The Rabbit

by Ted Lewis

  “What’s that?” Jackson said, as I read it through again. “A love letter?”

  Saturday night.

  I sat in the small room of the White Lion. The pub was at the opposite end of the Market Place to the George and through the small room’s bowed window I could see the wide open windows of the George’s upstairs singing room and I could hear the faint boom of the Hammond Organ as Harold Johnson belted out the numbers. The Market Place was full of the usual Saturday night rovers, aimlessly looking for something or other to make an event of the Saturday night.

  The small room was empty except for myself. I looked at my watch. It was five to eight. My eyes stayed on the watch after I’d seen what the time was. Nowadays I could never look at the bloody thing without remembering my looking at it in Janet’s bedroom. This time last week, I thought, and then I shook the thought out of my head before it went any farther.

  At a quarter past eight there was no sign of Veronica, but that was all right because most likely her grandmother was playing up. It had happened before. At half past eight I was still sitting there by myself. By nine o’clock I knew for sure she wouldn’t be coming. The bloody bitch, I thought. I drained the remains of my fifth pint and got up and left the White Lion, and walked across the Market Place to the George. I looked in Lila’s bar but Mart and Cec weren’t there so I went upstairs to the singing room. The Hammond Organ was belting out “Mr. Sandman” and everyone was clap¬ping in time. I stood in the doorway, buffeted by the raucous voices, the heat, and the beery air. I scanned the tables, looking for Cec and Mart. Eventually, I caught sight of them, sitting at a table with Don and Veronica.

  I turned away and pushed through to the bar and got a drink and when I’d done that I weaved my way through the tables and sat down with the four of them. Veronica had seen me coming when I was halfway across the room and she’d already begun to prepare herself. Her eyes were down¬cast and her expression was carefully neutral. Mart and Cec greeted me the way they always did and Don tried to act like the other two, without succeeding.

  “Well, here we all are, then,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Cec. “It’s Saturday night and I just got paid.”

  “Got on my blue suede shoes and ready to go,” Mart said.

  The music stopped for a moment and Don got up.

  “I’m just going down to see Lila for a minute,” he said. “Me Mam wants to know something about a part-time job Lila’s got the low-down on.” He spread his hands. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Hurry back, hearts-ease,” Cec said.

  When Don had gone and the music had started up again I said to Veronica:

  “You changed your mind, then?”

  “I never really made it up,” she said. “I’m sorry, Vic.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about.”

  “And you were wrong about Don, my feelings. I’m not just getting back at you, really. I didn’t come because I just don’t believe you feel the same as I do.”

  “You’re very wise. You know that? You really are very wise. Quite correct. I was just stringing you along. Just using you, as you said, while I’m at home. I mean why should I feel the same way as you? What have you got that—”

  Veronica stood up and hurried away from the table and out of the door. Mart and Cec, who were on the opposite side of the table and had been watching Harold Johnson, didn’t even notice that she’d gone until the number had finished, and then they probably assumed that she must have gone to the ladies. I got up.

  “Fancy some more?” I said.

  “Do ducks swim?” Mart said.

  I went over to the bar. While I was waiting to order I glanced out of the singing room window and saw Veronica aimlessly wandering across the Market Place. She hadn’t gone to Don as I’d imagined. Oh, Christ, I thought, what a cunt I am. I’ve got to tell her I didn’t mean it.

  I hurried down the stairs and out into the Market Place. By now Veronica had crossed the Square and was leaning against Lovitts wall which ran alongside the car park which was adjacent to the bus shelter. Her hands were thrust deep into her pockets.

  I began to cross the Square when Billy Hanson and Pete Swift and Howard Bird emerged from the shelter. Billy was drinking from a pint bottle and the other two were lugging a crate of beer between them. By the look of them the crate must have had nothing in it but empties.

  Billy stopped drinking when he caught sight of Veronica.

  “Here, look,” he said. “It’s the artist’s bint. Here, you, where’s the artist, then? I’ve been waiting to see him.”

  Veronica took no notice. I stayed where I was, waiting to see what Billy was going to do before I moved. If he left it at that and drifted off then I could go to Veronica without being seen.

  “I asked you a question, bint. Where’s the artist?”

  Veronica just looked at her feet as though she wasn’t aware of what was going on.

  Billy looked at her for a moment then he threw his bottle so it shattered against the wall a foot or so away from Veronica’s head.

  Veronica screamed. Billy laughed. The other two put down the crate and withdrew an empty bottle each and followed suit. The bottle smashed against the wall either side of her and she covered her head with her arms and screamed again.

  Then several things happened all at once.

  I began to run towards Billy and the other two but I was overtaken by Don who, as he passed me, shouted:

  “You cunt, you were just standing there!”

  At the same time as Don shouted at me the Public Bar door of the White Lion swung open and Big Tess ambled out followed by the Sampsons. Straight away they saw what was happening and they had the advantage over Billy and his mates who had their backs to the White Lion. As one man, Big Tess and the Sampsons charged, three berserkers filled with joy at the prospect the situation presented to them. Billy and his mates had no chance at all. Billy himself received two cracks on the side of his head from Big Tess’s left fist and fell to his knees, while the Sampsons bundled the other two behind the bus shelter into the shadow of the car park. Big Tess gave Billy one more and then followed the Sampsons into the darkness.

  Don reached Veronica and by the time I got there she had burst into tears.

  “Are you all right?” I said.

  “Piss off,” Don said. “Come on, love, Lila’ll look after you.”

  Don shepherded her across the Market Place. Mart and Cec were standing on the steps of the George and when Don and Veronica got there they held open the doors so that they could pass through. I walked back to the George and looked in Lila’s bar but there were no signs of them in there so I went back upstairs to the singing room. Mart and Cec were standing by the bar ordering some more drinks.

  “How is she?” I said.

  “She’ll be all right,” Mart said, “Lila’s making her a cup of tea in the back.”

  “Don thought I was just standing there,” I said. “I was just waiting my moment.”

  “Yeah, well, you can’t always be a hero,” Mart said. “Pint?”

  I nodded. I couldn’t speak. They knew what Don had said was true.

  We stood at the bar and drank our drinks, not saying anything, just using the music as an excuse to keep quiet. A little later Don appeared at the bar.

  “Is she all right?” Mart said.

  “A bit shaken up, but she’ll be all right,” he said, then he looked at me. “So what were you doing, then?”

  “I was waiting to see what they were going to do.”

  “I know. That’s just it.”

  “I moved as soon as they started throwing the bottles.”

  “Too bloody late, then, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, bollocks to you,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Don. “Bollocks to me. I’m off downstairs.”<
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  Don’s departure and what he’d said left an embarrassed atmosphere between the three of us. I wanted to go after him and somehow make things right, but instead I got us another round in.

  By ten o’clock we were all well pissed. The beer had smoothed out the tension there had been and we were all singing along with the music. At one point I had to go down¬stairs to the gents and when I returned to the singing room there was a new group at the end of the bar, altogether about five or six people, but I didn’t take any notice as I stumbled past them.

  A voice said:

  “Not speaking, then?”

  I stopped and turned and I was looking at Clacker. He was swaying slightly and sweat was making the Brylcreem roll in globules down his forehead.

  “You what?” I said.

  “I said, ‘Aren’t you speaking?’”

  “I didn’t see you,” I said.

  Clacker laughed.

  “This is gaffer’s lad,” he said to his mates. “He’s too good to speak because he’s gaffer’s lad.”

  “I told you, I didn’t see you.”

  He grinned his grin.

  “Boozing, then, are you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s gaffer say to that, then?”

  “Have a pint, if he was here.”

  “Oh yes,” Clacker said. “Oh yes. Clever stuff. Real college stuff.”

  Clacker swayed backwards and forwards partly because of his own drunkenness and partly because of my own half-pissed vision.

  “Yes,” Clacker said. “You’re born clever if you’re gaffer’s lad.”

  “At least I was born knowing my father, even if he is gaffer,” I said, turning away.

  One of Clacker’s mates said something to him but Clacker just laughed and I heard him say:

  “No, it’d be a waste of time. Besides, I don’t belt lassies.”

  I turned back to face him.

  “You what?” I asked.

  “I don’t belt lassies,” repeated Clacker, putting his glass to his lips.

  The next thing I knew Clacker’s brilliant white shirt was brown with beer and his glass was lying broken in pieces at his feet. And it had been me that had struck the glass from his mouth. The action had been involuntary, blind, and I’d no real remembrance of having done it.

  Although the music was still going, the collective silence of Mart and Cec and Clacker and his mates seemed to trans¬cend the electronic din. Clacker’s face was rigid with fury as he wiped some beer from his chin. He looked at me for a long time. I tensed myself for the blow which I was sure was coming. One of the barmen lifted the flap and began to move towards us. But instead of sending me flying across the room Clacker said:

  “That’ll be a pint of best bitter you owe me.”

  “Hammer him, Clacker,” murmured one of his mates.

  “Outside, the pair of you, if you’re going to have a go.”

  “Come on then, Clacker,” I said, trying to make up for Clacker not finding me worth clouting. “What’s up? Odds on favourites in with a chance this time.”

  “Go on, hammer him.”

  “What’s stopping you?” I said. “Frightened of getting the sack?”

  “Leave it,” Cec said. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

  “Come on, outside,” the barman said.

  Clacker gave me another of his long looks and then he shrugged and turned away from me and walked out of the singing room. Clacker’s mates stood to one side to allow me to pass. I followed Clacker down the steep stairs and out into the car park. Dusk was just going and the stars were out and the air was still warm from the day’s heat.

  Clacker stopped and waited for his mates to congregate behind him. Mart and Cec stood to one side of me.

  “You stupid fucker,” said Cec.

  The back door of the pub opened again and Don and Veronica appeared on the steps. They could have had no knowledge of what was about to take place. They must have just been on their way home.

  “Fair fight, Clacker,” Mart said. “Just between the two of you.”

  Clacker ignored Mart and took off his jacket and without looking behind him held it out for one of his mates to come forward and take it from him and fold it carefully and drape it neatly over the bonnet of an old Austin.

  “Come on, then,” Clacker said.

  There was nothing for me to do but take a hesitant step towards him. Clacker didn’t move. I was reluctant to hit him because after that there was nothing I would be able to do to prevent myself being hurt. Clacker crooked his arm and flexed his fist.

  “Get on with it,” said one of Clacker’s mates.

  I punched at Clacker’s head and at the same time I tried to take hold of his raised fist with my other hand. I missed both. Clacker punched me on the side of my head just where the cheek bone gives way to the hollow of the eye. My vision went and brilliant lightning filled my brain. Then there was another punch in approximately the same place. I fell across the bonnet of the car on which Clacker’s mate had draped his jacket. Clacker punched me just below my ribs and, not wanting to get up, I lay across the bonnet, face down in the gabardine of his jacket, my mind red with pain. Nothing else happened for a moment or two and then Clacker brought his fist down as hard as he could in the middle of my back, just below my shoulder blades. The remains of my breath fled from my lungs. There was silence. Then Clacker spoke.

  “That’s it, then. Hardly worth taking my coat off for.”

  He pulled his jacket from under me and I slid down to the floor. There was the sound of footsteps as Clacker and his mates filed back into the pub. Cec and Mart picked me up and sat me on the running board of the Austin.

  “Are you all right?” Mart said.

  “I’m bloody smashing.”

  “He’s all right. Come on. Let’s get him home,” Cec said.

  Don and Veronica joined us.

  “What was that all about?” Don said.

  “Search me,” said Cec.

  There was a silence.

  “Veronica and me are off down to the dance,” Don said. “There’s an extension till eleven. Anybody coming?”

  “We’d better see him home.”

  “I’m all right,” I said, “I can manage.”

  “Are you sure?” Mart said.

  “’Course I’m sure. I’ll be all right in a minute. Bugger off to the dance.”

  “If we don’t go now there’ll be no point in going at all,” Don said.

  There was a slight shuffling and then Mart said again:

  “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes. Piss off, the lot of you.”

  But Don and Veronica had already gone and a moment later Mart and Cec followed after them.

  I looked at my black eye in the dressing table mirror. I could hear my parents moving about downstairs. When I’d got in the night before I’d tried to avoid them seeing my eye by walking in sideways but there had been no real chance of my getting away with it. My mother’s cry of concern had fetched my father out of the dining room and my story of being beaten up for no reason by three yobboes in the George gents hadn’t secured the sympathy I’d hoped for but instead had inspired anger at my yet again going out boozing and getting myself into trouble. I knew the minute I went downstairs the whole thing would get into gear again so I’d stayed in my bedroom for as long as possible.

  I heard my mother go into the dining room. I went down¬stairs and found that my father had gone for his Sunday morning stroll round the garden so I got my bike from under the passage and lugged it up the steps and cycled down to call for Mart and then go on to the river, as we always did on Sunday morning. But today when I called, Mrs Rose told me that Cec and Don had been for Mart and that the three of t
hem had already gone, but only since about a quarter of an hour ago, and if I cycled quickly I would soon catch them up. I thanked her and I made sure she wasn’t looking out of the window before I cycled off in the opposite direction to the river, in the direction of home.

  Monday morning.

  Jackson and I rode down to the kiln in Gil Caldwell’s lorry. Nobody had mentioned my black eye except of course Jackson. I’d told him I’d walked into a brick wall.

  Clacker, as usual, was already at work in the wagons. But as the lorry approached he straightened up and when the lorry was ready for tipping he watched Gil and me unbolt the tailboard. As the load hurtled down into the wagon, I saw Gil wink at Clacker and indicate my black eye. When Gil and I had re-bolted the tailboard and Gil had clambered into his cab I got down into the fresh load and set to work. Clacker didn’t move and I knew he was watching me so I straightened up and looked into the next wagon.

  “How do you do?” I said to him.

  Clacker grinned his faint grin. I couldn’t just stand there with him grinning at me like that so I took my cigarettes out.

  “Fag?” I said, offering him the packet. Clacker took his own packet out.

  “No thanks,” he said. “I’ll stick to these.”

  “Suit your bloody self,” I said, putting a cigarette in my mouth. “Got a light?” Clacker lit his cigarette and threw me his matches and after I’d lit up I threw the box to him. Clacker put the matches back in his pocket. I picked up my hammer and went back to work.