The Likes of Us

by Stan Barstow

  But the local branch of the party had thought him a catch and let him show what he could do in a ward held by a long-standing and popular Independent whom not even Ernest Bevin or Herbert Morrison could have ousted. He increased the Labour turn-out and its vote; then, when John Henry Waterhouse died, they gave him the prize of his safe seat, and she had inherited it in her turn.

  Mrs Brewster needed a couple of postage stamps. She hesitated, then paid for first class. She owed

  a letter to her widowed sister-in-law, who lived in the south, and though what little news she had to write was in no way urgent, she felt that second class post for personal letters looked mean. The management of the Post Office irritated Mrs Brewster. She could understand their advertising on their own vans, but not their making long and costly TV commercials for overseas telephone calls, or taking quarter-page advertisements in the newspapers for services in which they held a monopoly. It was all a vexation – like the gas bill she went to pay through her bank when she had finished in the post office. She had expected it to be bigger than usual because of the extra heat she had used in the house during that prolonged spell of ferocious weather before Christmas. Bigger it had proved to be, but when she examined it closely and compared it with the equivalent quarter of twelve months before, she found that she had in fact used little more gas, and the extra cost was almost entirely due to increased charges. Oh, she could manage. The provision Randolph had made was, with her pension, sufficient to see her through the time left to her, which couldn’t be all that long. She could manage; but there were others to whom the increasing cost of living was one never-ending fret, and she did not like to imagine what anxiety she

  might have had to live with were she, say, ten years younger.

  From the bank she made her way to the outdoor market where she bought some greens and a small piece of fish. Then to the butcher for a lamb chop and some bacon. Enough to supplement what she kept in her small freezer – which she liked to keep in case she couldn’t get out of the house – but not too much to weight her bag till it became a burden.

  Now Mrs Brewster could address herself to her shopping-day treat: a bottle of Guinness and a pub lunch, followed, if she felt in the mood, by a glass of port. There was nearly always someone in the Bird in Hand whom she could chat with, though she almost always waited until she was invited before offering her opinion, for she did not want to become one of those boring old people who chipped into every exchange.

  The old woman he had helped at the bus stop came into the Bird in Hand as he was sitting up at the bar counter enjoying his first pint of lager. She moved warily in from the door as though expecting traps for her feet, and the landlord called to his black labrador, which had flopped half under one of the tables. ‘Now then, Satan,’ the old lady said as the dog stood up in her path. He sniffed at then licked the hand which held the walking stick. Transferring the stick, she let the dog nuzzle into the bent fingers. ‘Snottynose,’ the old woman said. ‘Old snottynose.’ ‘He knows you, all right,’ the landlord said. He had already uncapped a small bottle of Guinness and was carefully pouring it as, casually wiping her hand on the rough tweed of her coat, she approached the counter. ‘Oh, he knows me,’ she said. Mrs Brewster. After all these years. She’d felt she ought to know him. And so she should.

  ‘Will you be partaking of lunch?’ the landlord asked as he picked out the money for the drink from the loose change she had spread on the counter and rang open the till.

  ‘Steak sandwich and chips,’ Mrs Brewster said. ‘Ask Maisie to brown the onions. No hurry. Whenever she’s ready. I’m not to ten minutes.’

  The landlord went and called the order into the back and Mrs Brewster took her glass and turned to choose a seat, nodding ‘Good morning’ as she faced the man at the bar. There was no one else in the room.

  ‘Morning.’

  She peered at him, her eyes narrowing. ‘Are you the young man who rescued my walking stick?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve still got the advantage of me.’

  ‘You were well known at one time.’

  ‘At one time, yes. Those days are over now, though.’

  ‘Nobody gets any younger, Mrs Brewster,’ the landlord put in as he came back and started to pull another half-pint into his own glass.

  ‘You two have still a bit further to go than me,’ Mrs Brewster said.

  ‘That’s something nobody can be sure of.’

  ‘No, you’re quite right,’ Mrs Brewster conceded. ‘And it wouldn’t do for us to know such things.’ She stood for a moment, turned in on her thoughts, before asking the man at the bar, ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘I used to.’

  He saw that she was still no wiser. It would nag her now, but he thought she wouldn’t like to pester him with more direct questions.

  She turned away and moved to sit down as he looked past her and through the window to where Eric was getting out of the rusting L-registered Marina he had just driven into the yard. Eric ran his hand round the waistband of his trousers, tucking in his shirt, then hoicking the trousers up as he walked out of sight round the corner of the building. The man at the bar had emptied his glass and ordered a refill and was holding money when Eric stuck his head and one shoulder round the door.

  ‘Now then.’

  ‘How do, Eric. What’ll you have?’

  ‘Oh, the same as you.’

  Eric was holding his hands as though he half expected to be asked to shake; then he employed them to go again through the motion of tucking down his shirt and pulling up his trousers which, like his jacket, were stained with engine oil.

  ‘Been losing weight, or do you buy your suits secondhand?’

  Eric rested one hand on his belly. ‘Got rid of a bit o’ beer gut.’

  ‘Not much chance of a beer gut where I’ve been.’

  Eric shot a quick glance at the landlord, who was at the till, as the other man took a deep swig of his fresh pint.

  ‘You don’t look too bad on it, anyway.’

  ‘Like the tan, do you?’

  Eric drank. ‘What’s on your mind, then?’

  ‘Let’s go where we can talk.’ He got off the stool and led the way to a table down the room.

  ‘It won’t be as quiet as this for long,’ Eric said, following.

  ‘Perhaps it won’t take long.’

  Eric took out a green tobacco tin. He slipped a paper from its packet, laid tobacco along it and began to roll a smoke. The other man watched him fumble for a couple of seconds then reached across. ‘Give it here.’ His deft fingers evened the lie of the tobacco, then closed the paper into a neat cylinder. He held it out to Eric with the gummed edge free. ‘Lick.’

  Eric said ‘Thanks’ and pushed the box across the table. The other man pushed it back.

  ‘Broke that habit long since.’

  Eric lit up, inhaled, took a drink of lager, all with quick, restless movements. The other man sat hunched at the table, both hands lightly touching the cold moist outside of his glass.

  ‘What made you come back here?’ Eric asked. ‘Been me, this is the last place I’d ’ve come to.’

  ‘Been you, Eric, you wouldn’t have been where I’ve been.’

  ‘Been me, there’d ’ve been no need for any for it.’

  ‘Still kidding yourself about that, are you? Still think if she’d married you first she wouldn’t have taken somebody else on?’

  ‘She’s been all right with me all this time.’

  ‘But she’d had the fright of her life, lad.’ His gaze took in Eric’s jacket. ‘That’s a good whistle and flute. Or it was at one time. Still like to dress nice, I see.’

  ‘Never took in the jeans bit,’ Eric said. ‘I’ve spent enough time in overalls. I like to make an effort when I go out.’

  ‘Doe
s she still like her nights out?’

  ‘Well...’ Eric looked at his hands. ‘You can’t do all you might like when you’ve got young ’uns.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the young ’uns. Two, aren’t there?’

  ‘That’s right. Two lads.’

  ‘Two lads. Happy families.’

  ‘You had your chance.’

  ‘What chance was that?’

  ‘If you couldn’t make her happy...’

  ‘You self-satisfied bastard. You think you’d ’ve done any better? She’d have made mincemeat of you, the woman she was then.’

  ‘Happen so. Happen not.’

  ‘You got the leavings, mate. What was left after me and that other bastard.’

  ‘You’re still not sorry, I see.’

  ‘I’d ’ve swung for the bastard. Her an’ all.’

  ‘There were plenty thought you should have.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t. And now I’m out.’

  ‘So what’s it all been for? What are you after, coming back here?’

  ‘That’s what I thought I’d find out.’

  ‘It’s all done with, a long time ago.’

  ‘You’d know how long it’s been if you’d lived every day of it like I have.’

  ‘Me heart bleeds.’

  ‘I want to see her, Eric.’

  Eric shook his head. ‘No. You can’t.’

  ‘Has she said so?’

  ‘She doesn’t want to see you.’

  ‘Has she said so?’ he asked again. ‘Does she know I’m out?’

  ‘We don’t talk about you.’

  ‘She must have known my time was about up.’

  ‘We’ve never talked about it.’

  ‘So you didn’t tell her I’d been in touch with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you scared of?’

  ‘Raking up what’s dead and buried.’

  ‘Hasn’t she got a mind of her own? Since when did you do her thinking for her?’

  ‘I look after her now.’

  ‘You’re taking a lot on yourself.’

  ‘If you think she’s still pinin’ for you, you’re mistaken.’

  ‘I’d like her to speak for herself, Eric.’

  ‘After what you did? You must be barmy to think she’d give you the time o’ day.’

  ‘What’s to stop me waiting on the street for her?’

  ‘I can always set the police onto you. They’d make you leave us alone.’

  ‘You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you? But she’d have to know then. Why don’t you just do it the easy way and give her a message: tell her I’d like to see her.’

  ‘What will you do when she says no?’

  ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’

  ‘Christ!’ Eric said, ‘but you do fancy yourself, don’t you? All this has learned you nowt, has it?’

  ‘I’ve done my time, Eric. I’ve paid for what I did.’

  ‘Paid? They’ve let you out, but who says you’ve paid? Do you think she thinks you’ve paid?’

  ‘That’s up to her to say. You can’t talk for her on that.’ He paused while he drank, long and deep. ‘You’re taking too much on yourself, Eric. Tell her I want to see her.’

  ‘You haven’t even asked how she is. D’you think time’s stood still for everybody while you’ve been inside?’

  ‘Have her looks started to go, then? Do you make enough to give her what she wants, or has she been working her fingers to the bone for you?’

  ‘We do all right.’

  ‘I should doubt it, from the look of that clapped-out wreck you drove up in.’

  ‘It happened to be the one in the yard with the keys in it. Tomorrow it could just as easy be a Merc.’

  ‘Go on, Eric, impress me. You buy cars at auction, patch ’em up and flog ’em for a few quid more to suckers who don’t know any better.’

  ‘And what bright golden future have you come out of nick to? I don’t know whether you’ve heard, but we’re in a recession. There’s over three million unemployed. What have you got to offer her, even if she wanted it?’

  ‘Who says I want to offer her anything? Who says I want her?’

  ‘What the hell do you want, then?’

  ‘I want to see her. How is she?’

  Eric took a deep breath. ‘She’s dying.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘It’s cancer.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It started a couple of years ago, in one breast. They hoped they’d caught it in time.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Believe what you like. I never knew it was like that. Sometimes she’s nearly like normal, except she’s thinner and easy tired. Other times she has to stop in bed. Soon she’ll be in bed for good – for

  what time there is left.’

  ‘How long do they give her?’

  ‘She won’t see another Christmas.’

  ‘Steak sandwich and chips, Mrs Brewster.’ The landlady put the plate on the table with a knife and a fork wrapped in a paper napkin. ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

  ‘No, no. No hurry. I’m just nicely ready for it now. You’re quiet today.’

  ‘There’ll be a few more in later. But it’s the schools’ half-term. We’re always a bit quieter then.’

  ‘Maisie...’ Mrs Brewster leaned in over the table as the woman turned to go. ‘Do you know that chap over there, the one looking this way?’

  ‘Can’t say I know either of them. I noticed them as I came through from the kitchen. They’re not falling out, are they?’

  ‘They’re not bothering anybody else, if they are. No, he seemed to know me and I’ve this feeling I ought to know him.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask him who he was?’

  ‘I gave him plenty of chance to tell me, but he didn’t let on. It’s these blessed eyes of mine lately; they miss so much they wouldn’t have missed at one time. He said he used to live here.’

  ‘Well, of course, we haven’t been here long.’

  ‘No, well...’

  ‘Have you got everything you want? Would you like some mustard, or vinegar?’

  ‘No, just salt and pepper. Thank you.’

  He tapped his empty glass with a fingernail and waited for Eric to take the hint.

  ‘D’you want another?’

  ‘How much is brandy these days?’

  ‘About the same as this.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want you to be out of pocket. I’ll have a brandy.’

  ‘Any particular brand?’

  ‘I’m not fussy.’

  He was feeling light in the head, as though dizziness might strike him if he stood up. Well, he was out of practice. But two pints of lager shouldn’t have got to him like that.

  Cancer. And they’d already had the knife into her.

  Across the room Mrs Brewster was eating her food and wiping juice from her chin with her paper serviette. She twisted her head and looked at him. The sunlight through the window behind her turned her glasses into two impenetrable discs of reflected light, but he thought her mouth curved in a little smile.

  She had not smiled that day he had faced her in the magistrates’ court in the town hall, when they sent him up to the crown court on a charge too grave for them to try. Her mouth had worked then as the police gave the evidence and she heard just what he’d done. He’d thought she was having all on not to be sick. There was more than one in the room that day who would cheerfully have marched him out to the marketplace and topped him there and then. And now she couldn’t place him.

  Eric had got the drinks and paid for them. He left them on the bar and went through the door he had entered b
y. As the landlord stepped into the back room, the other man suddenly got up and walked to the bar. He took the brandy and threw it back in one; then, without looking at Mrs Brewster, he went out.

  There were doors in the passage marked LADIES and GENTS. He walked past them and into the street.

  Mrs Brewster tried to poke a scrap of lettuce from under her top denture with her tongue. She would have to go and rinse it. She drank the last quarter-inch of her Guinness and considered whether or not to buy a glass of port. It was dull in the Bird in Hand today. Boring. She would have been better occupied in eating a snack at home while watching Pebble Mill at One on television.

  One of the men came back, the one who had come in last. He went to the bar counter and only looked behind him at the table where he had been sitting when he saw the empty brandy glass.

  ‘He went out,’ Mrs Brewster said.

  ‘Oh.’

  This man remained standing at the bar. He bit at one of his fingernails before drinking.