The Likes of Us

by Stan Barstow

  ‘A good lad, Fred is; we’d be lost without him. He was our librarian when I joined the band, an’ he’ll be handing out music when I’m under t’sod, I’ll bet. On’y one time he ever let us down and that was one night in Cressley Park. Trombones found they had the parts for ‘Poet and Peasant’, while t’rest of us were crackin’ through Lists’s Hungarian Rhapsody.’

  Fred had been a miner, Sam told me, but since retiring from the pit he’d done odd jobs for Withers, who kept the farm on Low Road. There was a bench in a garden at the end of High Street – the traditional gathering place of old-age pensioners. But this was not for Fred. And Withers, knowing a good worker, had been only too happy to relieve Fred of the miseries of idleness. And in addition to his natural zest for work, Fred was of value to Withers in another way. He was one of the few men in the district who could handle Samson, Withers’s valuable pedigree Friesian bull. Samson was a vicious and bad-tempered beast with as much love for the human race as a boa constrictor. Withers had considered getting rid of him until Fred came along; and it was with surprise and relief that he found, after a time, a positive affection springing up between the little man and the bull. To see Fred stroking Samson’s nose and whispering in his ear while the great beast stood in something approaching ecstasy was a sight that, until the novelty wore off, brought the hands from the fields to stare in wonder.

  This then was the uneventful pattern of Fred’s life: the days on the farm, the evenings in the Fox and Ferret with a glass of ale, and his duties with the band.

  ‘And then one day,’ Sam said, ‘he got his chance. Day o’ the Sunday-schools’ Whit-walk, it was. I remember it well. Boilin’ hot. We were all sittin’ round in the band-room chatting and smoking, and Fred had his head in the cupboard sortin’ the march sheets out. All at once in comes Thomas Easter, our solo euphonium player. His face is as red as his tunic, an’ he goes straight to Jess Hodgkins, our conductor.

  ‘“Jess,” he says, “we’re without a drummer. Young Billy Driver’s tum’led off his delivery bike this mornin’. I’ve just seen his mother in t’street. It looks like a broken arm, Jess.”

  ‘Well, Jess’s conducted our band for nigh on fifty year an’ he’s grown used to misfortune, as you might say. So this bit o’news didn’t bowl him over.

  ‘“Well now,” he says, when Thomas is catching his breath. “You’d ha’ thought he’d ha’ done it yesterday an’ given us time to get another man.” An’ he sighs. “I don’t know,” he says. “If it in’t a cornet player wi’ a split lip, it’s a drummer wi’ nobbut one arm.” He looks at Thomas. “Wes’ll have to do wi’out drummer, Thomas, that’s all, lad.”

  ‘“Nay, Jess,” says Thomas, “wes’ll sound awful.” Thomas, y’see, has played engagements with some good bands in his time, an’ he’s allus particular about fieldin’ a full side.

  ‘“Then some’dy else’ll have it to do,” says Jess. An’ he has a look round the room. He can’t spare any of us, an’ his eye falls on Short Fred, still busy with the music. He hasn’t heard a word of this an’ when Jess gives Thomas the wink an’ calls him over he comes up as innocent as you please.

  ‘“Tha’s been servin’ thy apprenticeship in t’music-sortin’ department o’ this band for forty-five year ’at I can remember, Fred,” he says, his face never slippin’. An’

  Fred, mystified, says, “Aye, Jess?”

  ‘“Well I’ve been thinkin” ’at it’s about time tha made a noise, just to let fowk know tha’re still with us,” Jess goes on. “An’ to make sure everybody hears thee, I’m goin’ to give thee t’biggest noise in t’band. Does tha think tha could play t’big drum for us this afternoon?”

  ‘Fred’s heart must ha’ taken a crotchet rest then. Here’s his big chance, straight out of the blue. But not a sign of this shows on his face. “I’ll do me best for thee, Jess,” he says.’

  They rolled the drum from the cupboard, Sam said, and adjusted the straps to suit Fred’s short stature. He looked down at the drum, an eager light beginning in his eyes. It was a beautiful instrument, painted in glossy scarlet and gold, with white cords, and the words LOW NETHERWOOD SILVER BAND inscribed on it in gold letters.

  ‘Tha’re sure tha can carry it, Fred?’ asked one of the players, in mock anxiety, and Fred said scornfully, ‘Carry it? Give us ho’d on it an’ I’ll show thee!’

  So they hoisted the drum into position on Fred’s chest and fastened the straps. He had a little difficulty in seeing over it, but there was no doubt of his ability to carry it.

  ‘Just give us a steady beat, lad,’ Jess instructed him as they formed up in the lane. ‘No fancy work, an’ tha’ll be all right.’

  At a blast from Jess’s whistle a few stragglers emerged, fortified for the afternoon, from the Fox and Ferret and filled the gaps in the ranks. Fred moved to his place at the rear of the band and made a few practice swings with the drumsticks. He hitched the drum up higher on his chest and as Jess sounded the whistle for off he wielded the sticks with all the enthusiasm of a school-boy. This was the life!

  One two three – boom boom boom. They were off down the lane.

  ‘We joined the procession at the bottom of the lane in High Street,’ Sam said. ‘A lovely sight, it was: all the kiddies in their new clothes and the banners. We get to the head of ’em an’ wait till they’re in order. Then Jess blows his whistle an’ we’re off up High Street, with all the fowk watching, and the banners flying and us blowin’ fit to burst. I allus did like a schoolfeast. And there’s Fred havin’ the time of his life, hitching the drum up higher an’ higher an’ leaning over backwards to balance it, till he can’t see in front of him at all an’ he has to rely on his view to either side to tell him where he’s goin!’

  ‘We were on the way to Withers’s big meadow an’ it was just on the corner of the lane that it happened. Only the day before the council had dug a deep trench in the road, to check if the water pipes were still there. There’s red flags an’ lamps all round it. We swung out an’ made a detour; but Fred, not seeing a thing in front of him, marches straight on, knocking the tar out of the drum an’ generally havin’ the time of his life.

  ‘They shouted to warn him, but it was too late. He put one foot into fresh air an’ so they say as saw it, sort of pivoted round on his other foot an’ fetched up on his back in the bottom of the trench with the drum sittin’ on his chest like a great playful dog.’

  And he lay there, Sam said, swearing feebly, while the band, unconscious of his plight, marched on and into the meadow. Anxious faces appeared over the rim of the trench and strong arms reached down to haul him to the surface. The drum was unstrapped and Fred examined for injury. Finding that he was only shaken, he sat on the edge of the trench under the laughing eyes of the village folk and waited for his breath and composure to return.

  ‘How much for t’drum, Fred?’ somebody called, and Short Fred writhed with discomfiture. They’d be laughing over this in the sewing circles and the pubs for evermore. The devil take the drum! Why he’d let himself in for this he’d never know.

  Meanwhile, the procession had entered the meadow. The children, bursting from restraining hands, ran free on the grass, the girls in their pretty frocks, and straw bonnets, the boys in their stiff new suits. The uniforms of the bandsmen were a bright splash of colour against the more sober dress of the rest of the throng, and perhaps it was this that caught the eye of Samson as, disturbed by the noise, he nosed his way out of his unlocked stall and stalked peevishly across the yard.

  ‘They say bulls are colour blind,’ said Sam. ‘Well, mebbe they are. But they can tell a bright colour from a dull ’un and they can hear noise. An’ if it’s a bull like Samson that’s enough to get its rag out. You can nearly imagine him thinkin’ to hisself, “Who do they think they are, these fowk, all dolled up an’ makin’ their noise in my field? Time they had a lesson.”’

 
Short Fred was, by this time, coming down the lane by the meadow, carrying the heavy drum (he’d curtly rejected all offers of assistance), and wishing himself anywhere else in the world. His thoughts ran on in miserable confusion, the predominant theme being the folly of childish fancies in the old.

  ‘Summat then – some sixth sense – made him turn his head and look up towards the farm. He stopped then as though he’d turned to stone as he saw Samson there, working hisself up to do murder.

  “Heaven help us!” he whispers.

  ‘He sizes up the position at a glance. There’s the bull at one end of the field, and a crowd o’ fowk – mostly kiddies – at the other. And even if he yells they’ve to come half-way up the field to reach the gate. He didn’t think for a second ’at there being all these fowk ’ud put the bull off. Not Samson!

  ‘Well, Samson stirs and Fred lets out an ear-splitting yell. Then he throws the drum over the hedge and jumps after it, his bruises playing merry hell with him. From where he’s standing now the ground slopes away fairly sharp, and he’s looking straight across Samson’s line of attack.

  ‘Samson launches hisself and charges breakneck down the field. Fred gives a hasty prayer and stands the drum on its rim and gives it a mighty old push, sending it bumping and rolling down the slope. Has he mistimed it? Is it going wide? And just when it seems Samson’s gone by, the drum bounces right between his legs and brings him crashing down.’

  I looked over my shoulder. The audience had grown during the telling of Sam’s dramatic tale and now they were all agog for more, though surely several of them must have known the facts of that day.

  ‘What then, Sam?’ asked a thin-faced man on the other side of Sam. ‘What happened then?’

  Sam, conscious that he had them, took a pull at his beer and nonchalantly pressed down the dottle in his pipe. ‘Anybody got a match?’ he said, and several boxes were thrust towards him. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and found one of his own. He lit up in a leisurely manner, timing their patience to a nicety.

  ‘Well,’ he went on, his head in a cloud of smoke, ‘Fred dashes across the field afore Samson can get his legs out o’ the drum. And then he puts the old charm on him, stroking his nose and whispering sweet nothings in his ear, his heart in his mouth all the time, wondering if Samson’ll turn nasty again. And when he thinks Samson’s calmed down a bit he cuts a length o’ cord off the drum and passes it through the ring in Samson’s nose.

  ‘Then he gets him up, ever so easy like, stroking and talking to him all the time. And Samson gives a few snorts and shakes his head a bit, and lets hisself be led up the field. When he’s safely shut away, and the stall locked this time, Fred goes into the house with Withers, telling him he’s right sorry about what’s happened. He can’t imagine, he says, what made him act so careless as to leave the stall unlocked. A proper day of it, Fred had had.

  ‘“Nay, there’s no need for you to apologize, Fred,” Withers tells him. “Cause you weren’t to blame, lad.” And he pulls his seven-year-old nephew out from behind his chair. “Here’s the culprit,” he says. “Just confessed to me. He thought it’d be a lark to let Samson out. Well he’s had the fright of his life for it anyway.”

  ‘Well, Short Fred’s the village hero after this. An’ now he can play the drum any time he likes, cause when Withers presents a new ’un to the band they feel sort of obliged to offer Fred the job.

  ‘But he’s finished with that sort of ambition, and he never wants to see another drum. Old Jess nods when he hears Fred’s decision. “Happen tha’re right, Fred lad,” he says. “Tha’re not much of a musician, lad.” An’ then a twinkle slips into his old blue eyes. “But I reckon,” he says, “’at wes’ll never see any musician put this ’ere new drum to a better use than tha put our old ’un!’”

  One Wednesday Afternoon

  Excitement boiled in the woman and overflowed in an almost incoherent torrent of words in which the gatekeeper’s puny inquiry bobbed for a second, unheeded, and was lost.

  ‘An accident, y’say?’ he asked again as the woman caught at her breath. ‘Jack Lister?’

  Her vigorous nod set heavy flesh trembling on cheeks and chin. ‘His wife... I’m his mother. They’ve taken her to hospital.’

  ‘Just a minute, then.’ The gatekeeper went into the gatehouse and the woman watched him through the dusty side-window as he lifted the receiver of the telephone and spoke to someone inside the low sprawl of factory buildings. In a few minutes he came out again. ‘He’ll be out in a minute,’ he said. He eased the peak of his uniform cap, then clasped his hands behind his back and rocked backwards and forwards, almost imperceptibly, on toes and heels as he looked down at the woman.

  She said, ‘Thank you,’ repeating the words absently a moment later. Then suddenly, as though a tap had been turned on inside her, the gush of words started again. The gatekeeper listened placidly until she touched on the nature of the accident, when his face screwed itself into a grimace.

  ‘Ooh, that’s nasty,’ he said. ‘That’s nasty.’

  At first when the foreman spoke to him the man did not appear to understand. ‘Somebody wanting me?’ he said, knitting his eyebrows in perplexity.

  ‘Aye, up at the gate. There’s been a bit o’ trouble or summat. I should go up an’ see what’s doin’, if I were you.’

  The man wiped his hands with slow, puzzled thoroughness on a piece of wool waste, then brushed the dark forelock off his brow. He was near his middle forties, of medium height, and thin, with a dark, gaunt, high-cheekboned face. His short black hair with its forelock helped to give him a curiously old-fashioned appearance, as though, once out of the faded boiler-suit and dark workshirt, his choice of leisure garments would be a stiff wing collar, high-fronted jacket, and narrow trousers with piping down the seams.

  ‘I reckon I’d better, then,’ he said in his soft, troubled voice; and laying aside the piece of waste, he made as if to walk away.

  ‘I should take me coat,’ the foreman said, and the man stopped. ‘An’ look – gerrit cleared up, whatever it is, afore you bother comin’ back.’

  More baffled and puzzled than ever, he said, ‘Oh, aye, right, thanks.’ He reached for his jacket and cap on the hook behind the machine and with troubled perplexity still creasing his forehead, strode away among the clamour of the shop, passing along the walk through the ordered chaos of machines and the jungle-like growth of compressed-air pipes to the door at the far end.

  His mother hurried to meet him as he came out of the building into the yard, pulling on his jacket as he walked.

  ‘It’s Sylvia, Jack,’ she blurted. ‘She’s had an accident.’

  He stopped and stared at her, seeming to be wrested from his troubled absorption by her words and the sight of her, hatless and with the flowered apron visible under the unbuttoned coat. He gripped her by the upper arm, the flesh soft and yielding under his fingers. ‘What’s she done?’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘They came to tell me, Jack. They’ve taken her to the infirmary. It’s her hair – she’s had her hair fast in a machine.’

  ‘Oh! God,’ he said.

  She ran clumsily alongside him as he started for the gate. ‘All that hair, Jack... She wouldn’t have it cut short an’ sensible. An’ I bet she never even wore it fastened up like other women. She never should ha’ gone out to work again anyway, but she wanted too much brass for lipstick an’ donnin’ up in fancy clothes... Your wage wouldn’t do for her. Any decent woman would ha’ been content to stop at home an’ look after her bairn... I told her it wasn’t right, an’ she knew you didn’t like it... It’s a judgement on her, that’s what it is... a judgement.’

  They were outside the gate now and still her voice went on and on, clamouring at the edge of his mind and driving him deeper into confusion. Until he turned on her suddenly. ‘Shurrup! Shurrup! I can’t hear meself
think.’ He stood at the pavement-edge and rubbed his hand across his face. ‘God,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Oh! God.’

  ‘What time did it happen?’ he said. ‘Will they let me see her, d’you think? Did they say how bad it was?’

  ‘Just after dinnertime, it was,’ his mother said. ‘They couldn’t have above got started again... It sounded bad to me.’

  He set off down the road to the bus stop. ‘I’ll go straight away. I’ll get there as soon as I can... Surely they’ll let me see her.’

  They had to wait five minutes for a bus. The mother stood by the signpost while her son paced restlessly about by the bill-hoarding behind, his stoutly nailed working boots rasping on the flagstones. When at last the bus came he stepped quickly past her and onto the platform, looking back in vague surprise as she followed him.

  ‘Are you comin’ an’ all?’

  ‘Course I am.’

  They took seats on the lower deck. It was early-closing day in Cressley and the bus was almost empty. There was something that rattled with the vibration of motion and he tried with a part of his mind to locate it. Was it a window, or the back of a seat?

  ‘What about t’bairn?’ he said, as he remembered.

  ‘I took him next door. I had to. He’ll be all right. Mrs Wilson’ll see to him while we get back.’

  He nodded. ‘Aye, she’s not a bad sort.’

  He became conscious as they drew near the town of his greasy overall and that he needed a wash and a shave. As his mother, unable to keep silent, broke into the quiet with her sporadic bursts of talk he fretted quietly about going to the hospital in such a state. And slowly then, after the initial shock, real consciousness of the accident began to fill his mind and he stiffened in his seat, coming rigidly upright beside his mother’s stout form and staring straight ahead, the big adam’s apple jerking convulsively in the slack skin of his neck as he tried to swallow with a throat gone dry with fear. Until, as they alighted from the bus, everything was lost in an overwhelming panic that his wife would die before he could reach her, and he started towards the hospital with long urgent strides, stopping occasionally to mutter with soft, frantic impatience as his mother climbed the hill breathlessly behind him.