Arthur McCann 0cm

by Leslie Thomas

  'Look at that old fool with a red pullover on,' I heard my Aunt Floss sneer. 'Is that her grandfather? And he's got a hole in it! Look, right in the front. Bloody cheek, going to a wedding like that.'

  'He's got a bad chest,' I explained as I went by with a fizzing drink for my bride. 'That's why he's wearing a pullover.'

  'No wonder he has,' retorted Floss who was never caught without an answer. 'With the wind blowing through that bloody gaping great hole. No wonder he's got a bad chest.'

  My father had cornered the two mulish bridesmaids and was filling their glasses from a bottle held by the neck in his right hand. His own glass was at his elbow and he good-naturedly held the hand of the marginally less ugly of the girls. His eyes were shining. My mother was sitting with a glass of brown ale talking to no one, her eyes going around with that defeated look of hers. She saw me and constructed a small jovial smile for me, waving a crisp at me as a sort of dry joke. I laughed much more than it was worth and pursed my lips in a stupid kiss.

  Everyone was trying to get dry after the dash through the fierce rain and clothing was in great steaming piles on the radiators in the room. Some people had even taken their shoes off and put them under the appliances and were standing in their stockings and socks, drinking, chattering and keeping a guardian eye on their belongings. Pamela's father who had gone into a deep pool had taken off his soaked socks as well and was watching the steam writhe from them on the heater.

  Fortunately the vicar did not stay. He circled the room, still like a sodden butterfly in his oilskins, but he could find no one to talk with him, so he left with a quick, wet, blessing just before we moved into the room where the wedding breakfast was laid.

  I was wishing that, like my new father-in-law, I could have taken off at least my left sock since the rain had penetrated the entire foot through the hole in the sole. This resulted in my walking about with a short, damp limp, which everyone who had not spotted it earlier, certainly noticed as I went into the banquet room with Pamela on my arm. Behind me I left a series of single smudges.

  'You're limping,' my bride grumbled in my ear.

  'I know. My foot is sopping wet.'

  'You've got a hole in your shoe, haven't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'I know you have. My mother saw it. She nearly walked out of the church.'

  I thought that once I got her alone it would be all right. The marriage could really begin; man and wife could love, honour and she could obey and, as it so erotically put words into her mouth in the service, with her body she could me worship. But until then we were marching between these rows of hideous relatives and I had a wet foot.

  It is no use, even at this distance, pretending that the wedding feast was anything more than a failure. The food was a disaster for, although the war had been accomplished two years before, the country clung masochistically to wartime shortages and substitutes, and now even bread was rationed. I saw several guests stealing solid bread rolls and stuffing them into their pockets to take home. Recriminations were already beginning among my family and hers, and, as several people in both camps were now drunk, a number of catcalls were hurled across the table from one group to another. Although few of the people had ever met before they were already catching on to little deficiencies, deformities and infirmities and using them as hooks upon which to hang their insults.

  'That one's got a funny eye.'

  'Won't be long before she's dead. I wonder who's having her tiara.'

  'Look at that kid, spitting his jelly out.'

  'Had his flies undone all through the service.'

  'Remember him, don't you? Always getting thrown out of the Donkeyman's Arms.'

  'I didn't think you could buy dresses that size off the peg.'

  'How can that woman guzzle sausage-meat and drink Guinness at the same time?'

  The rabble was growing around three sides of the table when my father, for once timing his hypocrisy to my advantage, rose and bawled:' Friends! Old friends and family, new friends and family, I would like to propose a toast to my boy Arthur and his lovely young bride.'

  He got their attention that way, then launched himself into what appeared to be a spontaneous speech, but one which included such numerous quotations from Shakespeare and the classics that I knew he must have been swotting it for weeks. Some of the more familiar wisdom he acknowledged, especially the bits from the Bible which he identified by book, chapter and verse, but there was much he did not, indicating by his attitude that these subtle and brilliant thoughts had just come to his head. With a smirk he sat down to enraptured applause from his own side and grudging acknowledgement from the other.

  Pamela's father, who had by now replaced his socks, stood up, swayed drunkenly, and slid beneath the table without a word. His own camp clapped loyally and loudly at this, glaring at our side, as though it were some kind of difficult ritualistic trick that we could not be expected to understand. Two strong male relations put their arms beneath the tablecloth and heaved him out as though they were rescuing him from some underground trap. They replaced him on his chair and retired to their own seats. The hubbub continued. I looked at Pamela and moving close to her ear I said: 'Having a good time?'

  'What a mess,' she muttered, resting both hands on her dessert fork and sticking it hard through the cloth. 'What a bloody, buggering mess.'

  'We'll be on our way soon, darling,' I assured her.

  'Good,' she answered. 'Anything is better than this.'

  But the nadir was yet to come. I had stood, trembling, to reply to the toast, and was stumbling through my prepared platitudes when one of her uncles rose and held up a hand like a policeman.

  'Just a minute, son,' he said. 'Can you give us a break?'

  I stood dumbly while two of them went into the other room and came back wheeling a battery radio set, a present from my family, on a tea trolley, a present from hers. At the centre of the room they switched it on and then, unbelievingly, I saw what was happening. Every man on her side, followed very quickly and appreciatively by many on mine,fiddled in his jacket and produced his football pools coupon. They were just in time. 'League, Division One,' said the announcer. 'Arsenal 2 Liverpool 1. . . .'

  My speech was never given, but nobody noticed. We went off, after Scottish League, Division Two, was finished and began our honeymoon journey on the train from Newport station. She sat against the window and stared out as though trying to see the wind. I sat close to her, but, man and wife, we said nothing. It was then I realized why some people do actually throw themselves off bridges.

  Twelve

  I suppose there are not a great many men who have committed adultery on their wedding night. I am not proud of it, but there is no doubt, it is unusual. Also, we went to Swindon for our honeymoon; gritty, bitty, shitty, Swindon, full of soot and railway engines.

  Swindon, as our local newspaper account put it, was selected for the honeymoon. Selected, that is, by her parents who had a friend with a run-down railway hotel close by the renowned locomotive sheds and who needed the money at that thin time of the year. It was a smoky building on the corner of a downcast street. The windows looked out on the marshalling yards and their groaning engines. When we got to our room I pulled aside the flowered curtains and looked out over the mess of the railway lines and the hunched locomotives. It was like seeing cattle in a big stockyard, moving under the lights, moaning as though they were being prodded.

  It was nine o'clock. Pamela sat on the bed while I arranged our suitcases so that they did not block our access to the washbasin. The landlady, Mrs Donelly, had said she called the room the bridal suite because it had the washbasin, but its romance was muted by a single orange bulb hanging from a tasselled shade, a mirror like a dirty pond, and a reproduction print of The Rape of The Sabine Women suspended hideously over the bed.

  'What shall we do?' said Pamela eventually. She hunched her back and sighed.

  'Well, it's our wedding night,' I answered. 'Why don't we go to bed?'


  She said: 'It's only nine o'clock.'

  'Is there some special time?' I said.

  She shook her head. ' No. But I don't want to yet.'

  'What do you want to do then?'

  'Anything, Arthur. Anything,' she sighed. 'Just something to repair the day a bit.'

  'Repair it?'

  'Yes,' she nodded truculently. 'That's the only way to put it. Repair it. It's been bloody terrible, and you know it. Right from the start. And now look at this.'

  'I wanted to go to Bournemouth,' I pointed out. 'This was an idea from your lot.'

  'Christ, don't let's start putting the blame out to people,' she said. 'It's bad enough having a family like mine, but having yours added to it is a bloody sight worse. What a mess up it all was.'

  I thought she was going to cry. I was standing before her. Our knees touched then she withdrew hers, from habit I suppose, but I located them again and put my knees against them once more. She looked at me and smiled.

  'Sorry love,' she said thinly. I bent my head towards her and she kissed me on the cheek.' It couldn't have been much fun for you either.'

  'Oh, it was marvellous,' I said. 'Especially when they started marking their bleeding football coupons when I was making my speech.'

  Pamela shrugged. 'What shall we do anyway? I don't want to stay in here. It's like a rabbit hutch.'

  'Look,' I said taking her quietly by the shoulders. 'Why don't we clear out and go to a decent hotel somewhere else? There's bound to be one in the town. Even a place like this is certain to have a proper hotel. Somewhere where the railway directors stay. We'll stay there for tonight and then bugger off somewhere nice tomorrow. We could go to Weston-Super-Mare.'

  'Not by the sea,' she said. 'Nowhere by the sea. I've said that all along. All you would do is look at the damn ships.'

  'In the country, then,' I said with growing enthusiasm because I thought she had half accepted the idea. ' There's plenty of open country even around a mucky hole like this.'

  'We can't,' she answered sharply. 'You know we can't. We can't upset Mrs Donelly because she lets my mum and dad stay here for a week of their holiday.'

  'They ought to be bloody grateful if we got them out of that,' I said. 'The place is bad enough now, in the summer it must be even worse.'

  'They go on coach trips,' she sulked.' They say it's a good centre for going on coach trips. Cheddar Gorge. Places like that.'

  'If you went to Hell for a day from here it would be a nice outing,' I grunted looking out of the window again.

  'Look,' she snapped. 'If you want to start off with a row, we can. I'm fed up as it is. I just want to get out of here and go somewhere nice. Somewhere just a bit nice. Like a cocktail bar. So I'll have one decent hour to remember.'

  'We could take a tour around the loco sheds,' I said putting my face back to the glass. 'It's probably the most exciting place in Swindon. We could throw stones at the engine drivers.'

  'Funny, funny,' she grunted. She had eased her red patent shoes from her rounded feet. Now she started to push them on again. 'I'm going out,' she said decisively. 'Are you coming or not?'

  'All right,' I said. 'I don't think I could think of anything to do in a bridal suite by myself.'

  'Good,' she said, standing up and pushing her hair into clouds. 'Let's go somewhere nice, then, Arthur. Like a cocktail bar.'

  I changed from my uniform into my brown honeymoon

  suit because it was raining and we stumbled down the shadowed stairs. Mrs Donelly, a pepper-faced woman in a wrapped-around grey overall, appeared like a sentry at the bottom.

  'Off out?' she exclaimed.

  'Just for a walk,' I smiled.

  'Walk? On your wedding night? Times are changing, I must say! You like the room, don't you?'

  'Very nice,' confirmed Pamela.

  'Lovely washbasin,' I added.

  She looked at me narrowly in the dark. 'Don't scratch it whatever you do,' she said. 'It's almost new. You can't get them.'

  'It looks it,' I said soothingly.

  'Are you going for a long walk,' Mrs Donelly asked. 'A very long one?'

  'We don't know,' I said. 'If we get to like it we might.'

  'You'd better take a key, then,' she said. 'I'm not stopping up all night.'

  She gave us the key and we went out into the damp, gritty evening. After the confining shadows of the house it was like walking into a meadow. I put my arm about my wife's coated waist and we walked along the sticky pavement while the Great Western Railway's engines whined and wheezed beyond the adjoining walk

  'There was no need to be rude to her, Arthur,' she said.

  'Rude?'

  'Yes, to Mrs Donelly. About the washbasin and that. I don't think it's the Westgate Hotel, Newport, myself, but we're only paying three pounds for the whole week. Remember that. What we save can go towards a bit more furniture.'

  'I know, love,' I said squeezing her middle. 'I'm sorry. I just wish that we were in our own flat now. Right at this moment, so we could feel at home with each other.'

  'Well we're not, and that's that,' she said. 'And it wouldn't be any good if we were there, because the place is full of greengrocery, sprouts and carrots and stuff, and it won't be cleared out until the end of the week.'

  'Do you think it will smell?' I said conversationally.

  'Smell?'

  'Well, if it's been stuffed up with vegetables for years it's bound to smell of them isn't it?'

  'We're lucky to get anywhere' she sniffed.' You know that, Arthur. It was very nice of my Uncle Ben to offer us the two rooms above the shop. At least we'll have a home. I'll have somewhere to live and you'll have somewhere to come back to. Other people have to muck in with their parents.'

  'Yes, well done Uncle Ben,1 I agreed. 'Where are we going?'

  'There's buses at the top of the street,' she said. 'I just this moment saw one. They must go into the middle of the town and there's bound to be a hotel with a cocktail bar there.'

  'You really want to go to a cocktail bar?'

  'Yes, I do,' she said firmly.' I want to sit down somewhere nice and have a nice, decent drink. Somewhere where it's warm and there's proper lights and decent people. Just something to make up for the rest of this bloody day.'

  'Was it that bad?'

  'Well, it wasn't good, was it?' She looked at me at first with a challenge, but she saw my expression and she looked sorry. 'You know it was terrible, Arthur,' she said more softly. 'A girl only has one wedding day. Only one first wedding day anyway.'

  'If they're all like that, one's plenty,' I agreed.

  'The vicar was a bit funny, though, wasn't he?'

  'In his lifeboat outfit,' I agreed.

  She began to giggle. 'I couldn't believe it,’ she laughed. 'I still can't. They way he charged around the reception in that dripping stuff. He was like a big bat!'

  'And what about my aunty slipping on her arse on the church path?' I said.

  'Christ! And my lunatic Uncle Percy. Silly old fool. What was he shouting? "Leave me! Leave me behind"!'

  'And your father taking his socks off to dry them at the reception.'

  'And yours peeing himself laughing in the church.'

  'Silly old cunt!'

  'Arthur!'

  'Well, he is. I could strangle that sod.'

  'Has he always been like that?'

  'Always. He despises me.' I paused: 'Can I ask you

  something, Pamela?'

  'Of course. I won't say you'll get an answer. Wait a minute, let's run. There's a bus.'

  We ran along the long, damp, pavement, and got the bus just as it was about to move. It was going into the centre of the town. We sat downstairs so that the conductor could tell us where to get off.

  'We want a decent hotel,' announced Pamela. Several people looked around at her. She scratched her nose with her wedding ring finger.' Somewhere where there's a decent cocktail bar.'

  A fat woman across the middle aisle, peeping from under a hood like some massive pi
xie, snorted vividly at this and turned her face away.

  The conductor intoned: 'Two tuppennies George and Dragon.' It was only a few stops. When we left the bus it began to rain heavily and we ran, hand in hand, towards the expansive doorway, glowing like a furnace in the dismal town. There were soft swing doors and in a moment the warmth of the place closed around us, our feet were on its good carpet, and there was a slow smile on the round, pretty face of my wife.

  'Cocktail bar, please,' she said to the porter.

  'To the left, madam,' he answered on cue. 'May I take your coats?'

  He took them. She began to purr. It was a nice place, the sort of nice place she liked, with beams and pots of spring flowers, and big rocking spitoons for ashtrays about the floor. The cocktail bar had subdued coloured lights and a man playing a violin, sitting alone on a modestly raised platform at one end. He played softly but tediously, his nose apparently welded to the instrument. There were a few people in the place, but the music just covered their voices.

  'I love a good violin,' she sighed impressively. 'When it's played properly it's better than anything else.'

  'I didn't know you knew anything about music,' I said.

  'Just shows how much we don't know about each other.' She wasn't looking at me, she was looking about the room. I held her hand. A waiter came over and Pamela asked for a double creme de menthe. At random I asked for a Drambuie. 'That's right,' she encouraged. 'Let's enjoy ourselves. Let's have a good time.' Abruptly she turned and squeezed my elbow. 'It's nice here isn't it, pet? It really is.'

  'Very nice,' I agreed. 'It's like somewhere expensive in London.'

  'We'll go to London as soon as we can.' She made it sound like a promise. ' The shops and everything. And we could go and see shows.'

  'We ought to have gone this time,' I said.

  'Don't start that again Arthur, there's a good boy. You know why we came to Swindon. And it is very nice here isn't it? In here, I mean.'

  'I was going to ask you something,' I said.

  'Ask me something? When was that?'

  'When we were running for the bus. Just before.'

  'Yes, I remember. What was it, pet?'

  'It was about your grandfather.'