paul, as I recall—and she said to me right out of the blue “Just think, Stan—if I’d married you I’d be called Milly Miller. That would be funny, wouldn’t it?” “Oh yes,” I said to her—and we were both sort of laughing by this time—“that would be funny: that would be rich.” Yes it would. Rich indeed. Odd though, isn’t it? The things you remember, and the things you forget. So anyway I must, you see—I just must give him the very best start in life, the best I can. Except it isn’t the start, of course. Aware of that. His start is buggered. His start is over. But his future, whatever it holds, and for however long … well: got to do my bit, haven’t I? I’m his Dad, aren’t I? Yes I am. So I’ve got to do my … no, not my bit. My utmost—that’s what I’ve got to do.

  “Now then, Paul—all right, are we?”

  “Yes thank you, Mr. Miller.”

  “Still raining, is it?”

  “Not quite so much now. Just spitting. Anthony ready?”

  I jolly well hope he is ready because I’m only just on time today because my stupid Uncle Jim—he really is so completely stupid, Uncle Jim—he called me into the shop just as I’d got my satchel all buckled up and my raincoat on and everything, which is just so typical. Come in here Pauly, he was going: it’s my string. And honestly, it’s quicker not to argue or ask questions or anything because then he only starts up and goes on and on for hours. So I went into his dirty old stinky shop and there was the string, unwound from the tin thing, the tin sort of dispenser thing, and all over the floor. Dropped it, he said: help me wind it all up again, hey? There’s a good lad. Well honestly—how stupid can you be? To get the string into such an awful mess. Amanda, she says I’m always going on about Uncle Jim and he can’t be that bad. Oh yes? Well you just try living with him Amanda, that’s all, is what I said to her. It’s all right for her, isn’t it? She’s got a proper father, and he’s normal. Auntie Milly says that Mr. Barton the butcher, he’s a real gentleman. Uncle Jim isn’t. Uncle Jim is a real idiot. I really do like Amanda, though. Talking to her, and everything. I wouldn’t tell Anthony or anyone, but last summer in Regent’s Park, she taught me how to make daisy chains and she put this buttercup under my chin and she said oh look, Paul—you don’t like butter. I didn’t actually know what on earth she was talking about or anything, but I didn’t say so—and I do like butter, actually. It’s margarine I don’t like, and I said so to Auntie Milly and she doesn’t get it any more. And then we lay on the grass and it was really hot and I went all squinty in the sun and I sort of just touched her on the knee once, and she didn’t say anything. And a bit later I wanted to do it again, but I didn’t.

  “Where is he, Mr. Miller …?”

  “He won’t be a jiffy, Paul. Just going to the Gents. Spending a penny. And talking of pennies … what takes your fancy on the tray today, eh?”

  “Oh gosh. Thanks a lot. Um … think I’ll have a Black Jack if that’s all right, Mr. Miller.”

  “Black Jack? That’s a new one for you, Paul. Well Black Jacks—they’re only a ha’penny, they are. So take a couple, eh? Three, say. Take three.”

  “Oh thanks. Thanks a lot, Mr. Miller.”

  “They color your teeth, mind.”

  “That’s what’s good about them. Gobstoppers—they color your tongue.”

  “You boys. You boys. Ah! Here he comes—the man himself.”

  Anthony, wearing his customary expression of anticipation, his bright blue eyes seemingly eager to be caught by anything at all, clumped his way through the shop from the stockroom at the back. His cap was crooked on his head, and what with grabbing at that and raising a gray metal crutch in greeting to Paul, he very nearly had himself over. Both Paul and his father moved instinctively toward him, but he batted them away.

  “I’m okay. I’m fine, Has the rain stopped, Paul?”

  “Pretty nearly. We’d better get a move on, though.”

  Stanley Miller laid his hands on Anthony’s shoulders and bent down to softly kiss the side of his head. And he would have embraced him—hugged him so very tight, squeezed the very life out of the little mite, oh yes he would, such was the welling of love inside him. He got that. He got that all the time. Just looking at the boy, he got that.

  “Have a good day at school, you two. Learn lots, eh? Wish I was coming with you. No, I mean it. I’ve got my work cut out for me today, I can tell you that much. It’s Sally Day, Anthony.”

  “Oh no!” laughed Anthony. “Sally Day! Big fat Sally. She’ll wreck the place again.”

  “What—Sally from Lindy’s, you mean?” said Paul.

  Anthony nodded. “Big fat Sally from Lindy’s. Once she’s finished shoveling down three million eclairs, she’ll come over here and start on the Mars bars.”

  “She does our window,” Mr. Miller explained to Paul. “Dresses it, sort of style. I can’t honestly rem
ember how it all started. I could just as easily do it myself, but … well anyway, she seems to enjoy it. Won’t take any money.”

  “Just Mars bars!” Anthony guffawed. “And honestly, Paul—it’s so funny. She’s so huge that every time she turns round she knocks over what she’s just put up!”

  “You’re right,” his father grinned. “But she’s a good soul—she means well. Now come on, you two. You’ll be late. Here, Paul—just a sec. Here. That’s for you. Tuck it away.”

  “Oh gosh, Mr. Miller. Spangles! Are you sure …?”

  “Course I’m sure. You’re a very good boy. Now off with you. Can’t have you getting a detention, can we? Or lines, or something.”

  Paul pocketed the Spangles, thanked Mr. Miller again, and the two of them went out into the drizzle. Tall for his age, Mr. Miller was thinking as he watched them go. And a healthy-looking lad as well, Paul is. He could grow up to be a hero. A man among men. A leader, a strong man of principle. Like Nicholas Nickleby, as a for instance. And there’s my Anthony, ever at his side. Little Smike, with nothing but hope. Oh dear God. The trouble with me is … I’m over-sentimental. Much too soft for my own good. That’s what Janey always used to say. Back in the days when she said anything at all. It doesn’t do. It really doesn’t do. So … right, then … just give the shop a little check over, make sure everything’s shipshape. Think we need some more Kensitas and Player’s Cork Tipped from the stockroom, if memory serves … and I’ll take my tin of St. Bruno while I’m at it. Get out the new display stuff for when Sally comes round. Cadbury’s have come up Trojan this month—some very nice material indeed: open boxes of Milk Tray with the most realistic chocolates you ever did see, and a big sort of fold-out stand-up affair with little compartments for all the dummy bars. Christ Alive—Sally’ll make mincemeat of it. Last time, she even managed to bring the shelves down. Could hardly believe it. Rawlplugs ripped clean out of the wall. Had to get one of the negroes round to make good. Nice enough feller. Well that one is, anyway—can’t remember his name. Odd sort of a name—well, you’d expect that, wouldn’t you? Got lots of k’s in it, fairly sure, though I could be wrong about that. But the other one, his partner, not too sure about him. Seems a bit shifty. Might not be, of course. But the one who came round to do up the shelves—couldn’t have been nicer. Always wagging his head and smiling. Great big teeth. Or maybe it’s just the way they seem. Did a good job. Charge was very reasonable. Cleared up all of his mess. We had a cup of tea and a bit of a chinwag. Where he comes from … Christ Alive, you wouldn’t believe all he was telling me. Made it sound like heaven on earth. Used to put up houses, little wooden houses by the seaside, though I can’t suppose for a minute that it’d be like any sort of seaside that we might have ever been to. Southend, Bognor, one of them. Bit of boatbuilding and all, he was saying. Sunshine, white sand … bananas. Coconuts, I shouldn’t be surprised. Makes you wonder why he ever left there in the first place. He did say he feels the cold. And the people, he said—they’re not very friendly. Not what he’d been told the English would be like. Before he managed to buy the woodyard (had a bit of money tucked away by then—been saving every single penny he earned since he was a nipper, is what he was saying to me: all he ever wanted since he was knee-high was to come and live in England, and you can hardly blame a man for thinking that) … yeh but before then, he and his mate had the very devil of a problem finding any digs, is what he said to me. Everywhere they looked it was “No Coloreds. No Irish. No Dogs.” Ending up dossing down in Paddington Station for the better part of a week. Well you can sort of understand it with the Irish, but I reckon coloreds and dogs are all right. Then he starts talking about Geoff Lawrence, the newsagent’s on the other side. Says he used to pop in there of a morning for his paper—Telegraph he reads, if you please. Express man, myself—all it is is what you’re used to, isn’t it really? Anyway, few days in, Geoff Lawrence, he says to him “I tell you what—how about I get my lad to deliver it for you? How’s that sound, eh?” And our negro chum (wish to God I could remember his name—I must make a point of it. Get him to write it down) he says to the man “Deliver? But I’m only five doors down” and Geoff, he says “It’s no trouble. Honestly. I insist.” He insisted, you see—wasn’t any choice in the matter. Makes you think, doesn’t it? How people can get. And Geoff, of course—he’s got a very nice little sideline with all those postcards he bungs in the window: “No Coloreds. No Irish. No Dogs.” And then he laughs, my negro pal, and he goes Oh but not you, Mr. Miller, you’re not like that at all—I didn’t mean you, you understand, Mr. Miller. Then he gives me that big and toothy grin of his, and he says “You great fine English gentleman, Mr. Miller. Like Winston Churchill.” Dear oh dear. You’ve got to laugh.

  Check on Janey before I open. Bring her a bit of toast with her tea. Sometimes she’ll eat it, most times she won’t. Later, she’ll go and sit in front of the telly. Whatever’s on. Shipping forecast. Flowerpot Men. Football pool results. I say to her: we’ve got two channels, Janey. Remember? You don’t like what’s on, you can change the channel. See what’s on the other side. Might be something better. I taught you how to do that, didn’t I? Change the channel. Hear me? Do you hear what I’m saying to you, Janey? Janey …? Janey, love …? Yeh well. Like talking to a bloody wall.

  Said she was coming round in her dinner hour, Sally. I wonder if I ought to say something? Say to her, look Sally—it’s very kind of you and everything, coming round to help me out and all, and don’t think I’m not grateful, but … well, I don’t like to be a burden, specially in your dinner hour, and I could just as easily … no. No. Wouldn’t wash. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t put it across right. I’d only end up hurting her feelings. Just thinking it out now, I can see her little piggy eyes going all dull, that tiny mouth that still she manages to cram all those eclairs into—truly a cakehole, if ever there was one—I can see it turning down into a schoolgirly pout as her head drops forward and all of those chins start to tremble. No. It’s just something I’ve got to live with. Something else I’ve just got to live with. Only every two to three weeks, after all. One day, though, she’ll get stuck. She will. She’ll be in that window bulldozing everything around her, and she’ll get wedged. Jammed. Have to get the glazier round to take the whole pane out—even the Fire Brigade—or else she’ll just die there. Jammed and starving. Surrounded by imitation chocolate. Christ Alive—she could become deranged. Poor little Sally. Well—not little, of course. But still just the one more helpless victim in a legend, isn’t she really?

  “All right are you, Janey my love …? Got you a bit of toast with your tea, look. Eat it up while it’s still nice and hot, eh? Help you sit up, can I …? Janey? You awake? You are awake, aren’t you? You’re just not opening your eyes. I know when you’re asleep. Well look … I’ll just leave it here on the bedside table, all right? Just leave it here for you. And you can get to it in your own good time. It’s not a very nice morning. Was raining quite heavily. Just spitting, now. Just a little bit of drizzle.”

  Yes, well—that was about par for the course. She really ought to see someone. Clear to anybody. Some sort of psycho person, don’t know much about it. Not going to happen, though, is it? Not the sort of thing we do. So she’ll just go on sitting there forever, I suppose. Or as long as she can bear it. Or me. Because there’s my needs too, if anybody cares. Which, of course, nobody does. Who would? Janey? I hardly think so. And there isn’t anybody else, is there? Sometimes, I can hardly care myself. Forget I’ve got them, needs. Sometimes can forget their very nature. Other times though, I can hardly think of anything else. Burns me right up. Oh well. Stick to burning my tobacco, ay? Yeh—much the best way. Have a pipe down in the shop now, I think. Unlock the door, put the Wall’s sign and the litter bin outside on the pavement, get the lights on and smoke my pipe on the tatty old stool in the corner. Serve Mrs. Goodrich with her quarter of caramel whirls same as every morning at nine o’clock on the dot, and then get back to hiding away from the day. Much to
o early to steam in on to dreading tomorrow, so just duck away from this round. Hope most of the shells go over my head. But bloody hell: the silence. The silence she gives me, it’s terrible, it really is terrible. Don’t know how much more of it I can take, if I’m frank with you. If it wasn’t for Anthony … Mind you, when she does say something, it can be even worse. Like last time. Was it Friday? Might easily have been Friday. Don’t think she’s uttered so much as a syllable since. But last Friday, I take her a bit of toast with her tea as usual, and her eyes are wide open and just staring, like they do. And before I could open my mouth, she puts up her hand and she says to me “Why don’t you kill me …?” Voice all hissy. Eyes open wider than ever. And this time, at the back of them, the light of something else. I just looked at her. Just looked. Couldn’t think of anything to say. Not a damn thing. So I muttered something about leaving the toast on the bedside table, look … and then I got myself out of there. Dear God, though. She goes a week of silence, and then she comes out with that little lot: “Why don’t you kill me …?” Dear God, though. What’s a man to think? Hey? Why don’t I kill her …? Christ Alive.