by David Storey
‘What d’you think?’
She thought I sounded eager. ‘It’s very good.’
‘You don’t sound excited.’
‘I wouldn’t get up and dance about it.’
‘You shouldn’t say that. It’s not like you.’
‘You haven’t had to do anything for it.’
‘As you like. If we’re going to be that happy about it let’s forget it. I’m going to try and get upstairs. I’ll feel better lying in the dark—what with those kids screaming about out there. … You ought to be glad about it,’ I couldn’t help adding.
‘They don’t care—their parents. They let them play all night so long as they don’t come in the house.’
‘They’ll miss me at the Mecca tonight. They’ll be expecting me to buy the place. Old Dicky—you should have seen his face go green when that Thorpe told him how much I’d got. Don’t wake me in the morning, Mrs Hammond. I might be dead.’ I made a big effort to the stairs to see if she was tempted to help me. She stood uncertainly in the middle of the kitchen. I wasn’t sure whether she’d mind me dropping down or not. ‘That reminds me,’ I said. ‘Weaver was talking about your husband tonight. Told me how he got killed.’
‘Did he?’
‘I just mentioned it—sorry if it was the wrong thing.’
I’d been lying in bed some time, unable to sleep for the aching, having a glance at Toreador, how he could make the crowd follow every little sneeze he made, waiting for her to stop crying downstairs. She must have hated me getting this money, as easy as that. And Eric had to die to get perhaps a couple of hundred out of the firm. This toreador used to shout at the crowd. He’d make them crazy just by shouting at them, then he’d do something so spectacular they’d be ready to kiss his arse the next minute. The next thing I heard was her voice the other side of the door.
‘Does it mean you won’t be staying?’ she said.
I hadn’t thought about it. When I didn’t say anything she went on, ‘The money—does it mean you’ll be moving?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I called to her, then I heard her door shut. I put the cheque on the chair beside the bed so that it’d be the first thing I saw when I woke up.
3
‘Tata-rum, tata-rum, see the conquering ’eroes cum.’
I can see Weaver’s crombie-coated arm wrapped round Maurice’s shoulders. Maurice is shouting his song. Their heads are close together; between them the lights are picking out a tunnel through the foliage. We’re travelling uphill at high speed, somewhere in Sandwood. Beside me I can smell George Wade’s cigar, and on the other side feel Johnson’s body pressed close to mine. The old man reaches forward and carefully touches the back of Maurice’s head.
‘What is it, Dad?’ Maurice turns round. Then he sees my open eyes. ‘Oh … the patient’s awake, Doctor.’
He presses Weaver to have a look. For a moment I’m the only person looking through the windscreen.
‘Doesn’t he look a picture? You’ve behaved right well, you have, Arthur,’ Maurice says and breaks into a scream of laughter. ‘Hasn’t he though?’ he says to Weaver, and glances over at George Wade. ‘We’ve heard all his subconscious what-nots, haven’t we, George?’
I can see but not hear Weaver suppressing his laughter. ‘It’s the best turn I’ve heard, Art. I hope to Christ nobody’s there when I have my teeth out. I wouldn’t have a friend left in me world.’
‘And have I?’
Maurice laughs a bit more, and says, ‘Did you hear what he said, Mr Wade?’ He chokes and gurgles. ‘You’ve one friend, Art, and that’s me. I can’t vouch for anybody else.’
He’s looking straight at Wade whose face I can’t see. Then it’s Weaver’s turn. ‘I had my doubts about psychology and that,’ he says. ‘But from now on I think I’ll look into it, the deep subconscious and all that load as Morry says—you know: what we keep under the counter.’
‘It’s the ramblings of an unconscious man,’ Wade protests. ‘Why make it out to be anything more?’
‘Ramblings or not, George,’ Weaver says, ‘he seemed to have a path to tread and he trod it.’
‘A bloody stampede,’ Maurice says. ‘Tata-rum, tata-rum … see the conquering ’eroes come.’
‘Well, I don’t hold anything against Arthur,’ Wade says. ‘He’s a sick man. I still think we ought to have taken him home as the dentist suggested. Or at least, have waited there until he came round properly. How do you feel, Arthur?’
‘He wanted to come. Didn’t you, Art?’ Maurice says. ‘It’s Christmas Eve—he doesn’t want to be locked up in a bloody room for the night. Isn’t that right, Arthur?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How d’you feel?’ Wade says. He gives the impression I’ve done him some harm while I’ve been out. His voice’s tired and hurt, his concern too showy.
‘Have I been letting my mouth off?’
‘They brought you out into the fresh air before they should. Mr Weaver couldn’t wait any longer, and Maurice decided to bring you with them. The dentist gave you a heavy dose, it seems.’
‘You didn’t want us to leave you there, did you, Arthur?’ Maurice says. ‘You should have seen yourself when we lugged you out that dentist’s. You thought you were swimming. Your arms were going …’
‘You could have gone ahead,’ Wade says. ‘We could have got a taxi.’
‘And taken him home? What sort of a bloody Christmas would he have had there? Aren’t I right, Art? You wanted to come.’
‘I’ve got this far. There’s no point going back.’
‘That’s the spirit, Art. Show ’em you can take it.’
‘The best thing to do’, Wade says, ‘is to phone a taxi as soon as we get to Mr Weaver’s house, and get him home to bed.’
‘Oh, I’m not going to bed now,’ I tell him.
‘That’s it, Art. Let’s have some criping fun while we’ve got the chance. We might be in Russia tomorrow.’
We all lean back and watch the leaves flicking past the windscreen. I’ve to pay some attention to Johnson, who’s been nudging me for some time. But he only wants me to look at him. In the reflection from the headlights I see him smile, a dumb sort of pleasure.
‘We’ll be there in a few minutes,’ Weaver says. ‘I’ve come round the back way from town. Less traffic. If you look to your right, George, round this bend, you’ll be able to see across to Primstone.’
I swallow some blood and rest the tip of my tongue on the empty front sockets. They’re soft. Jelly. There’s a dull ache, not too unpleasant, across the top of my mouth.
The car swings out of a cutting that brings us over the lip of the valley. We see the town lit up below, the string of lights coiling up to the darkness round Primstone. The flanks of the cooling towers in the valley reflect the light with diminishing strength until their summits are hidden in the darkness of the sky. They’re two columns holding up some mysterious weight.
‘It’s a right cake hole,’ Maurice says. He spits out of the window. Weaver takes his arm away.
‘Some of that got me, Morry,’ he says, wiping his hand across his cheek. ‘Where’re your manners?’
I don’t think Maurice hears. Any rate he spits again and Weaver calls back to Wade, ‘There’s no holding him, George. What do you think?’ He’s annoyed with his boy but keen not to show it. Wade doesn’t answer; he’s staring down at the view with a submerged expression. He might be going back over his life for reassurance.
The headlights show up a white gate in a high hedge. Maurice gets out and after a lot of complaining and shouting he opens it and we drive through. He clambers in and we manoeuvre up the drive.
Every window of Linga Longa is alight A full-scale party’s already under way. Half of it comes hooting and screaming to escort us to the glass porch. Maurice lolls out of the window hollering back.
‘Like Rome in the ancient days,’ Weaver says with a quiet, patronizing satisfaction. He restrains himself from lavishly knocking a couple down.
‘Run them over, they don’t mind,’ Maurice says. ‘It’s Christmas.’
For a while they can’t get anything open to get out. Then Maurice gets the sun-roof back and climbs up. Both his feet rest on Weaver’s crombie shoulders, then suddenly disappear as he falls into the arms outside.
‘That’s the most expensive doormat that lad’s ever had,’ Weaver says, still polite, but looking pale and strained in the glow from the dashboard. The engine stops. I can see a vast Christmas tree inside the porch. Its lights tremble as people fight by.
‘I think the best policy is to drive straight on out,’ Wade says.
‘You might be right there, George. Only I’d never get ten yards.’ He’s trying to open his door with some show of dignity, but the weight of bodies gleefully presses it shut whenever he gets it free. ‘I never invited all this lot. Half the bloody town’s here. It looks as though we’ll have to leave by the sun-roof ourselves. What do you think?’ He collapses back into his seat.
‘I say drive straight out,’ Wade tells him.’ I can’t imagine any civilized person, let alone Slomer or the like, wanting to mix with this lot. They’re absolute imbeciles.’
‘I never invited these. Thank God for one thing: we’ve an hour before Slomer’s likely to turn up, or the M.P.’
‘What time is it?’ I ask. It seems weeks since we were at the dentist’s. Wade fumbles in his waistcoat.
‘It’s not yet eight o’clock.’
Another ten minutes pass before the door’s opened beside Johnson and the old man suddenly vanishes. Maurice’s grabbing my arm and shouting, ‘Be careful with the sod. He might pass out again before we can see his lovely baby smile.’
I get to my feet outside and lean against the car. Bodies and faces and glasses wrapped with fingers press against me, laughing and shouting and clinking, yet I can hear George’s voice distinctly in the car saying, ‘I’m not moving from here until this mob clears. You can leave me.’
‘Go on. Smile, Art,’ Maurice’s shouting.
Quite a crowd’s collected, stretching to and filling the porch. There’re faces like masks dangling in every window. Maurice is compère. I make puzzled faces at him to encourage him to come close. When he’s right up and shouting all over my face, ‘Go on, smile for ’em, Arta,’ I push off from the car and belt him in the belly. I hold him up with my left hand. ‘Don’t get so excited, Maurice,’ I tell him.
He twists away. ‘I forgot to mention,’ he’s saying to those near him, ‘there’s a couple of crates of beer in the boot.’
They move round with him to the back of the car. Weaver’s already there, pressing the handle. The women scream and clap when the dog comes into sight coiled between the crates. It’s enough to get Wade out of the car, and he forces his way to the front. ‘I’ll get the dog,’ he says.
‘’s all right,’ Maurice tells him. ‘I’ll get it out for you.’ He looks round at Weaver who simpers. ‘Come on doggie. Come on little doggie, then.’
It whines and slides to the back of the boot. He grabs it and pulls it out, one hand on its tail, one round its thick, silver-studded collar. The body arches and twists, then it’s wrapped in Maurice’s arms. The women take the opportunity to show how human they can be, and give it a few pats and nice words. The dog lowers its head and Wade smiles.
‘Whoops,’ Maurice says as it slips from his hands. ‘I’ve dropped it.’
‘Don’t let it get away,’ Wade’s shouting.
‘I’ll get it,’ Maurice says, but in trying to pick it up he seems to give it an accidental kick. It whirls round in the forest of legs and, suddenly finding a gap, rushes off into the bushes.
‘Oh hell fire,’ Wade says.
Maurice’s covered his face with his hands; his shoulders are shaking inside his big coat. ‘It’s got away,’ he manages to say.
‘Come here, Toby! Heel, Toby boy! Heel!’ Wade’s calling in a voice divided, contorted between anger and encouragement.
It’s the first time most people have heard the name of the dog—the first time I’d heard it—and a lot of laughing marks the event. One or two turn away.
‘We’ll soon find it, George,’ Weaver says, looking a bit happier for the diversion. ‘It can’t get out of the garden. We’d better get these crates in before the air gets to them. Come on girls, show the warriors where to put them.’
Maurice passes me carrying a crate and still giggling. ‘Come on in, George,’ Weaver calls to Wade, still standing at the back of the car looking hopefully at the bushes.
‘I’ll have to find the dog first, Mr Weaver. I can’t leave the damn thing out here.’ He begins calling and whistling to show Weaver what he means.
‘Right you are, George. We’ll be out with you in a minute when we’ve sorted things out inside. It can’t get out of the garden, I tell you, there’s wire fencing in all the hedges. So don’t start worrying.’
Wade answers by disappearing into the bushes, prodding his way with his stick: a doggie hunter. Weaver has a consoling grin when he turns inside. ‘Can you manage on your own, Arthur?’ he says, and walks by without waiting for an answer.
I know my way around Weaver’s house as well as I do around any other public building, although it’s the first time I’ve seen a party here this size, even on Christmas Eve. The only feeling I have is to find a quiet corner somewhere and lie down. The place I have in mind is a small bedroom tucked under the eaves, the summit of one of the pyramid roofs. It’s a place where I usually end up when I come to Weaver’s football parties. But I only get half-way up the stairs when Johnson comes into the hall like Wade’s lost dog itself. I get up to the landing without him seeing me. I’m dizzy.
The door’s locked. I can hear some grunting inside. I bang on it. ‘Come on. Come on. You’ve had your time.’
There’s a lot of creaking and scurrying, then I hear the voice of Tommy Clinton, one of the City reserves.
‘Get knobbed, we’ve only just come in.’
‘Come on Clinton,’ I tell him. ‘Your father’s downstairs.’
‘If you don’t go away,’ he says evenly, ‘I’ll come out there and jump you, whoever you are.’
‘You’re too young for this sort of thing, Clinton. And just be fair. You’ve got all night for your cocoa.’
‘Is that Arthur?’ he says suspiciously, with a big drop in his voice.
‘Yes. How long you going to be?’
‘Give us five minutes, Art. We’ll be out by then, honest.’
‘Five minutes. I’ll wait on the landing and count.’
I go back and wait by a large aspidistra in a brass can, one of Mrs Weaver’s fads. It smells as though somebody’s watered it recently, and not from a tap. From behind it I can see the stairs and part of the hall. The noise down there’s deafening, thudding through the wall by my ear, and sending my head buzzing. I’ve been here no more than a couple of minutes when Johnson comes into sight again, this time trailing Maurice. They argue a while, then start to come up.
I nip down the landing and get into the bathroom. The light’s out and I lock the door.
‘If he’s anywhere, Dad, he’ll be here,’ Maurice’s saying. ‘He won’t have gone home, you can count on that. He’s just shy with having no teeth.’ He bangs on the bedroom door opposite but gets no answer. ‘Come on Art. It’s me. Maurice. I know you’re in there, you frog. What’s the matter? Sulking?’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ I hear Clinton’s faint voice. ‘Can’t we get a minute’s peace in this bloody house!’
There’s a moment’s silence, then Maurice says, ‘Sorry, Tommy. I thought Arthur might be there.’
‘I’m not that kind,’ Tommy says. ‘Go stuff yourself, Maurice.’
‘He’s not here,’ Maurice whispers to Johnson. ‘Why don’t you look in the other bedrooms? I’m off down.’
When they’ve gone I fill the basin with cold water and stick my head in for a minute. I find some aspirin on the shelf, by a tin of Mrs Weaver’s talcum. Or is it Weaver’s? I take four tablets. Then two more to make sure. The bedroom door’s just opening as I come out of the bathroom, and Tommy steps on to the landing with his sample.
‘Where’s your sweetie?’ he says.
‘She’s coming.’ I nod at the bathroom. He winks.
‘Fixing things up,’ he says. Tommy fancies himself a pretty smart frog with women. ‘Maurice’s been looking for you.’
‘Tell him you haven’t seen me.’
‘That’s for sure, Art. Good hunting.’
He’s not left the key in the lock. I bolt the door, then straighten the bed. There’s a thick stink of scent. I turn off the light, pull back the curtains, take off my coat and shoes. I get under the blankets and start thinking why Weaver hates me so much nowadays. Where have I gone wrong?
4
That first week-end of first team football brought me in six quid more than George Wade forecast. From the two games I made fifty-six quid: being Christmas, they were heavily bonused. It gave me quite an impression of the future and I bought a car which Weaver put in my way. It was a Humber from the County Hall garage which I got for just over three hundred—half the price I’d have had to pay if Weaver hadn’t been around. I got its real market value when I sold it for a Jaguar a few months later.
It took me three weeks to get Mrs Hammond to sit inside it. It was only the second time she’d been in a car; the first was at Eric’s funeral. She couldn’t make up her mind what attitude to take. It was a Sunday morning, and Lynda had been fretting to go out. She didn’t mention the car, but Ian did. Mrs Hammond fussed but didn’t tell them off as she might have done. She kept smiling at me, as if I’d already made the offer. The car was shining in the street—I’d been cleaning it at eight that morning, and now it was surrounded by a gang of kids who’d never seen anything like it on the premises.