by David Storey
I was too busy the next few weeks to think about what effect the trip might have had. Mrs Hammond was quieter. I wasn’t in the house much, and we hardly spoke. I stepped up my rent and she didn’t complain. It meant I didn’t do any washing up and didn’t help her any more with the washing. I got the coal in now’n again.
I spent most of the time getting to know the new bunch of people I’d moved into, and the car was the biggest asset I had. One thing, it meant I could avoid Johnson more easily, a really difficult thing when there’d only been the bus to travel on and the park to walk through. The only times I saw him were after home matches and on one or two training nights. With a lot of new friends pushing round I soon got the technique of slipping away.
The great thing with Weaver was that he couldn’t do enough for me. I was in with the mob; and him and me got fairly close. He put me in the way of a Jaguar after I’d got five hundred and eighty for the Humber, and he lent me the extra hundred and fifty so that I wouldn’t break into my bank balance. What amazed him was I paid him back within five weeks. The reason was some weeks I was making up to twenty quid on the dogs at Stokeley, a mining village down the valley where Frank Miles, captain of the City, lived.
With the confidence a car and no worry over money can give, and with being stuffed up there in the public eye, I found I’d a knack of getting close to some important people, from local industrialists and area managers to soccer stars from nearby towns and the local M.P. It usually lasted a short time. Taff Gower was about the only friend, apart from Maurice, who I stuck with. Ever since I’d flattened his nose—it’d been permanently bent from that day—we’d been friendly in an unambitious sort of way. We never did anything great for each other. Whatever there was it must have been something to do with his nose and me hitting it. I saw him fairly often, even when he gave up the game and took over a pub near Primstone—he helped to train the youngsters on Thursday nights.
I wasn’t so close to Weaver that I didn’t see he was as good an example of the come-and-go type as any I knew. He’d never got past the stage of treating friendship as a kind of patronage. I gathered he’d once been really ambitious—more than I could have seen or imagined—and he was still very particular where his only rival, Slomer, was concerned. They were supposed to be the most dangerous people in town—if you could have dangerous people in this town—and Primstone was their mutual toy. They bought and sold players, built them up and dropped them, like a couple of kids with lead soldiers. But that seemed to be the way with any professional sport. I just found it important to keep up close to Weaver.
When I first started with him, or rather he with me, I hadn’t appreciated how potent he could be. I thought I deserved somebody like Weaver to be always hanging over me. I didn’t realize how much people could hate till I met a few who didn’t like him, or who didn’t like Slomer. Weaver was supposed to be a fairy, which could mean he was just sensitive to other people’s opinion. He might have been a bit that way inclined but he didn’t do anything about it. He watched us getting bathed a lot, but he only got round to patting and arms-on-your-shoulder stuff. His likes and dislikes were a bit keener than most folks’. Any objection I had I put right outside for the simple reason Weaver liked me a lot. He was rich, and I’d never met a rich man before.
I’d been with Weaver some time before I met his wife. She never showed her face at the Saturday night parties, and he never mentioned her. From what I gathered she was a holy lady, patronizing the Bishop and his social whirl next door, and making herself responsible for most of the official charity to old folks in town. A picture like that made me think she and Weaver didn’t get on well.
I was in the cocktail bar of the Woolpacks in Victoria Street one Saturday afternoon during the close season—the first summer after I’d signed on—when I saw Ed Philips come in. I’d just come up to town to collect the car from the garage, and since it was after closing time, I reckoned it was probably that waiting outside that brought him inside. He saw me with that shudder of late recognition which some men and more women adopt to make them look preoccupied.
‘Hiya Arthur. Us athletes stoking up?’
It was the thing with him to look and act athletic—the brim of his trilby slightly bevelled, his yellow gloves slightly turned back, his coat collar just slightly raised round the back. His athletic activities, apart from golf, were confined to his head—which didn’t restrict their effect in any way. I always found it difficult to decide from which particular achievement he’d lately returned. Perhaps when he was in the lavatory that morning he’d won the final Test, maybe on the way to the office he’d won the 1500 metres. It was difficult to tell. But he was certainly winning something as he came strutting up. ‘Are you busy?’ he said casually as he sat down.
‘How’re you keeping, Ed?’
‘Fair. You know how it is, this summer heat. Can I get you a drink?’ he asked safely. ‘I wondered whether you were busy.’
‘I just might be, if you pressed me.’
‘If you weren’t I thought you could run me up to Weaver’s place,’ he suggested.
‘Why me?’
‘The car’s laid up, old sport, and I don’t want to take a taxi. It might made a bad impression—it’s the lady I’m seeing, not the old man.’
‘What’s wrong with the bus?’
‘Aw, Arthur.’ He brightened up. ‘How could I go knocking on her door after I’d just stepped off a damn bus? Your County Hall car’ll fit the programme fine.’
‘I’ve sold the Humber. It’s a Jag now. And it won’t impress her. Weaver got it for me in the first place.’
‘Ah, pity about the Humber. It had a glass partition, hadn’t it? No? Anyway she won’t notice the difference. Cars all look alike below a Daimler to her. We can go when you’re ready.’
As we got nearer Ling Longa I felt that bit nervous, then curious. And feeling nervous and curious I noticed a change come over Ed too. Weaver wasn’t there—only his wife. He was right on edge by the time we reached the white gate. ‘Shall I come in with you?’ I said.
He looked at me in half surprise. ‘Oh, I don’t know if I should drag you in, Arthur.’ He continued to treat me simply, like a trained animal he had to pacify. ‘You only came for the ride, old son. It’s no good thrusting things unexpected on you, like.’
‘It’s private business and you don’t want me to hear?’ I suggested.
‘There’s nothing private, Arthur. …’ He shrugged stiffly. ‘I come up here on and off—purely in the way of duty. Just for chats, you might say. She’s got various connexions and tells me the news. It saves a lot of walking around. You come in if you like, old sport. It’s a lot of parochial chatter. Come in if you really want to.’
He talked so much about it he convinced me he didn’t want me around: I was the chauffeur. I thought his bloody cheek was funny and I could only grin. ‘You go in,’ I said. ‘I’ll wait.’
‘You’re sure? You don’t mind?’ But he was already up the steps and ringing the bell.
May, the Weavers’ Irish maid, appeared. He leered at her and made a few sly motions with his hands as if he was advertising the car and himself at the same time. He’d lost some of his confidence by asking me to wait.
‘Hello, Arthur,’ May called over his shoulder.
‘Is Mrs Weaver in?’ Ed asked. ‘It’s Mr Philips from the Guardian calling,’ and he disappeared into the hall.
I sat and tapped the wheel, and wondered how long Ed would see fit to keep me waiting. After all, he couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t drive off and leave him to walk away down that long garden. I stared up at the windows in the hope of catching sight of Mr Weaver, but there was only May. She held her nose as if there was a peculiar smell about the place, and smiled down at me.
I’d got out to sit on the front mudguard, in the sun, and I hadn’t been there ten minutes when the front door reopened and Mrs Weaver came o
ut, followed by a displeased Ed. I must have looked too independent a chauffeur for his liking, sitting on, not in, the car.
‘Arthur Machin,’ Mrs Weaver said, staying on the top step. ‘He’s one of the stalwarts of the City team according to my husband … we’ve been watching you from the window.’
‘Yeh,’ I said, standing up awkwardly, putting my hands in, then taking them out of, my pockets.
‘I must say’, she turned to Philips, ‘he doesn’t seem a very sociable giant.’
Ed brought out a smile, and tried hard to change his mood. ‘He’s probably shy,’ he said, almost harshly.
Mrs Weaver seemed to enjoy playing him along. She came down the steps slowly, and we shook hands. ‘Oh, don’t tell me he’s shy,’ she said. ‘He comes up here often, don’t you, Machin? But then on slightly livelier occasions.’ She laughed pleasantly, and I couldn’t help comparing her with other women I knew, and liking her. She seemed glad she was winning me over, and that Ed could see her do it.
He put a polite hand on the door handle to show he was calling it a day. Ed counted the whole incident a mistake. ‘I asked Mr Philips to bring me out and introduce you,’ she said. ‘But he’s such a slowcoach … and I rather think he wanted to keep me inside talking.’ She raised her eyebrows, and we laughed.
‘Well that’s what he came for,’ I said, pressing the intimate advantage. Ed tried to smile too.
‘Ah now, don’t go making me just a gossip-talker,’ he said, and opened the car door, pointedly. ‘Sometimes I can be a very busy man.’
‘I come out for a word with Machin, and you immediately want to rush him off,’ Mrs Weaver complained. ‘We were watching you pulling faces,’ she said to me. ‘Sitting on that mudguard and looking bored to tears. I might have known Mr Philips wouldn’t have the gumption to ask you inside.’
‘Oh, I don’t like intruding as it is …’ Ed began.
‘No matter,’ Mrs Weaver said, as if remembering herself. ‘If you must appear the busy executive, you must. Still, I do like meeting Mr Weaver’s protégés now and again. He keeps them to himself too much, I sometimes think.’
They shook hands, and after Ed had eased himself into the car she said, ‘You must come again, Machin. We might be able to have a longer chat … and I might even find out why Mr Weaver spends so much time at that club of yours!’ She raised her eyebrows and again we laughed. She moved back on to the step as I started the car. ‘Drop me a line if you’re not too busy,’ she called to either one or both of us.
‘She means you,’ Ed said sulkily as we moved down the drive.
‘Or is she just being funny?’ I asked him. He didn’t answer.
As we went through the cutting into town I said, ‘Is Weaver really rich?’
Ed thought about it, then said, ‘No.’
‘You don’t think he is?’
‘I know he isn’t. His father was. … But then again, Weaver’s not a poor boy either. What money he’s got he lets lie. Slomer, now … he’s a different case. He makes his money work.’ He was pleased to be able to tell me something: to point out the situation.
‘So Weaver’s—the factory—it’s just a name?’
‘Weaver’s a director, and all that. But he’s not in the position his father was. If he had been the place would’ve dropped in the river long ago.’
He didn’t say anything else till I’d stopped the car outside the Guardian offices. But he didn’t get out: he put his arm round the back of the seat. ‘You know, old sport. The way Mrs Weaver was talking to you back there … you don’t want to let it mislead you. She was just being polite. Not friendly.’
‘Oh I know. Treating me as an equal, and that.’
I felt his breath on my cheek. He must have been looking at me intently. ‘You don’t need me to tell you how things are up at Primstone. Weaver and Slomer split fifty-fifty. Neither of them likes the other. You know what I mean, old sport?’
‘No.’
‘Well,’ he shifted in his seat, ‘they notice who’s on whose side.’
‘You think I ought to float about in the middle?’ I said.
‘Take it or leave it, sport. But you know as well as I do that Primstone, as far as those two old … gents are concerned, is a hobby. And people can get real mean about hobbies. Just suppose Weaver had to withdraw his support from the club. There was a bust-up, say. You’d be out in the cold. And so would Wade, just to mention one other. … You see what you’re doing? Identifying yourself with Weaver. Riley, the secretary, he’s with Slomer. You see how these things are fixed?’
‘I reckon it’s not as crude as that.’
‘There’s only one player at Primstone who’s played consistently in that team. For nearly twelve years as well. That’s Frank Miles. And why? Because nobody knows whose side he’s on. When all these squabbles blow up on the selection committee each week Frank’s is the name nobody argues about. He’s neither one side nor the other. He floats, boy. And that’s the only way with those wolves. It’s as crude as that.’
‘What makes you think there’s going to be a bust-up?’
‘Now, now. … Don’t put words into my mouth. I said if. You’re a relative newcomer on the scene. I’m just giving you a glimpse of the layout. I’ve seen a lot of the history of this place. You might think I’m a bit of a tart with all this “old sport—old boy” business. But I’m in the trade, Arthur. I’ve had to manage with these people, and I’ve learnt to do it. Don’t take me as you might think you see me. If you want to go on having a nice car, lots of friends, and the kind of suit you’ve got on—well just keep your eyes skinned. And here’s a tip for nothing—Weaver’s likely to retire soon. He mightn’t be around much longer.’
He got out in easy stages and stood on the pavement. ‘Course, you don’t go talking about this, old sport. I’ve your word on that.’ He ambled up the steps to his office and didn’t look back.
After that first Sunday drive to Markham Abbey and Howton Hall the feeling between Mrs Hammond and me was more relaxed. While I was getting used to new surroundings and to Weaver’s patronage, and while I was still playing football, she never shoved her nose in my affairs as she’d been prone to. I took her and the kids out almost every other Sunday. It became a habit; we visited every historical monument, every hill and lake in the county.
Beginning of the close season I was bored, restless. It’d been one of the reasons I’d accepted to drive Ed up to Weaver’s. There was no training, no playing. I even began to take some interest in work, surprising a few people.
But I was really bored. It dried me up. There wasn’t a moment when I was relaxed or satisfied. I even thought about killing somebody, holding a bank clerk up, chasing an old tart across the park. I felt like a big lion with a big appetite which had suddenly stopped being fed.
It was a cloudy, heavy day, a Saturday afternoon at the beginning of July. I came in the house about three o’clock, already feeling that way and hoping a sleep’d get rid of it. Mrs Hammond was out in the backs hanging some washing. Ian was in an old hen-run on the ashes so he couldn’t run away, and Lynda was across the backs with the other kids, whose shouts filled the area. The bed wasn’t made. I covered it up, lay down, and tried to sleep.
The next sound I heard was her footsteps in her front bedroom, pacing up and down. She must have been making the bed. I lay still, and watched a couple of flies dancing round the bulb, and a bee droning on the pane outside. The two flies made one shape. I was hoping one minute she’d go down and the next that she’d come in. When her footsteps sounded along the landing I couldn’t stop trembling. I looked at my hands in surprise: they were actually shaking. The moment she opened the door I was really fighting. I was two people on the bed.
She gave a cry.
‘Oh—I didn’t know you were here,’ she said. She held her hand to her throat. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. I’ve come up to m
ake the bed.’
‘I just covered it up. I felt like sleeping,’ I said, and rolled off and stood up.
‘I’ll make it while I’m here. I haven’t had a chance so far today. I’ve had the washing, and Ian kept running off. How long have you been in?’
‘An hour or so.’
‘It must have been when I was putting the clothes out. I won’t be a minute.’ She had her back to me as she bent over the bed, tucking in the sheets.
‘You’re not playing cricket or ought,’ she said, stretching right over the bed to push her hand under the far side of the mattress. She seemed too busy to need an answer.
One minute I was calm, the next my neck and ears prickled with heat. I waited until she’d made the bed and was tucking in the sheet, hoping she’d sense the atmosphere and do something to break it. But she carried on with what she was doing, until disbelievingly I had to put my hands out and touch her hips. She relaxed for an instant, then suddenly stiffened. I pulled her back from the bed and folded my hands round the front of her body. I’d never felt such a loose jointed shape before. She jumped about and shouted something particular. I held her tight and didn’t make a sound. All the time I reminded myself of the ugliness of her face, of her terror. I was half stunned by her lack of excitement.
Her head twisted every way as she went on yelling something I didn’t understand. I seemed to be fighting the bed itself. I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t expected it, why she didn’t give in.
Then suddenly I felt sick, retching, put off by the sight of that shabby underwear. I wanted to get out. I pulled back to free myself, and saw Lynda just inside the door watching us, uncertain whether to laugh or cry.
‘Ma … am?’ the kid gave a long wail. It seemed she was crossing the river again.
‘Go away, Lyn!’ Mrs Hammond said. ‘Go away. Go away!’
The kid stood undecided, but her mother didn’t move. She looked carefully at what we were doing, her eyes moving from one end of the bed to the other, as if she looked from one bank to the other. ‘Are you fighting, Mam?’