by David Storey
‘Not now I don’t.’
He laughed. ‘The fact is, one or two clubs were after you. They had somebody watching last Saturday. So perhaps I’m not altogether to blame for rushing you. Did you have any other offers?’
‘No. I haven’t heard anything.’
‘Well, if you do you’ll know what to say now: property of the City.’ He gave a bigger laugh and slapped my thigh. Then he squeezed my knee. ‘Best to make sure, Arthur.’
We passed Highfield and he said, ‘Riley—he looked a bit sick, I thought. What do you think? He likes to manage these affairs rather smartly, you know. Make them look like big business. These crumby accountants, I find they always like to do that. Dress the money up to disguise the filth it is. What do you think?’
‘Maybe it’s filth I like.’
He was laughing again. It was like turning a little knob. He wanted me to feel a good chap, so he laughed. I laughed with him. I couldn’t say I disliked him. He was giving me all these confidences, if they were that. ‘One of the family’ business. I just felt a bit shy, being the newest member. His elbow gave me a slow nudge as he turned the wheel.
‘Fairfax Street,’ he said. ‘You know, that rings a bell. Who lives down there that I know?’ He scratched the side of his nostril with the tip of his little finger.
‘A bloke called Hammond used to live there. He was killed at your place.’ I was surprised at the way I said ‘your place’. It sounded big, communal. ‘At Weaver’s,’ I told him, to show there was a difference between him and the factory. ‘I’ve digs with his widow.’
‘That’s the name,’ he said quietly. ‘Hammond. Wasn’t it Eric Hammond? I remember the funeral.’
‘How’d he get killed?’
‘On a lathe in “D” shop. Quite nasty.’ The car’d slowed down and he switched on a headlight, as if the thought reminded him of the inevitability of accidents. ‘He was facing the boss of one of those vee-belt pulleys—with a hand file. One without a wooden handle. To a large extent it was his own fault. Anybody knows you don’t use those files on a bloody lathe. Naturally as soon as he touched the pulley rim the damn file shoots off. Stuck half-way through him. We’ve had all those files removed, even from the benches. But you’d have thought people could see a plain thing like that.’ He switched off the headlight. We were going slowly. ‘Not only that, his clothing got caught up in the lathe, and that didn’t help. … There were one or two other complications too.’
He didn’t say any more so I asked him, ‘What were they?’
He shrugged. ‘Nothing. What’s his wife, or rather his widow, like? He’d a couple of kids if I remember properly.’
‘She’s all right.’
He looked at me a second. I don’t know why. Then he said, ‘She didn’t get any compensation. The case went against her. We gave her a bit, not much.’
‘Shouldn’t she have got compensation?’
‘I don’t know, lad. It wasn’t going to do us any good to admit liability. Still, it’s not for me to say, is it? Where do you want me to drop you? At the end or at the front door?’
‘End of the street’ll do.’
‘Bit of a coincidence you living there.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Yes, quite a coincidence I call that. Eric Hammond. It’s amazing how these dead people keep popping up.’
He stopped the car as if he knew the street. I slipped the catch and opened the door.
‘Well, you shouldn’t lose your money between here and home,’ he said. ‘I can’t see any great temptations down that street.’ I stood on the pavement and looked down at him, a fish in an aquarium. A three thousand quid aquarium. ‘Good night, Arthur, and my best wishes.’
I told him good night, and waited till he’d backed and turned the car. I watched the Bentley head back along City Road.
I’d no thoughts at all because I was no sooner in the street than it began to spin upwards at a terrific rate, and very shortly took off on a long staggering flight, careering about the darkened landscape in great leaps and jumps. I leant against somebody’s door. Something ran down my nose and I tasted the bitterness on my upper lip.
The next thing I saw was Johnson.
He was calling my name and telling me he’s my friend. ‘What’ve you been doing?’ he said. ‘What’ve they done to you?’
‘I’m tired. Jesus I’m tired.’
‘You’ve been drinking. It’s not wise.’ He laid his arms round me as if I needed all his protection.
‘Did you see me get out of Weaver’s car, Dad? Did you see me get out? He brought me home in it.’
The nearest thing to acting shrewd came into Johnson’s movements. ‘What happened tonight? Have you been celebrating?’ he said, and prodded me like a fellow drunk. ‘Did you sign? Have they signed you on?’
I felt pretty chuffed with myself. I straightened up so I could see him better. The street had landed. It was heaving, but it was resting.
‘Aw they won’t have me, Dad. They won’t have me. I told ’em what to do with their stinking no-good filthy money.’
‘You haven’t done that!’ he cried out. It seemed to explain to him why I was acting like I was. He still thought I was drunk.
‘You’re not crying about it?’ I asked him. I looked into his face. ‘You’re not crying?’
‘No,’ he said, leaning against the lamp-post and shielding his face like a kid.
‘It’s not worth that trouble,’ I told him. ‘It’s not that important.’
My head was splitting open and everything was dripping on to the pavement, my clothes, the road. There was a big pain over my eyes. I prodded Johnson, but he wasn’t moving.
‘Weaver just brought me back in his car, Dad.’
‘I’ve been waiting here two hours, Arthur,’ he said.
‘Two hours. But why’d you do that?’
‘I wanted to hear what’d happened. So it was all for nothing.’
‘Aye … That’s right.’
‘Ah, well,’ he said, and kept his face shielded.
‘Are you disappointed?’ I asked him. He didn’t answer. But a moment later he turned his head down the street and I thought he was going to walk off for the last time.
He said, ‘They told me they were coming down here to sign you on. That it was no good waiting around up yonder. Weaver: it was him who told me. He said they’d be calling on you. I’ve waited two hours.’
‘I’d have seen you tomorrow. There’s no need to have waited all that time. Why d’you wait all that time? You could have called later on tonight.’
‘I wanted to see,’ he mumbled.
‘Wanted to see what? Me sign a bit of paper? There’s nothing to see. You know I’ve been kidding you, don’t you?’
‘I was waiting.’
‘I’ve just been pulling your leg about signing on.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘How much do you think it is, Dad?’
‘You tell me about it, Arthur,’ he warned. He looked numb.
‘Well—how much do you think it is? How much do you think they paid for Arthur Machin?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Aren’t you going to guess? Try and guess how much I got.’
‘You squeezed my wrist when I said the same thing to you. You’ve to tell me, Arthur.’
‘Five hundred—five hundred quid. I’m just beginning to feel what it means. Five hundred pounds. Do you want to see the cheque?’
He stared at the lamp-post. His face glistened as it turned round in the street light and faced up the street, looking at me. ‘Could I see it?’ he said. His eyes were in shadow. I took the cheque out and held it under the lamp. He put both hands round the paper, like it was a delicate moth, and studied it carefully.
He looked at me then. ‘You and me, Arthur,’ he sai
d.
‘You think I’m worth it?’
‘You and me. That’s us.’ He held the cheque up.
‘I had to argue.’
He didn’t seem to hear.
‘We did it together,’ he said.
‘Old Wade—and that mean stinking Riley. If you’d only seen his face. It was red. It was as red as … well anything you care to think of. They were all for cutting it down. They wanted me to take half or something, a measly few quid. I might be dead in a year. There might be a war. They’re not sure what hit ’em even now. Weaver said that. He reckoned Riley was hurt real bad.’
Johnson hadn’t been listening as all this flooded my head and took the pain away. He’d started a little dance round the lamp-post. He looked the funniest little frog I’d ever seen. His stubby little boots shuffled in the gutter, then on the pavement, then on the road, as he circled the light. He wasn’t listening at all. But when I said, ‘How much of it do you want?’ he stopped dead. I’d shot him.
‘What d’you mean, Arthur?’
‘How much of it do you want? Five hundred quid. You put me in the way of it. How much do you think you should have?’
‘Oh, no, Arthur.’
‘How d’you mean, “Oh, no”?’
‘You know I didn’t do it for that.’
‘I don’t know at all,’ I said, irritated, thinking he was trying to be modest before he took a big cut. ‘What did you do it for?’
‘Not for that.’
‘For something, then?’
‘No.’
‘Look—you must have done it for something. You spent a year greasing round Wade, and that committee. What do you mean, you did that for nothing? Nobody’d do that for nothing. Greasing round all those fat frogs. Don’t tell me you enjoyed doing that.’
‘I didn’t do it for that.’
‘I don’t mind splitting it, if that’s what you’re worrying about. There’s a lot more for me from where that’s come from. I know how to treat those frogs. I don’t mind clipping some off. I think you deserve it. I honestly think you do.’
He’d stopped dancing, and he’d stopped talking. It looked as if he’d stopped breathing. He just drooped there.
‘What did you do it for, then? … Aren’t you going to tell me? Come on, come on. Have I hurt you in some way?’
‘It’s not any of that.’
‘What is it then?’
‘I wanted—you know. You know what it was.’
‘I don’t know,’ I insisted, and tried to think of what it was he wanted if it wasn’t all the five hundred.
‘I wanted to do something on my own, something by myself. I wanted to.’
‘You don’t sound convinced,’ I told him.
‘You hurt me, Arthur. You press yourself on people. You try and make me think like you want me to. You shouldn’t have thought I’d want money—paying for it. You spoil it.’
‘Well, I don’t reckon I wanted to do that. But you know it’s been a money proposition for me from the word go. I haven’t been pressing hard on you.’
‘Let’s leave it at that, then.’ His face was a hard little mask.
‘No, I want you to listen. I don’t want you to start on this again. Let’s get it settled. I want to pay you something. Call it a present, whatever you like. But I want you to take something. I don’t want the thought of your stooging always lying over me. Because let me tell you straight, I don’t enjoy getting knocked around a field for people’s amusement. You see what I mean, Dad? I only enjoy it if I’m getting paid a lot for it. That’s the bit I enjoy. So I want to see you share some of it.’
‘I don’t want any of it, Arthur. If that’s what you want out of it, well and good. I’ve got what I want.’
‘I never guessed you took it so seriously. Look—do you know what Mrs Hammond said?’
‘What about?’ he asked quickly.
‘About this—what we’ve been just talking about. She says you did it for money.’
‘She would … she would,’ he said, trying to think of something he could say. ‘She would say that. I don’t like that woman. I don’t know why you stay there, Arthur. She doesn’t like me.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I’m only telling you this to show you it’s not much for me to drop you a few quid. I know you haven’t done it for money—aw Christ, I’m not arguing any more. I’ll send you something. Here, give us the cheque.’
‘When’ll I see you?’ he said. He looked cold now, and lost.
‘I don’t know.’ I took the paper off him and folded it up.
‘What about tomorrow, Sunday?’ he said.
‘Sunday? The way I feel I won’t be up by next Sunday. I feel sick.’
‘You go in and rest,’ he advised. ‘I’ll call down tomorrow and see how you are. … Have you been drinking?’
‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘I’m blind drunk.’
He watched me sway down the street to the front door. There were one or two parties in the front windows. Hers was in darkness, its usual gloom.
‘Who’s that?’ she called after I’d knocked.
‘It’s me. The King of England.’
‘Is that you?’ she said.
‘No. It’s me.’
‘Is that you …?’
‘For Christ get the door open. There’s not a bloody war on.’
I heard the bolt slide back, then I was inside leaning against the wall.
‘What’s the matter with everybody tonight?’
‘You’re drunk,’ she said. She was quiet while she tried to look at me with disgust. I got into the kitchen under my own steam and lay down in a chair.
‘Your eyes are all red,’ she said. ‘They’re full of blood.’
‘It’s concussion, lady.’
‘Have you been fighting? You’ve a mark on your forehead as well.’ She watched me a while, maybe hoping I’d sprout other symptoms to give her a clue. She wasn’t sure how she should respond. ‘There’s a blue mark between your eyes.’
‘You don’t have to tell me these things. I can feel it. Have you got any codeine or something?’
She banged around a bit, opened a few drawers, a cupboard, then came back and slipped a cup into my hand. I held out the other hand, felt her fingers, then the tablets. ‘Aw come on. At least four.’
‘Two’ll do for now,’ she said primly. ‘You can have another later if it doesn’t go off.’
‘That’s just like you: if it doesn’t go off. Why can’t you give me four now and make sure it’ll go off?’
‘You sound very brave and manly all at once—just because you’ve got a knock on your head.’
I didn’t answer. She waited while I drank, then took the cup and rinsed it under the tap. The water roared. She sat down opposite me.
‘That Johnson was here. That friend of yours.’
‘I’ve just seen him outside. He’s got the idea for some reason you don’t like him. That’s odd, isn’t it?’
‘He seemed to think I was hiding you somewhere. He said he’d been told you were down here.’
‘He was. How long ago did he call?’
‘Over an hour … There must be something the matter with him waiting all this time for you. Don’t you honestly think so? I don’t know why you encourage him.’
‘That’s just about what he said about you. He didn’t know why I stayed here.’
She had nothing to say for a minute.
‘You should have friends your own age,’ she decided.
‘I have.’
‘He ought to be at work. He’s not too old to work.’
‘They’ve signed me on.’ My voice sounded dead. She lifted her head at the tone. There was a late-night, worn look about her. Her eyes, usually vague in any case, were now almost completely absent. Empty holes.
&
nbsp; ‘Do you want some tea?’ she asked.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’
‘Yes. Are you glad?’
‘Tell for yourself when you guess how much it is.’
‘I don’t know anything about it … going by the way your Johnson was worked up it must be thousands. I couldn’t tell what he was saying. Perhaps it’s just as well.’
‘Forget him. Guess how much I’m worth.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything about football.’
‘I know you don’t. So just guess how much you think I’m worth. How much solid cash do you think I am?’
‘I honestly couldn’t say—if I’d anything to do with it you’d probably have to pay them.’
I rolled my head across the back of the chair so I could see her, then I laughed. ‘You made a joke,’ I told her.
‘I know.’
‘I knew you were like that under that mask.’
She smiled seriously.
I looked at her afresh. I’d never seen her much as a person. She didn’t want to be seen. Her life, while I’d known her, had been taken up with making herself as small, as negligible as possible. So small that she didn’t exist. That was her aim. And it was exactly opposite to mine. It was mainly this I resented. I wanted the real Mrs Hammond to come popping out, as it almost seemed to do then. Living had turned up so many bad cards for her that she was refusing any more deals. She was withdrawing and lying down. I hated her for it. For not seeing me: how I could help her. Everything was bad. Even me. Nothing counted any more. Not even me.
‘Aren’t you going to have a guess?’ I asked her, wanting to impress it upon her.
‘No,’ she shook her head.
I waited for her to change her mind. ‘I’d better tell you since you’re so keen. Five hundred pounds.’
She laughed suddenly and lightly. I’d never heard the sound from her before. ‘You don’t believe me,’ I said.
‘No.’
‘If you come here I’ll show you the cheque, signed, crossed, and dated.’
I held it out and she reached for it.
‘You see,’ I told her as she read it. ‘Five hundred in letters and in numbers.’
She held it briefly then handed it back.