The Man Who Won the Pools

by J. I. M. Stewart

There was a moment’s silence. They both sat looking at Phil like they were a judge and jury. He had an absurd idea they might be what you’d call acting for Beryl’s dad and mum. But they were just thinking, he supposed, that he’d been mucking around dead silly.

  ‘Come off it,’ he said cheerfully – although that wasn’t how he was feeling. ‘It isn’t a funeral, it isn’t. It don’t even require bigamy. The Archbishop of Canterbury hasn’t married me to anybody by special licence. A sweet virgin, I am.’ He winked at George. ‘Like old Peter here.’

  With Peter this didn’t seem to go down either good or bad. He just went on looking at Phil in that thinking way. But George responded to the demand for a lighter note.

  ‘And me thinking pikelets was fish,’ he said. ‘Like it might be instead of a fatted calf in that story out of Sunday School.’

  Phil shook his head.

  ‘No call to think I’ve been living all that prodigal,’ he said – and grinned at Peter. ‘Old Sackbutt still got all the gravy, except as much as don’t count.’

  ‘Then why come back?’ George asked. ‘Not if you’re not yet right down to them husks and things.’

  Phil thought this was getting a bit silly. He was sure they knew – although his telegram to Peter hadn’t said all that, so that he didn’t know how they did.

  ‘You know about me and Beryl?’ he asked, to make sure of this.

  ‘We know about Beryl, all right,’ George said. ‘There’s them as can’t keep their gobs shut. And a good thing too.’

  Phil didn’t quite get this, but his impatience grew.

  ‘See here,’ he said, ‘I better not wait for this tea and cakes. I better get round and see Beryl now.’

  ‘You’re not going to see her,’ Peter said.

  ‘Not never again, you’re not,’ George agreed.

  He stared at them. He had a wild idea that somehow, and because of this thing, she must be dead.

  ‘Nothing’s happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing’s happened that you had much to do with,’ George said grimly. ‘Fancying yourself, you been. Imagining yourself – careful old Phil Tombs – given to wild careless rapture. A comedy, that is. You ever been careless?’ George didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Of course not. But Fred Prescott – he been careless. A bastard like that would be, wouldn’t he? Beryl’s kid won’t be yours, man. It’ll be Fred’s. That’s what.’

  It was strange to think of afterwards – but the fact was Phil had pretty well rushed at George Pratley. He might have hit him, if Peter hadn’t laid a gentle hand on him.

  ‘Phil,’ he said, ‘it must be something hard to believe. But it’s true. They say so. Both of them.’

  ‘Didn’t you have a clue?’ George asked.

  Phil shook his head. He was dazed. He remembered there had been something – something about Beryl and Fred Prescott and a car – but he couldn’t remember quite what. Only he knew that there were other things about Beryl that he was going to remember quite soon.

  ‘I pretty well knew he’d pinched your girl,’ George said. ‘Tried to give you a hint, I did. But you got to be careful with a thing like that. Got round her with his talk, he must have done. For what else has he, I ask you?’ George paused, as if rather hoping for debate on this aspect of the matter. Meeting silence, he went on, ‘Not that she didn’t have a bit of edge on him. Made him change his hair-style.’

  ‘She was frightened,’ Phil said suddenly. ‘She was terrified, poor kid. The last time we went together, George. She must have known then about the baby. Wanted to tell me. Wanted to get it straight about it being Fred’s, I expect. And she seemed like she didn’t know which way she was going.’ He paused. ‘See here – Fred Prescott or not – I got to go to her. Now.’

  ‘Wait a bit.’ It was Peter who spoke. He had been silent for some time. ‘Don’t think I haven’t got a lot of sympathy for the girl. I don’t suppose she was dead promiscuous. You’d have been bound to know about that. I don’t think I’d even say you had much to complain of, Phil. You were having her in a quiet steady way – and then, so to speak, she let this other chap in on it. Well, she acted against a sort of rough and ready folk-ethic that the working class – our class – has run up in the last generation or so. You can’t say more than that. So let’s feel sympathetic, as I said. Particularly—’ Peter paused, with his thoughtful gaze on Phil— ‘when we think of the money.’

  ‘The money?’ Phil hadn’t thought of it.

  ‘What she saw she’d just missed.’

  Phil suddenly flushed scarlet. It came back to him how Beryl had behaved when he had at last managed to tell her about his fortune that afternoon. And something else.

  ‘She got me away,’ he said.

  ‘Yes – she got you away.’ Peter spoke very gently now. ‘She thought – poor kid – that if she could have a week’s grace she could somehow rub out this Fred Prescott from the record. The child she was going to have would be yours, and she’d be married to a millionaire after all. Just as she’d dreamed.’

  ‘Dreamed?’ Phil said.

  ‘Just as every uneducated girl, fed on worthless films and magazines and advertisements, dreams.’ Peter spoke almost coldly this time. ‘It’s bad luck, about a twentieth-century shop girl. You’re not within reach of much sense.’

  ‘And she got some way with it,’ George said. ‘She got to getting her parents put it across your aunt. But the trouble was Fred. Whether he’d wanted her permanent or not, he wasn’t going to fade out silently before no bleeding millionaire. Not very rational, Fred Prescott isn’t. Some sort of a man, he is. And it came out at Beryl’s home in a grand row last night. I had it all from Fred this morning.’

  There was another silence, in which they heard the lid of the kettle jumping. It had been boiling without any of them noticing it.

  ‘I got to see her,’ Phil said. ‘I got to tell her I been unfaithful. In my heart, like – where it’s worst. See?’

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘I wouldn’t. It would be for your own ease, that would. Not hers. Leave her. There must be things she likes about this Prescott. Perhaps quite good things, and it may all grow a bit. But it won’t be helped by you shoving in and showing what nice feelings you have.’

  Phil’s flush deepened.

  ‘I mean more than that,’ he said. ‘It’s me ought to marry her – still.’

  And suddenly Peter Sharples was angry.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you’re conceited. You’ve got a good opinion of yourself, Phil Tombs. And no call to – not in this. You and this girl were a mess. Just that. She’s not your sort. You’re not hers. This Prescott’s somebody she’d taken refuge with – get? It doesn’t mean she mayn’t be a decent girl in a clueless way. I don’t know. Perhaps George here knows. But don’t you go bewildering her again with some rotten Galahad my-heart-is- pure guff. Forget it—see?’

  There was a sort of shattered silence that can follow a last word being spoken. And then the back-kitchen door opened. It was Phil’s auntie.

  ‘Would you believe it?’ she said. ‘Sidaway’s was right out of fancies. I had to look right over at Cheeseright’s. And have you mashed now?’ She looked contentedly round the three young men as she put a bag and a little cardboard box down on the table. ‘Now if we just had our Beryl,’ she said dutifully, ‘wouldn’t it be a fambly party?’

  Phil and Peter talked late that night in Peter’s room in college. It was quite something, Phil’s going in there. And a bit of an anti-climax in a way. Peter’s room was another room much like Phil’s room – larger, perhaps, but right up in a steeply-pitched roof. There was a narrow bed that was a disgrace, and two wicker chairs – the kind you see in illustrations in old-fashioned novels – that creaked whether you were in them or not. There were a couple of shelves of books, not as many as you’d expect, and there was a record-player and a lot of L.P. records more modern than Phil came down to. There was a colour-print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers on the wall that Peter was a bit as
hamed of – like he was about sex and the working class, Phil told him – because in a couple of years he’d got right beyond it in what you might call artistic sophistication. The carpet was another disgrace, being mostly holes, and Phil was staggered to hear Peter had to hire it, and the bed and chairs and all, from the college.

  ‘You’re soft,’ he said, ‘if you pay out money for the use of that. Wouldn’t fetch two bob cash down in our junk shop.’

  ‘I get a rebate, in a way,’ Peter said. He loved working things out. ‘I make it that I get eightpence-halfpenny from this college for every tanner my county pays it.’

  ‘Charity kid, both ways, like?’

  ‘Just that. We’re all that here. Even your friend Aubrey Moore. You can’t come in here without doing a bit of sponging on pious old parties who put down money in the sixteenth century. I sometimes wonder what they’d think of us. More cocoa?’

  They were really drinking cocoa. Phil had thought it would be vintage port. And Peter had made a very large omelette on a very small gas-ring. Against regulations, he’d explained.

  That sort of thing tickled Phil.

  ‘A lot of kid’s rules you have in a place like this,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how you can take them, I don’t. Not after National Service and that.’

  ‘It’s a kind of game,’ Peter said. ‘Know how you’re going to get out of this?’

  ‘Walk, I’d say.’

  ‘Not a bit. You’ll have no business in here after midnight. The place will be locked up. You’ll get out by climbing a tree, and out along a branch, and down a lamp-post.’

  ‘Can do,’ Phil said easily.

  ‘The trunk of the tree goes up quite smooth for fifteen feet’

  ‘We can think about it,’ Phil said.

  ‘We don’t need to. There’s a ladder to get you up the tree. It’s supposed to have been left about carelessly. But it’s been there ever since we had a new Dean eight years ago. He decided against any more accidents.’

  ‘Sensible of him.’ Phil said. He was thinking they must all be kids together – Deans, undergrads and what have you. ‘But I’d go psycho, I would, locked up at nights.’

  ‘Oh, yes – I dare say.’ Peter wasn’t doing much of the talking. And Phil was talking quite a lot. He was telling Peter everything. It didn’t seem to trouble Peter that he was doing this with only half his mind. Because, of course, Phil was thinking all the time of his future, really. He had a future now.

  ‘And tomorrow I’m going back,’ Phil said.

  ‘To this Chippings place? Another round of golf?’

  ‘To London. She’ll be at the office.’

  ‘I was thinking of going up to London tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll come with you.’ Peter had that considering look.

  ‘You?’ Phil said, mocking. ‘Let you off, will they?’

  They let your friend Moore off.’ Peter grinned. ‘And I’m in much more favour than he is. Not that I need leave to go away for the day.’ He took a swig of cocoa. ‘By the way,’ he said – and he seemed rather elaborately casual – ‘why, shouldn’t you and I go abroad together?’

  ‘On that three pounds’ balance of yours?’ Phil asked. He could say anything to Peter now. And he was pleased by this suggestion. Not that it meant anything to him. He had other plans.

  ‘I’ve won one of the University prizes. Probably no other entrants.’ Peter was blushing. ‘Thought it would be the complete works of Lord Macaulay in full morocco. But it was a cheque for fifty quid. And an admiring President of this ancient college has added twenty more. We could go places.’

  ‘So we could.’ Phil was meaning to go places – but not with old Peter. ‘I’ll add five hundred, and we’ll go to Paree. Paint Pig Street red, we will.’

  Peter laughed. He’d heard enough to understand this.

  ‘You’d be let add no more than your own seventy out of all that easy gravy. And we’d do two months on it. I could get away as soon as I’ve kept my term. Before the rest, that is. The dons are eating out of my hand just now.’ He paused, and noticed Phil’s silence. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I’ll come to town tomorrow. Give you a nod from the Second Class.’

  ‘What you want to do in London?’ Phil felt an odd uneasiness. He’d come to think Peter Sharples was a very deep one indeed.

  ‘Oh—I want to go to the Tate.’

  ‘What’s the Tate?’

  ‘Just a strip-tease joint, Phil. Lots of nudes.’

  Phil remembered a little late in the day that the Tate was a picture gallery.

  ‘You might replace them gaudy sunflowers,’ he said, ‘with something more artistically mature, like.’ He’d got back on Peter with that one. ‘You really coming? I’d like you to meet—’

  ‘Yes – I’m coming.’ Peter had interrupted Phil almost sharply. And now he got up and shoved around the cups and plates. ‘Nice of you to tell me everything, Phil,’ he said, as if changing the subject. ‘You’re rather good at narrative. Those people at Thickthorne and those people at Prendick’s place – I feel I’ve met them.’ He paused. ‘Know about them,’ he added.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Phil said. He was feeling obscurely troubled. ‘It’s really because you want to go to this Tate?’

  ‘Partly that.’ Peter was looking at him in that odd way – like he was reading a book and doing some work on it. ‘And partly because violent delights have violent ends.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s Shakespeare again. And now I’d better get you up that tree.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The tree and lamp-post had been easy enough. The climb made Phil conscious, all the same, that his body still had bruises on it. He could even feel some of them just as he was sitting next morning in the train. It had been no time ago, that fight. Nothing had been any time ago. The whole new landscape of his life was no older than his hitting up with Peter Sharples. And Peter, sitting opposite to him now like he might have been his oldest friend, was what you’d really have to call a recent acquaintance. But then time was like that. You couldn’t measure it just on clocks. There was nothing to make him uneasy in how quick it had all happened to him. At least there shouldn’t be.

  All the same, he didn’t feel quite right with himself. It was as if he’d been bruised more than where they’d kicked him. Here he was – free and with Jean before him. He realised how desperately this freedom was what he’d wanted, and how he’d felt there was only a shabby road to it. He’d have ended on that road, all right – or if he hadn’t it would have been on account of some hidden Phil Tombs he didn’t know about. But now it was the simple truth that he didn’t in all the world have a single tie he didn’t want to have. The way Peter had put it about Beryl was brutal but it was dead right. Beryl had ditched him because she preferred another chap. Perhaps a bit she hadn’t known her own mind, that last afternoon. Still, that was the plain fact, and it wasn’t altered by her making a muddied attempt at a come-back along of all his money. She preferred Fred Prescott, and now she’d marry him. Well, that was all right by Phil. It was so miraculously this – so much a muddle cancelled and a burden lifted – that he just couldn’t connect it with the obscure way he felt angry and bruised inside now. It was queer that anything lying behind him could be in his mind at all, seeing that Jean was now less than an hour ahead. They’d go to the same restaurant, he thought. They’d have the same risotto and the same Chianti. Only this time they’d be engaged.

  They were through Reading, and Peter was reading The Times like he didn’t want to talk much. He seemed to go through the paper systematically from front to back.

  ‘What you want to read all that for?’ Phil asked challengingly.

  Peter lowered the paper only for a moment. He was looking as serious as Phil had ever seen, so that Phil thought there was perhaps a crisis in politics or economics or even philosophy.

  ‘You come on things,’ Peter said. ‘Even on the Court page.’

  ‘Court page? That judges and juries?’

>   Peter smiled faintly.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s the gentry getting born and christened and engaged and married and dined and wined and buried. We’ll make it one day – you and me.’

  ‘I’d be boggered first,’ Phil said robustly. But he didn’t mean it

  Peter came as far as Prendick’s office. Then he said ‘Seeing you’ vaguely, and went off. It seemed he was a bit shy of fixing up what would mean his meeting Jean later that day. Which was right enough, perhaps. Phil let him go. It was natural that Phil shouldn’t be much thinking of Peter.

  There was a new porter. You’d expect that, he thought with a grin.

  ‘Will you send my name up to Miss Canaway, please? Mr. Tombs.’ The man turned to his telephone. It was funny, Phil thought, how quickly you picked up all that. And then in a minute that panel of black glass was sliding back and he was in the lift. He hardly needed it. He felt like he could have floated up to the roof.

  The roses were gone, and there were great spurs of red and white gladioli. He didn’t like them. Or rather he just didn’t like there being this showy change of scene. She was standing behind her desk that had files and telephones on it, and she was paler than he’d ever seen her.

  ‘Jean!’ he said, going forward. There was a tiny silence. ‘Hi’ya,’ he added with a grin.

  ‘You went away very … abruptly.’ She looked like she was just saying the first thing that came into her head.

  ‘I said good-bye to Mrs. Prendick. And you got my note, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I got your note. It didn’t say much. Why did you dash off like that?’

  ‘It was my … It was the girl.’

  He saw her take breath.

  ‘The one you told me about?’

  ‘The one you asked me about. Beryl’s the name. I had a letter. She’s going to have a baby.’ He blurted it out. ‘But it wasn’t me. It was another chap. Behind my back, like. So it’s all over, that. Of course it was over, anyway. But now—well, she wants it that way too.’

  ‘Phil – you realize it was absolutely crazy?’