This Sporting Life

by David Storey

  He slides off the chair and stands, his eyes tense with the effort. Going up to Mrs Weaver like a small boy he holds up his hand. She shakes it doubtfully, and Weaver does the same. ‘Happy Christmas,’ they all say to each other.

  ‘You needn’t come down,’ he tells them. ‘I can find my own way to the back door. I brought the car up the rear drive to avoid any possible accident. The young man can come down to see I don’t get into trouble with any of your revellers.’

  I’m in two minds whether to agree. I’m hoping Weaver will insist on seeing Slomer off the premises, and by accident leave me up here with Diane. But he doesn’t say a thing. ‘Good-bye again,’ Slomer says, ‘and my best wishes for Christmas and the New Year.’

  I follow him out, closing the bedroom door after me. He stops on the landing to say, ‘I didn’t want to leave you alone in the room with those two hawks, Machin. You can see me safely down these stairs, if you don’t mind.’

  The stairs are littered with tired couples in the preliminary stages of party fatigue. As we thread our way through I see that Slomer’s deformity comes from his right side, where a swelling bulges his coat beneath his arm at the level of his ribs. I don’t think anyone recognizes him—no one seems capable of it. The kitchen’s full, but we get outside without hindrance.

  As Slomer gets into his special driving seat, he says, ‘Tell me, have you been indulging in what I call Mrs Weaver’s weakness for the social informalities? In other words, is there any truth in the account I’ve heard?’

  ‘Is that your business?’ I say, standing up to the car as if it was him I was threatening.

  ‘I leave that to you to decide, Machin,’ he says in such a way that I see he’s put me between two stools.

  ‘No … I haven’t been to bed with her, or anything like that.’

  ‘And that’s the truth,’ he states. ‘I gather you’ve been having a good season so far.’

  ‘Until today.’

  ‘Ah, yes … I see what you mean. But then false teeth can be a sight better looking than the real thing. What do you think my teeth are?’

  He spreads his small lips back and shows two tiny rows of white pegs. ‘Yes,’ I say, uncertain how he wants me to find them. ‘They look very neat.’

  ‘Do you think they’re false or real?’

  ‘False … well they could be real.’

  ‘They’re false,’ he says, pleased, and speaking with his lips back so I can go on watching them at work. ‘You know you’re in an awkward position with Weaver?’

  ‘I know he hasn’t liked me for the past few weeks.’

  ‘Now you’ll know why. … You’re not the first one to be crushed between that husband and wife team, you know. So you needn’t be feeling sorry for yourself … You’re not a Catholic, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve never thought of becoming one?’

  ‘Not yet, no. …’

  ‘It’s got a lot of advantages for a young man like you. It has organization for one thing.’ He starts backing the car. ‘I’ll wish you a Happy Christmas,’ he says. His head just shows above the bottom of the windscreen.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ I tell him.

  It only needs a bit of snow falling to make it look like Santa. I hear him reach the lane and the noise of the engine fades, and I go into the house.

  ‘You don’t mean you’re Arthur Machin … play second row?’

  ‘Yeh,’ I tell her.

  She crosses her legs, easing the fringe of her black sheath skirt over her knees, and sits back on the cushion in the middle of the settee. Her knee caps glisten. My shoulder just touches her when I breathe in.

  ‘I wouldn’t have guessed,’ she says. ‘You look different on the field.’

  ‘What do I look like?’

  ‘Oh. …’ She thinks carefully. ‘Like a bull.’

  The minute I sat down beside her I connected her with a tobacconist’s somewhere. Now I come to think of it she does look like a carefully wrapped cigarette. I remember that mechanical shaped chest leaning over a counter.

  ‘It’s Arthur Machin,’ she calls to her friend across the room who’s mauling Maurice.

  ‘Fancy,’ her friend says. ‘This is Maurice Braithewaite, Mag.’ They both stop to check the size of their catch.

  ‘Is your name Margaret?’ I ask her.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she says, as if it’s of enormous benefit to her. We both gaze across at Maurice, still half-naked and exhibiting his bruises. ‘You footballers certainly know the business,’ she says, watching how Maurice places his hands. When I laugh she twists round sharply. ‘What’re you laughing at?’ she says angrily, but suddenly goes on, ‘Hell! … You’ve no front teeth!’

  She looks across quickly to see if her mate has noticed this deficiency.

  ‘I had them taken out tonight,’ I say.

  ‘Are you married?’ she asks.

  She looks disappointed.

  ‘No, I’m saving up.’

  ‘You want to, dear. Without teeth you’re not at a big advantage.’

  ‘You think so? I thought girls liked that bit of difference.’

  ‘Difference,’ she says. ‘They like a bit of difference. But not a gobful.’

  ‘It’s only six.’

  ‘It looks like the lot to me, dear. It’s the impression, you see, that counts. Waking up to a face like that you’d think you was living with an old man before your time.’

  ‘I’d not thought of marrying you.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing. That’s a compliment.’

  ‘It’s a big house,’ I say.

  ‘Isn’t it.’

  ‘Do you come here often?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Fairly.’

  ‘I don’t come often then.’

  ‘How d’you get here, then—by bus?’

  ‘No, dear. My boy friend brings me. Didn’t you see his car parked outside when you came in?’

  ‘I must have come before you parked. Who’s your boy?’

  ‘Lionel Manners. …’

  She waits for the effect to take.

  ‘Haven’t you heard of him?’ she says in surprise. ‘Wrestles at the Hippo, and round about.’

  ‘Particularly round about, so I’d heard.’

  ‘Narthen! Just be careful. …’

  ‘He used to lake Rugby League at one time, didn’t he?’

  ‘You bet,’ she says as if this was just one of his minor accomplishments. ‘He packed it up though. Not enough lolly in it, he said.’

  She hums a tune of self-approval for a minute, then says, ‘Have another drink, sonny. The place’s bursting with it.’

  She opens a bottle of screw-top beer from the crate her end of the settee and pours it expertly into a couple of used glasses.

  ‘D’you wanna drink, Mavis?’ she calls to her friend.

  ‘Naw,’ her friend says.

  ‘This Weaver jerk, he must be real mean. It’s been beer all night for the men, and cider for the ladies.’

  ‘You’re drinking beer,’ I tell her.

  ‘Aw … yes. I see what you mean. D’you wanna dance?’

  We listen to the music from next door.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  Being sober I feel I’d like to get away from Maurice and his lady across the room.

  We push into the room next door and begin a slow, angular move down it as the music changes. We pass one or two items of furniture I’m familiar with. Somebody’s pushing a big leggy tart along on the tea tray Mrs Weaver used that Wednesday.

  ‘You’re quite a good dancer,’ she says.

  ‘You’re making the best of a bad job?’

  ‘No, I mean it, sonny. You’re a good dancer. You’ve got style. Most of the other pigs just want to hold you.’

 
; We travel in silence while her mind ticks another revolution. I think about what it must be like to hold a rich sample like Mrs Weaver—the nice smells, the soft mattress, smooth sheets; the understanding it’s only a temporary arrangement. No clinging; the knowing of what it is: just a sample, a nice statement between willing people; no slush feelings; decent underwear. I keep my eyes skinned in case she comes down.

  ‘You know what, my friends will be dead jealous when I tell them I’ve been with you.’

  ‘I’m quite a boy then.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Why will they be jealous?’

  ‘Oh—I get what you mean. … Now then, don’t get swelled-headed just because I’ve taken a liking to you. No teeth an’ all. They think the City boys are gold, that’s all it is. It’s funny that, because football’s not half as spectacular as wrestling. He’s pretty good is Lionel.’

  We dance on, and I say, ‘Frank Miles, captain of the City, he used to do some wrestling when he was younger.’

  ‘Him! You can’t tell me nothing about that big goof. Lionel murdered him. … Twice.’

  ‘He had his back broken every other week,’ I say.

  She thinks about it, leans over a bit to see how her back feels, and says, ‘Go on, how could he?’

  ‘The weeks in between he used to win.’

  Her laugh comes a couple of steps later.

  ‘How could he mend so quick?’ she says.

  ‘He never broke it. I used to wait at the back door of the Hippo in my car, and after they’d carried him out on the stretcher Frank’d grab his clothes and leg it for the car before the crowd got round to see him carried out. They had a man called Johnson who used to ring an ambulance bell they’d rigged up in the changing room.’

  ‘Here,’ she tells me, lifting her skirt up high, ‘pull my other one, it’s got bells on too.’ I make to put my hand down. ‘No, not here. You’re too bloody quick.’ She pulls away from me. ‘Don’t slaver over me, kid.’

  When she’s quietened down she says, ‘Did you say you had a car?’

  ‘A Jaguar.’

  ‘It must be old.’

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘What d’you do when you’re not kidding?’

  ‘Talk to you.’

  ‘Where you got it? Outside?’

  ‘No. It’s at home.’

  ‘That lets you out pretty square.’

  ‘Ask the man right behind you.’

  She turns and sees the M.P. He looks back at her, distantly.

  ‘What, him? I can’t ask him. I don’t even know him anyway.’

  ‘He won’t mind that. You ask him. It’s people like you he relies on.’

  ‘All right, all right! Don’t preach, sonny. Hey!’ she calls to the M.P. ‘Hey sonnyjim! What kinda car has Arthur Machin got?’

  He peers at her again, over Judith’s shoulder. ‘It’s a Jaguar if I remember properly.’

  ‘How old is it?’

  He asks Judith, then says, ‘It’s almost new, I think.’

  We dance in silence again. A faint smell of scented sweat comes from her, and a faint smell of stagnant water from me.

  ‘Where do you work?’ she says.

  ‘Weaver’s.’

  ‘That’s handy. Do all his workers have free run of the house?’

  ‘It depends which worker you are. Where do you work?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No—I thought I’d seen you in a shop somewhere, selling fags.’

  ‘I said: does it matter?’

  The music stops and starts as somebody lurches against the cabinet. The party’s thinning out. The evening people are beginning to leave, and the all-nighters settling in. The Mayor’s dancing with Judith now. His railway signalman’s eyes twinkle blearily over her back.

  ‘Shall we go next door?’ Mag says. ‘That Mayor depresses me. He looks so righteous.’

  Tommy Clinton’s in the hall, swaying under the Christmas tree; a shower of pines covers him. His girl pulls him upright. He sees Mag and says, ‘I bet you thought it was a bit of all right. … Fastened up yonder all this time with old Arthur. It’s just like home from home is that room, I always say. It was me. …’ he says, digging himself with his finger and swallowing his wind. ‘It was me who locked you in. … And it was me who just let you out. Just now. … Say, say, Arthur! I recognize this floozie. She’s the bag old Manners carries around with him.’ He puts his hand on her shoulder. ‘Did you know it was me that just let you out, Lionel Manners’ bag?’

  ‘You mean somebody’s just let you out, you crazy sod,’ she tells him. ‘And it’s time they locked you up again.’

  Clinton’s watering eyes narrow and he laughs.

  ‘Well knock me down. Did you hear that?’ he tells his girl. ‘She can talk! I wish old Manners was here. He told me if there was one thing his bitch never did it was talk.’

  He staggers to the front porch and falls against the side. Broken glass drops into the drive.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me locking you up, Art, old lad. … Just a bit of fun you know. Christmas and all that … I got blind drunk and forgot, otherwise I’d have let you out sooner. Honest, that’s the truth. …’ He vanishes with a fall of twigs into the drive. His girl goes after him.

  ‘Is he from the City?’ Mag says.

  ‘That’s Tommy Clinton.’

  ‘Clinton. I’ll remember that name. I’ll tell Lionel about the way he spoke to me—and we’ll see what happens to Mr Clinton. Just you mark my words.’

  ‘He’s a friend of your Lionel’s.’

  ‘Not much longer he won’t be, after I’ve said my piece.’

  She leads the way into the first room but all the seats and most of the floor are taken. Maurice has gone.

  ‘Where’s that room he was talking about?’ she says moodily. ‘Will anybody be there?’

  ‘I should think so. And I haven’t got the key either.’

  ‘Is it far to your place?’

  ‘The other side of town. But we couldn’t go there.’

  A fresh burst of carols comes from upstairs. In the lounge I can hear the M.P. yodelling. He’s recently had a holiday in Switzerland. We drift back into the hall. I take a bottle of ale with me and knock it off as we stand there. Then I go back and get another and knock that off too.

  Judith suddenly comes out of the lounge. She comes up to me and kisses me hard on the lips. It lasts a few minutes. I open one eye to look at Mag. She’s found something interesting the other way. The Mayor’s watching, straining himself to look pleased. When Judith lets go she says to Mag, ‘Don’t fret, darling. He’s standing under the mistletoe. Why don’t you have a go yourself? Have you seen Maurice, Tarzan?’

  ‘He’s on tour.’

  ‘That’s a mess. We’re going now. The Mayor’s decided the party’s fallen through, so we’re going to his Parlour.’

  ‘What you going to do there you can’t get depressed about here?’

  ‘Ring the bells, Tarzan. It’s Christmas morning.’ She runs off upstairs.

  ‘You can tell what kind she is,’ Mag says. She comes up close as if by accident, and spears me with her left breast. ‘I’m surprised men fall for it.’

  ‘I’m surprised too.’

  ‘You look pale,’ she says suddenly. ‘Don’t you feel good?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I feel rather chuffed myself.’

  ‘You go upstairs,’ I tell her. ‘Find us an empty room, and come and let me know. I’m going to have a sit a while here.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to give me some courage to rush up all those stairs on my own?’ she says. I bend down and play on her lips. She feels under my shirt and encircles me.

  I sit under the Christmas tree till she’s out of sight on the landing, then wond
er if I ought to go and make a last search for Mrs Weaver. I think about it for a couple of minutes and decide it’s all over, particularly at this hour of the morning, so I go and collect an armful of beer from the first room and go outside. I can’t get used to the idea she’s something I might have had. Even Slomer hadn’t put it past me; so people must think I’m up to scratch. Mrs Weaver. My mouth waters.

  The Bentley is locked. I try all the doors before I notice the sun-roof is still open. I climb inside and grope around for my overcoat and the carrier with the kids’ toys. I sit down while I stuff the beer in the carrier and pull on my coat. Then I get the idea it wouldn’t be so bad if I drove the car home. I could tell Mrs Hammond I’d bought it her for Christmas. I feel around the dashboard, but Weaver has collected his keys.

  I climb out again on to the drive and knock the top off one of the bottles against the front mudguard. I make for the short cut down the lane to the gate, swallowing the beer as I walk. At the end of the lane I pass Tommy Clinton in a phone booth with his girl. I can’t make out whether they’re phoning for a taxi or just resting upright for a change.

  I’m tired, worried about my teeth, and pouring the ale down my throat as fast as I can. It gives a quiet sort of energy to my brain. I think about Mrs Weaver’s legs, and the thick ankles.

  Before the road slits into the side of the valley to run into town I can see as far down as Stokeley: the colliery’s marked by the crimson and orange glow of its coke ovens, each separate and distinct, and by its lurid flushing of the sky. I imagine Frank lying asleep in his father-of-the-household bed. For a while Stokeley’s the only sign of life, then I’m plunged into the blackness of the cutting itself, with the grid cables singing and sighing over my head, and the clopping of my own footsteps. A light flashes through the trees, and straight below me is the orange, stifling glow of the gas lamps at the brick-works.

  The lights of the town slowly come into view. Down the valley the panting of a goods engine breaks up the silence. And I break open another bottle.

  I drop the carrier as I climb over the wall of the goods yard and smash one of the two last bottles. Both the damn dolls stink of beer. I wipe them down on my handkerchief. Ian’s train rattles all right in its cardboard box. I pick up the carrier and scramble down to the short cut across the yard.