Glad Alice got that little Hillman; swines to fill they are; slop it all over the floor, your feet too if you’re not careful and then George blames you. Not a bad smell, petrol. You get used to it after a time so in the end you hardly notice it. But that diesel reek, no I’d never get used to that if I was here til doomsday. Gradually, as the day runs down, you find your thought getting slacker too with lack of stimulus until it’s just ticking over like an idling engine, stalls at words more than a couple of syllables long or an idea that’s more than a simple fact to be grasped, something to be done. And that’s what’s happening to a good half the population every day; women shut up in their own homes with only small children and big mechanical gadgets to occupy them; men tied to their mechanical masters til their minds are stupified with repetition, in, out, pull, push. There’s no dignity in that kind of labour except what a man puts into it of himself and the same applies to a woman. What makes the difference then? Isolation? Yes that’s it. At one time people worked in groups, gangs; women banged their mats at the street door and gossiped or, earlier, slapped their dirty wash together on the flat stones by the stream. We were more a community; it’s the terrible corroding loneliness all day until in the evening you seem to have lost the power or will to speak, or simply there’s nothing to say and you sit in your isolated units in front of the box that feeds the private dream, finally does away with any need to communicate so that when you go into the room people look up dazed, almost angry at being broken in upon. I wonder if we have this compulsive need for company, for The House of Shades, because our isolation is more conscious, more realised than other people’s. We pity ourselves, tell ourselves it’s because we’re outcasts but in some ways we’re no worse off than anyone else, better perhaps because the consciousness forces us to go out and look for others like ourselves while the normals, as David would call them, sit alone in their own front rooms once they’re married, thinking they’re doing the right thing like everyone else and not junketting round the town, looking for the bright lights like feckless people do. ‘We’re home birds.’ Where did this idea of two people locked up in their own little cell with all their soporifics around them ever come from? Look at Alice and her husband, the comfortable, vegetable life and yet it isn’t their fault, you can’t despise them for not knowing better when nobody’s ever told them, taught them only the virtues of hearth and home, made thorough little introverts of them. Isn’t there a thought there somewhere? Haven’t we got something to give if we could only see it, something that’s needed I mean, instead of hiding in the shadows like pigmies confronted by a technological civilisation? We keep ourselves too much apart instead of making a place for ourselves and taking it.
Where did I get this Blakean vision from? Surely you’re not born with that kind of thing, glandular secretion, chemical make-up. But then they don’t know enough about that yet to be able to tell us anymore than they can say for certain what makes a queer. Does it matter? I’m beginning to think it doesn’t, that the things that really matter are what comes later. Maybe some people will never to able to accept themselves or others until they know for sure how and why but in the meantime they’re wasting valuable lives. Look at the power station chimneys down there towards the river belching black smoke. Master William would have had something to say about that. Nearly two hundred years and not much sign of the New Jerusalem, the rebirth of Albion yet, and plenty of dark satanic mills still around. If he’d known that things would get even worse, plunge right down into the valley of the shadow of Dicken sian London, Orwell’s mining slums, and his words sung meaning lessly by ladies in comic uniforms, what would he have said then? Mad of course like everyone else with an obsession, vision, call it what you like: sufragettes, abolitionists, C.N.D. all mad. So they peered through the garden hedge and saw him playing Adam and Eve with his wife in their birthday suits, and that proved it of course. After that he could be laughed at, his ideas ridiculed, his poetry dismissed because it was driven into strange symbols, became more and more obscure as the horizon darkened. Oh I remember the anger I felt, can still feel it now, when I first discovered the Songs of Innocence and Experience and realised he’d pointed it all out, well most of it anyway, all that time ago, and yet it was still happening all around me. Then I felt like the tiger and the man with the bow of burning gold. What happened? Why did I change? It wasn’t just getting over the first adolescent rash of idealism surely. Something sapped me at the root, right deep down, taught me to withdraw and be fearful. My own failure; Carl dying; the shadows closed in.
The morning drifts by like that smoke. What have I done? George is having an early lunch today. Still if he goes now he’ll be back in time to give me the spares’ list. Not a good day for tips after all. Hope Alice has done better than I have; she needs it more only working half days. Soon be lunchtime. Then there’s the afternoon, this trip over to Beaconsfield, needn’t bring them back if I last it out, they won’t be touched til the morning, and so home. Must have a shave this evening. Just about get through today without anyone noticing but won’t do for tomorrow. That’d give the mechanics something to grin about in their off moments if I came in with a quarter inch of stubble.
Wonder if Alice is brewing up again now old George is off the premises. Makes skivers of all of us this kind of job. It isn’t even that George is a slave driver; it’s just the rules of the game. No matter what good intentions you start off with you all end up dodging the column just the same.
‘At it again I see; thought I’d catch you if I dropped in now.’
‘What a lousy morning, need something to cheer me up. Never come across such a lot of tight-fisted, mean-faced little worms behind a steering wheel in me life. Look at that lot. All halfpennies and threepenny bits. If farthings was still currency they’d have dug a few of them out of their pockets too. Just about buy the kids a quarter of sweets each. Do you know one miserable sod had me check his oil, water, top up the battery and the air pressure all for tuppence. I felt like slinging it straight back at him.’
‘Never mind darling, you can knock off in a few minutes. I’ve got an afternoon to get through yet.’
‘Listen to that. There’s that bloody bell again and I’ve just poured me tea out.’
‘I’ll get it.’
‘You’re a friend. I could fall for you. I’ll pour you out a nice cuppa for when you come back.’
‘Don’t tempt me or I might forget myself one of these days.’ Sampson and King’s lorry. That’ll be on account I expect.
‘Morning.’
‘Morning my love. Sorry, thought it was the other young lady.’
‘She’s having her tea. Did you want her for anything special or can I do it?’
‘Oh she knows me. I always try for a little bit of special but I don’t get it. Tells me her old man’s a bouncer somewhere but I reckon she’s pitching me a yarn. You a student? Thought so. In fact I thought you was a bloke at first. Just can’t tell these days. My kid’s got hair as long as yours or did have til I took his mother’s shears to it last week and give him a short back and sides. Looked like a nancy boy he did, not a boy of mine. Didn’t half holler. You’d have thought I’d cut his tail off if you see what I mean. I’ll have four in the tank and ten down on the book as usual. We always split fifty-fifty me and the other gel so I’ll do the same by you. Oh and you can put me down for a gallon of oil. I’ll take half. That way we pick up a few bob each and no one’s any the wiser. Let me have the book and I’ll sign for it. You’re not very forthcoming are you? Cat got your tongue as my old mother used to say? What’s the matter, don’t you like me? Maybe you’re one of them don’t go much for men eh? You just don’t know kid, ent seen nothing. I could show you a few things.’
‘Don’t worry mate I’ve seen it all.’
‘Now don’t be like that. Here give me love to me girl friend. Tell her she better be on next time or I’ll come and sort her out. I don’t go much on little boy-girls. I ent kinky like some.’
&nbs
p; Hold on to it, that anger sticking like a fist in your gullet so you can’t breathe. Remember it isn’t his fault; he doesn’t know any better. It’s your fault for being here, for putting yourself in this position at the mercy of ignorance and brutality. And what can you do about it? What can you say from down here in the mud? Nothing. Take it, swallow it down, all the filth they care to throw at you because you’ve earned it in your own obstinate sweat and gall. If this was your honest job and you didn’t know any other then you could answer, give it them back in their teeth but you can’t because you’re a sham, a fraud, playing at being something you’re not out of fear and pride until now you’ve lost your way completely, whirl round and round like a scarecrow on a stick with every puff of hot air a fool cares to blow at you. Remember how you used to be, how you held your own, stood up tall and proud that summer in Italy? And you were only a kid then, a kid who knew nothing. Remember in the hotel bar ordering the drinks when that man suggested? You didn’t care. Nothing told you to be afraid or ashamed then. Now you hurry through the shadows with your head down in case someone should see you, notice you scurrying like a rat through the wasteland, and send their blunt missiles of words thudding into your flesh. Stand up for Christ’s sake. Hold your head up and look around. You don’t have to have money like Stag. Crawl out from under this stone into the daylight even if it blinds you for a while.
‘What’s the matter? Thought you’d gone for good. Here I put a saucer over your cup or it’d have been stone cold. You look as if you’ve swallowed sour milk. Somebody tread on your toes?’
‘One of your boyfriends left you his love and this.’
‘What’s that then? A quid.’
‘Sampson and King’s lorry. Apparently, the man says, you’ve got some arrangement with him.’
‘Oh yeah. That’s right, on the account. They all do it the drivers. When I first come here I was a bit took aback but it’s been going on so long and all the garages do it when they can so I just fell in with the system. Anyway it’s yours since you served him. You don’t blame me do you?’
‘No, I don’t blame you. Still, you have it. I mean you should have been out there and you need it more than I do. Go on.’
‘Thanks Matt. I’m grateful, honest. Here, have half a dollar; buy yourself a drink. No don’t argue, put it in your pocket. Soon as George gets back I’m shoving off. In fact I’ll go and see if he’s in now. Did that bloke sign the book alright? See you tomorrow.’
‘If you’re lucky.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Oh you never know.’
‘Well that’s true anyway. You never know from one minute to the next, never know your luck. I might get home and find the old man’s come up with three draws at last. Still you don’t even have to wait for that. Like I said this morning, think about it. See you and if I don’t, good luck.’
Oh Alice, Alice who never went through the looking glass or into wonderland, whose whole life is compounded of the commonplace, Alice I love you and you’ll never know it. I love your refusal to admit defeat because for you there was never any chance of winning, never any possibility that your life would stray from the straight and so very narrow yet you can still see it for others, urge them on into places you can only guess at, without malice or envy.
Might as well go for me own lunch in a minute. There she is over there talking to George. Now she’s gone back into the hut. Must’ve forgotten something. Looks like this big chap’s coming in here. Another bloody Wolseley. No sign of Alice. I’ll just get this one then and I’m off. George can look after his own pumps til the other girl comes on. Jacking it in I am. Alright mate, I’m coming. Watch out for the bubbles.
HE TURNED the key in the lock and pushed open the door, took two steps across the tiny windowless hall and opened a second door into the workroom. She was bent over the board, touching up a drawing with pen and Indian-ink, adding a little to the hatching to give the pot greater depth, a fuller curve.
‘I’ll be with you in just a minute,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘How would you like to do that on site?’
She didn’t answer at once, didn’t even look up. There was only a hardly perceptible pause in the rhythm as she applied the fine pen strokes and then she went on as before. He watched her as he always did, admiring the deft movements. After a bit she said, ‘What do you mean?’ and put down her pen.
‘A chap came in in a big Wolseley today, very last thing this morning just as I was getting ready to go along to the workman’s for a bite to eat, I’d knocked off already in my mind, you know. It was the second one in. I’d had one before, a Wolseley I mean, and I thought, this’ll hold me up. You have to be careful with them you see because of the air bubbles.’ He paused. She waited, the ink drying on the nib, letting the story unfold gradually in front of her as he wanted it to, sharing its slow progress to a climax she wouldn’t even guess at, content to let it come, as she’d said, like unwrapping a present. Nothing she did or said would alter it now, would make it not happen. It existed as surely as if she held it in her hand.
‘If it’d been this afternoon I wouldn’t even have been there. I’d have been out with the van collecting spares. That’s funny isn’t it? Coincidence I mean. It never fails to surprise us no matter how often it happens. We ought to be used to it. You know, eight million people in London and you happen to bump into just the one, way outside the laws of averages and statistics. I went over to ask the driver what he wanted. Shouldn’t even have been my pitch but I knew Alice was busy in the hut about something. “Yes sir?” I said and he leant out of the window towards me. “Good God!” he said. “Is it you? What the hell?” and then, “Put me in three gallons of the best if that’s what you’re here for.” I felt like a naughty boy who’s been smacked. When I’d finished I went back to him and he said, he was laughing now, “Let’s see if you can count as well,” and he gave me a pound. When I took him the change he said, “Now what’s all this bloody nonsense about? I want to talk to you. When are you off? You must have a lunch break or something.” I said I’d be free in a few minutes and I’d meet him at the Fox, down the road. I’d have taken him to the café. He wouldn’t have minded, wouldn’t even have noticed. He’s like that. But he’s got such an upper class yak on him. He can’t help it of course but by the time he’s finished the whole world knows the story. I washed my hands and combed my hair, even took my overalls off; not really a concession. I’d have taken them off to go out in the afternoon anyway. I got the list of spares from George, told him I’d go straight off after lunch and then I drove down to the Fox. He was sitting there with a couple of halves in front of him, fidgeting and jerking about like he always does. ‘You took a bloody long time,’ he said. ‘Still I suppose it was worth it. You look a bit more human out of that fancy dress. Never mind about that now. What is all this eh? I thought, when I thought about you at all which wasn’t often mind you, I thought you’d have yourself a cushy little number in adult education by now, lecturing to the old ladies in the evenings, and instead I find this.’ He’s just the same, so exactly the same it almost felt as if there hadn’t been any gap and yet it must be seven years since I saw him last. I always said it’d be like that, that we’d pick up just where we left off if we ever met again.’
‘Who is it? You haven’t told me yet,’ she said gently.
‘I’m sorry. I forgot. It’s Finlay. Alan Finlay.’
‘Dr. Alan Finlay, the Etruscan man? The one you worked for in Italy?’
‘That’s it. Dr. A. Gordimer Finlay as it says in the books. Only I can’t think of him other than as old Finlay. He’s been back several times of course since I was with him that time and he’s starting a new dig in a month from now. Should have gone before but he’s been held up over funds. Now he’s ready and he wants me to go with him.’
‘What did you say?’
‘He said, “You’re wasting your time. You can do more than this.” And I suddenly saw myself as I must look to him. “
You know I never fancied sitting in front of a class for the rest of my life,” I said. “You don’t have to. There are plenty of opportunities, plenty needs doing God knows.” So I told him just what opportunities there are for someone like me. He saw it at once as soon as I explained. That’s one of the things I’ve always liked about him. ‘You’re not rich yourself, you’re not married to a wealthy intellectual who’ll let you go off and have your own life while he has his, you’re not on the old boys’ bandwaggon and you won’t compromise. I wasn’t far out when I said adult education was I? For someone like you society doesn’t offer much else. But I was joking of course. I realise it wouldn’t really do. I did think when I didn’t hear anything of you, you might have changed, might have settled for less. You’re mad, you know that don’t you? But then so am I. We always got on well together. Some of your ideas are a bit cracked but that doesn’t matter. At least you have ideas, in fact I always thought we sparked each other off and that’s always a good thing. Why don’t you come back with me? It might lead somewhere, who can tell?’ “There’s just one thing,” I said. “I thought there might be,” he was laughing again. “It’s not just me. How long would it be for?” “Several months,” he said, “to do any good. There’s work there for years one way and another if you want it. I can even pay you now the trust has come up with something. What can she do?”
The Microcosm Page 34