by David Storey
‘He demands to be taken back’, my father repeated, ‘as if he owned people.’
They were both prepared to take Mrs Hammond’s side if it only meant she’d go away.
‘It’s for Mrs Hammond and me to decide,’ I told him. ‘I’ll take her home now in the car, and we can talk it over.’
‘I’m going home by myself,’ she said. ‘It’s all been settled, if you don’t mind.’
‘I’ll run you home in any case.’
‘I’d like your father to ring for a taxi … I can pay.’
My mother watched us both with a fierce look, hungry and retching, that sapped all the gentleness and sympathy from her face. It was drained like I’d never seen it. Colourless. ‘You can’t talk to Mrs Hammond like that!’ she cried. ‘You talk to people as if they’re your slaves just to do your bidding. You can’t talk to her like that! Dad! Go and ring for a taxi, and never mind Arthur.’
He pulled on his railway overcoat, shoving through the silver buttons with his clumsy, curled thumbs, not looking at any of us.
‘You’re not going with her?’ my mother said quietly, as I took Mrs Hammond’s arm. She didn’t look at her further than where my hand touched her.
‘I’m taking her home. I’ve got all my things in the car.’
My mother finally looked at Mrs Hammond, ‘Are you going to let him … now?’ she appealed to her.
‘I’m sick and tired, Mrs Machin! I’m sick of it! I’m sick of him! I’m sick of you! I’m sick of all of you! I don’t want to see any of you ever!’
She peered round at us all from deep under her eyebrows, then she was gone out of the front door.
I made a start to follow her, but my mother staggered over to the doorway. ‘Leave her!’ she cried out, tottering with her rush, holding on to the door frame to keep her balance. ‘How could you! How could you, Arthur!’
She was trembling so violently she could hardly stand up. ‘How could you! You can’t go back.’
‘That’s what you think of her!’
‘I’m not ashamed. You can’t go back—not now. Not to what she is.’
‘Tell me! Have you always felt this way about her?’
‘It’s for your good, Arthur. Believe me, it’s your own good. I can’t see you do it. I can’t see you do something like that.’
‘We’re trying to help you, son,’ my father said, helpless.
‘And what of her—mustn’t anyone help her? What’s she going to do?’
‘She’s no good,’ my mother warned.
‘I’ve lived with her too long for you to stop me. You can’t stop me going.’
‘No good, Arthur,’ she moaned. ‘She protects her children … I protect mine. You can’t go back—I’ve told you. Not now. She’s no good. She’s no good to you at all.’
‘I thought you believed in goodness—in something. Doesn’t she count? Hasn’t she got any feelings?’
‘You saw her feelings. How could you, Arthur? Crawling round her like that. Like a filthy little dog. I won’t let you go back. You’ll have to kill me to get me out of this door.’
Her face had collapsed. All the bone had left it. The skin jolted and folded about like a creased rubber mask. She was nothing I recognized. ‘You know I’ve lived with her!’ I shouted at her. ‘You know that? Lived with her.’
‘We know that—we know how you’ve been.’ It didn’t shock her. She’d accepted that a long time ago. But now she could cut it off, and out. I sat down away from the fire.
She knew how easily she could make me feel guilt. My father took his coat off with the drag, the humiliation of wasted effort—a useless uniform. ‘You go out of your way to hurt your mother, don’t you, son?’ he said heavily.
She’d buried her head in her hands and, still in the doorway, was sobbing from shock. ‘Leave him,’ she mumbled.
‘It isn’t that, Mother,’ he told her, shy and afraid of showing his emotion. ‘It’s him hurting you I can’t stand.’ He was trembling too. ‘I can’t stand that sort of thing. He takes a delight in it.’
‘Leave him. Let him be,’ she murmured.
‘Trying to get yourself a part now?’ I asked him.
He stood over me where I was sitting. Then he swung his arm back and smashed me soundly across the face.
‘Peter!’ she cried at him, and rushed to hold his arm.
But he only intended to hit me once. ‘That’s for torturing your mother,’ he said, his eyes red and teared. ‘A woman who’s given everything for you.’
They stood across the room to watch, knowing my violent temper. But I couldn’t speak for a time. He’d knocked my false teeth into my mouth.
3
According to an article by Ed Philips in the Guardian there are three kinds of athlete—the animal, the nervous, and the scientific. In Rugby League, a hard game played for money, personal prestige, and an enjoyment composed of these two and other elements, the animal fills most of the ranks.
The nervous athlete, Ed says, is usually seen on the wing—slight build, fast, and very dexterous. He mayn’t last long in the game, though he reaches brilliant peaks: a violent injury is often enough to pervert his confidence for good. The scientific athlete is seen most often in the middle, either at stand-off or centre, and succeeds by intelligence rather than sheer physique.
The focus of the three types is found in the scrum-half, for he needs the animal strength of a forward and the nervous agility of his ’backs if he’s to succeed at all. He’s normally the person who receives most punishment, being, next to the ball, the most important object on the field. For this reason Maurice was tough, he was agile, and he was physically intelligent. He kept his place, Ed said, because, to an observer, he appeared to be impervious to pain. Maurice was the most popular player at Primstone.
His exuberance alone marked him out on the field even to those who couldn’t recognize the simple inner mechanism of Rugby League play. This was a big advantage to a player who could never actually produce that final touch of improvisation which distinguishes the great from the good. Also, by reason of his position, he could command most movements on the field and give them his own colouring of either speed, daring, or agility. He could make a player look foolish by the same method, and with that casual inoffensive air which puts the victim alone at fault.
It was this particular device he used on me after, he reckoned, I’d brought him face to face with Judith and her wedding march. I played in the ‘A’ team a lot after that and whenever I was brought back into the first team he put himself out to make things difficult on the field. The general impression was I’d gone right off form, maybe for good.
I suppose he attached a lot of the blame on to me for having to marry Judith. He wasn’t openly angry—we’d probably known each other too intimately for that—so he showed his resentment in the only way he could, without being too petty, by this skilful abuse of the game.
I lived at home now, and my father came down to watch the last home matches, and even travelled like Johnson once had to some of the away fixtures, all the time making a big effort to find them exciting for my benefit. The idea defeated its own ends.
I missed Maurice’s company more than I liked to think. I allowed him to make a mess of my play partly because he made me feel I owed him something, partly because I wasn’t interested in playing any more. I found more people talked to me now I was off form than ever they did when I was on. They felt I was more approachable. Perhaps I was an even bigger joke.
Maurice didn’t invite me to the wedding, which took place at the registry office on the first Saturday after the season finished. Frank and most of the team went along with George Wade. Slomer sent them a telegram and some present or other, and Weaver fixed up a quiet reception. I heard all about it from Frank, to whom I tended to turn more during the close season. By the end of those last few matches I’d lost
interest in everything. I just floated along as the wind took me.
Both Judith and Maurice tried to give the appearance it was a natural outcome of events, but Maurice was doubtful how things would work out in the long run. Nobody could believe he wanted to get married. He gave a different impression, however, when he went into a job, in a drawing office, that Mr Parkes, Judith’s father, arranged. I wasn’t sorry to see him leave Weaver’s.
Over the summer, living at home, working at Weaver’s, I felt I was slowly drifting back to where I’d been when I first knew Johnson. Maybe for that reason I couldn’t even tolerate the sight of him at the distance.
One day, trying to measure my feelings, my mother said, ‘Who do you miss most now that you’re on your own so much?’
‘Maurice,’ I told her.
‘Were you very good friends?’
‘I thought so.’
‘Why don’t you go up and see him and Judith?’ she suggested. ‘Isn’t her baby due soon?’
‘That’s one reason I don’t go up. Maurice counts me as one of those who pushed him into it.’
‘But surely a lot of it was of his own making? You told me Weaver talked him round to it.’
I was tired of the subject. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I mean, it was a surprise to you, wasn’t it?’
‘I was surprised at her parents. They’re religious. I was surprised at the way they took it—registry office and all.’
‘I can imagine full well how they felt,’ she said, suggesting a lot of things. ‘Having a belief and church convictions like they have helps you to face up to these defeats, and even helps you turn them into victories.’
‘I wonder what Mrs Hammond feels about that. She doesn’t seem to believe in anything.’
‘Is Judith religious?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think so. At least not like her parents. Maurice’ll cure her of any dregs she’s got left.’
She nodded absently as if in agreement, probably seeing the case the other way round, with Judith’s remnant virtue victorious. ‘I’ve often wondered, since I’ve been back home,’ I said, ‘why after a lifetime you still see things as black and white, when you must have discovered nothing is like that. I don’t see how you can separate people like you do. I know Mrs Hammond isn’t evil like you make her out.’
‘It may be something you can’t see,’ she answered. ‘But that doesn’t mean that these divisions don’t exist. To me things are good or bad. They’ve got to be. How could you manage if you couldn’t tell the difference?’
‘But you make her out to be all bad. And that’s just not true. She’s got good in her. It just doesn’t have a chance. …’
‘You can’t expect me to feel like Mrs Hammond.’
‘And that’s all you can say?’
‘I can’t see how I can see it any other way. What she’s done to you—the way you’ve behaved—I can’t see any good in that if I look all day long.’ She thought about it, and suddenly added, ‘If you lose someone, through dying, someone you love, surely it’s not as bad as finding out that someone you thought loved you in fact doesn’t? That’s what I mean when I say Mrs Hammond’s no good … no good for you. She’s like something that’s left over. You could never be happy.’
These sorts of conversations came up often. I didn’t want to impress her with Mrs Hammond. But I was only left in silent rages. There’d be worse moments when I’d be sitting in a chair and she’d go by and unconsciously I’d be thinking it was Mrs Hammond and shove my hand out to touch her. I shook at the thought. I pulled my hand back with an electric pain—except once, I touched the back of her thigh, and gave the impression I was yawning. She knew what it was. I split open and bled.
It was to ease the strain that I dragged myself up to see Maurice and Judith one Saturday afternoon. I knew I was going to see them, but I set off in the car in the opposite direction and gradually, as if I hadn’t intended it, worked round to their end of town. They were living in a semi-detached house half-way up the lane between Primstone and Caulsby Castle, the opposite side of the valley from Sandwood. I learned later Weaver had some hand in providing the house, for it wasn’t one of the regular City houses. It was only a few years old, post-war, with a bow window at the front and a shallow porch. The garden was fully established, and there was a rough drive of cracked concrete. The area was one normally reserved for lower professional people like married schoolteachers with no kids and accountants without practices.
I made a noise revving the engine at the gate so they’d have plenty of time to bolt the door and barricade the windows. I rang the front door bell thinking they weren’t in. A man in the next garden stopped mowing his lawn to watch. Footsteps ran through the house, and the door was flung open.
Judith was silent with surprise, and flushed. ‘Hello, Tarzan!’ she said after I’d mumbled a few words. ‘Come on in. It’s such a surprise seeing you up here. Forgive me if I didn’t scream.’
She took me with some pride into a nicely furnished front room, the one with the bow window. It had the surprising appearance of a smaller edition of Weaver’s lounge—Maurice’s only pattern for the superior way of living. It even had the green-leaved wallpaper and the tea-trolley. ‘Isn’t Maurice in?’ I asked.
She shook her head, smiling. ‘Don’t tell me it wasn’t me you came all the way up here to see … Maurice’s gone into town. He must have got stuck in the billiard hall. Did you want him for anything special?’
‘Not really. I just dropped in to see how you are.’
‘You’ll have a cup of tea, then. He might be back by the time you’ve drunk it. Come on in the kitchen while I make it.’
I followed her through the house while she chatted over her shoulder. She was swollen, a different person, and looked a lot more interesting than she’d done before. I’d never seen her so flushed and happy.
‘What do you think of the place?’ she said. ‘It’s better even than my mother’s house.’
‘Quite a palace.’
‘It cost us a lot to furnish, although upstairs we’ve only got the double bed. Look at this.’
We came into the kitchen at the back of the house—it was surrounded on three sides by chromium fittings. ‘There’re the sink and the taps. A heater. Airing cupboard, ordinary cupboards, shelves, an electric dryer, and bits and pieces. Daddy bought it for us. What d’you think?’
‘Some people have nice daddies. It’s the best I ever saw. Haven’t you got a fridge?’
She took it seriously. ‘We’ll soon get one. Morry says we need one for the beer. Since I’ve been in this condition I’ve been drinking a pint a day. You can tell what the kid’ll be like.’
‘I see you’ve got a drive and a garage,’ I said, smiling. It seemed too good to be true.
‘Oh, now that’s a bit too ambitious yet. But I’m determined he’ll get one, so I can run down into town and not feel so imprisoned up here. The garage isn’t very good. … Here’s the electric cooker.’ She turned a switch and put a kettle on to boil.
‘How soon is the kid due?’
‘Three weeks. But it feels it could come any time the way it kicks.’
‘Do you feel it kick?’
‘Didn’t you know? It’s a full back. … If it starts moving while you’re here I’ll let you feel.’
‘What’re you going to do if it’s a girl?’
‘It’s not a girl. Morry says it’s not his if it’s a girl.’
She had that intimacy with me which during their pregnancy women usually develop towards other men. She’d plenty of this before, and now it gushed out in an easy friendliness and confidence. It was relaxing. I began to wonder why I hadn’t come up before.
We walked down the back garden, which had been freshly dug over, to a low wall at the bottom. Over it was a small field running down to a copse. ‘You can see the town from
the trees,’ she said, leaning her elbows on the stone. ‘We went one day for a look. You can see over to Sandwood, too. We’re a bit higher up here. You can just see the tip of Weaver’s roof and those fir trees in his garden from the back bedroom window.’
As we strolled back, she asked, ‘And how are things with you, Tarzan?’
‘I’m living at home now. Fairly quiet.’
‘You want to get married soon,’ she said, carefully. ‘We can’t have you ending up … well, with nothing.’
I told her something about how hard I was trying, and she said, ‘It’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And to Morry—though of course he wouldn’t admit it to anyone. He pulls a face whenever I ask him. You’ll be able to imagine.’ She laughed, ‘Did I tell you I’ve started going to church? I find it’s a big help.’
‘How did your parents take it?’
‘They’ve both been bricks. They couldn’t have treated us better if we’d been engaged a couple of years. They’ve still gone on with their Sunday school teaching, and they’ve had to stand some gossip.’
‘What did Middleton think to it all? He told Maurice and me he wanted it keeping quiet.’
‘Oh, Weaver spoke to him right at the beginning. I don’t suppose Middleton could grumble. It hasn’t brought him any ill-luck. … Morry tells me you’re still at Weaver’s.’
‘Yes. It doesn’t look as though I’ll budge from there.’
‘And you’re living at home, you say? What happened to Mrs Hammond?’
‘We broke up.’
‘What over? … I …’
‘Nothing—you know, we just lost interest.’
‘So you’ve given up the idea of living in digs?’
‘No—I don’t think so. I’ll wait for things to settle.’
She’d flushed slightly, and looked at me slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Tarzan … you know, if I had anything to do with it.’