A Kind of Loving E-Book

Stan Barstow

• Herausgeber: Parthian Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

'A major novelist' -- Punch 'Warmth, liveliness, honesty and compassion' -- The Sunday Times Stan Barstow's landmark 'Brit-Lit' novel of the sixties immortalized Vic Brown, the amiable working class lad from the North and led the way for author's like Nick Hornby writing similar slice-of-life drama. Still as fresh and alive today, it spawned two sequels: The Watchers on the Shore (1966) and The Right True End (1976). First published in 1960, it has long been used as a set text in British schools. It has also been translated at various times into a film starring Alan Bates (1962) of the same name, a television series (1973) starring Clive Wood, a radio play and a stage play. A Kind of Loving was the first of a trilogy, published over the course of sixteen years, that followed hero Vic Brown through marriage, divorce and a move from the mining town of Cressley to London. This new edition includes an afterword by David Collard.

Leseprobe

A Kind of Loving

Stan Barstow

But little do we perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk a tingling cymbal, where there is no love.

BACON, Essays

Contents

Title PageDedicationPart One1234567Part Two123456789About the AuthorCopyright

Part One

1

I

It really begins with the wedding – the Boxing Day Chris got married – because that was the day I decided to do something about Ingrid Rothwell besides gawp at her like a lovesick cow or something whenever she came in sight. I’d been doing this for about a month before Christmas, I remember. I don’t know what started it. Does anybody know what starts these things, why a hint can be one among dozens about the place one day and somebody special the next? Or it seems that way. Well anyway, it was that way with me and I’d been at it for a month, or maybe six weeks, and I’d got to the stage where I knew I’d have to do something about it.

The wedding was about the only thing anybody had been talking about at home for the last six months – ever since Chris and David came right out into the open and bought the ring – and I really thought that after all the talk and planning it would have to be something out of the ordinary for it not to fall flat. But then I was a novice at this kind of thing. I’d never been involved in a wedding before and I have to admit it’s what you might call an experience.

There’s about five hundred people staying overnight before the day, to begin with, and on the morning they’re getting ready in lumps all over the place. The house is like a lot of backstage dressing-rooms like you sometimes see in musical pictures and you wouldn’t be surprised to see some young lad marching round knocking on all the doors and shouting, ‘Five minutes, please,’ like they do. I think I’ve never seen so many strange faces and the surprising thing is they’re mostly relatives of mine. Or they’re supposed to be. I wonder where on earth the Old Lady’s dug them all up from and I don’t think even she knows them all for sure. I know for a fact she realizes she’s overdone it with the offers of accommodation. And as for the Old Man, he said last night that if he’d known he wouldn’t be able to get up to bed for people kipping down on the stairs he’d have put a bell-tent up on the lawn.

He’s lucky he could go to bed. I’ve spent the night on the front-room sofa and the last four or five hours hanging about trying to get into the bathroom. By the time I do manage to get in there I’m feeling a bit sour at having all these people barging about the place, and thinking about a couple of thousand more that live in the town and have to be transported to the church. Being in a bit of a flap I forget to shoot the bolt behind me and it doesn’t improve my temper when the door flies open and young Dorothy and Angela catch me without pants. This amuses them no end and I wonder if I can’t arrange to fall downstairs and break a leg and give them a real laugh. A couple of proper horrors, Dorothy and Angela, twins, belonging to Auntie Agnes, one of my mother’s sisters. I know the Old Lady can’t abide them and she only had Chris ask them to be bridesmaids because she didn’t want to get across with Auntie Agnes who’s one of them sensitive types who go through life looking for any offence left lying about for the taking. I’ve only had one glimpse of Chris as she nipped across the landing and from the tight little smile she gives me when I make a crack that’s supposed to be cheerful I guess she won’t be sorry when it’s all over and she’s with David on the 3.45 to the Great Metropolis. It’s even affected the Old Man. I’m just about to go downstairs to get started when he calls me into the bedroom and I find him standing in his undervest and trousers in front of the wardrobe mirror.

‘Here, Vic,’ he says; ‘come an’ tell me what you think to these new trousers.’

I sit down on the edge of the bed and look him over. ‘Very nice, Dad. They seem to hang all right. Can’t really tell, o’ course, without your jacket on.’

‘I’ll just pop it on.’

He does this and then takes another look in the glass. He begins to work his shoulders about as though the tailor’s left a few pins in. ‘Seems a bit on the slack side to me,’ he says.

‘Well that’s the style now, Dad,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve got your shirt and waistcoat on. And I can’t wait while you do that,’ I say, as he begins looking round for them.

He’s a tall, spare sort of feller, the Old Man is, and really a suit hangs well on him when he lets it. This one’s a dark blue, nearly navy, with a faint double stripe in grey. ‘I think he’s made a right good job of it.’ I lean forward and finger the material. ‘A nice bit o’ cloth an’ all.’

‘Oh, aye,’ the Old Man says in that self-satisfied way he has sometimes; ‘you can’t diddle me when it comes to pickin’ cloth. I know a good length o’ cloth when I see one …’ His voice tails off. He’s not at all happy this morning. ‘It’s t’makin’ up ’at worries me,’ he says. ‘I just don’t feel right in it, somehow.’

‘But he’s one of the best tailors in Cressley, Dad. I wouldn’t have recommended him otherwise.’ I get up off the bed. ‘Look, there’s nowt wrong with my suit, is there?’

He eyes me over through the glass and says nothing. ‘He charges t’best prices, any road,’ he says. ‘He fair made me sweat when he told me how much. I’ve never paid more na ten or eleven pound for a suit afore.’

‘That’ll be a suit when you’ve forgotten how much you paid for it,’ I tell him. ‘And that’s looking a long time ahead.’ I’m a bit fed-up with this conversation because we’ve had most of it out before.

‘Happen so.’ The Old Feller takes his jacket off again. ‘All t’same, I wish I’d gone to Liversidge’s like I allus have afore.’

‘Aagh! Mass production. They cut suits with a bacon slicer there.’ It’s no use trying to do anything for the Old Man; you might just as well let him to his own sweet way. He still thinks in terms of wages at three pound ten a week and suits fifty bob apiece off the peg.

‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘I’ll have to be off.’ And then just as I’m turning round to go out I catch sight of these brown shoes under a chair.

‘You’re not thinkin’ o’ wearing them today, are you?’

‘Eh?’ he says. ‘What?’

‘Your brown shoes,’

‘Why not? They’re me best.’

‘Look,’ I say, mustering my patience, ‘you don’t wear brown shoes with a blue suit. You’ve heard Stanley Holloway, haven’t you?’

‘That war a funeral,’ he says.

‘Well it applies to weddings an’ all. You’ll have our Chris curling up with shame. Remember there’ll be a lot of eyes on you while you’re up at the front.’

‘They’ll never notice me for our Christine.’

‘Some of these folk here today make a point of noticing everything,’ I tell him. ‘Not that three parts of ’em know any better anyway.’

‘Oh, damnation,’ he says, getting his rag out at last, ‘Is’ll be glad when it’s all over. I don’t seem to be able to get owt right some road.’

‘You won’t be told.’

‘Well I can’t wear old shoes wi’ a new suit,’ he says, getting stubborn now.

‘An’ you can’t wear them brown ’uns. I’ll ask me mother what she thinks when I go down.’

This is the ace. The Old Man lifts his hand up. ‘Ho’d on a minute. There’s no need to bring your mother into this: I’m havin’ enough trouble as it is.’

Just then I hear the Old Lady shouting from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Victor! Are y’there, Victor? The taxi’s waiting. Hurry yourself up or you’ll have us all late.’

‘She’ll be bringing herself into it if I don’t get a move on.’ I start to go out again. ‘Now just remember – no brown shoes.’ And I go out and leave the Old Man standing there staring into the glass with a baffled look on his face.

‘Come on, Victor, come on,’ the Old Lady says. She’s standing at the bottom of the stairs like a battleship at anchor, big and solid, with her hair, greying fast it is now, newly trimmed and set. ‘You know we’ve no time to spare.’

I know we haven’t because I’ve planned the calls. ‘I was just fixing me dad up.’

‘Oh, your dad,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘A fat lot o’ use he is on a day like this.’ I stop in front of the hallstand to run my comb through my hair. ‘You’ll do, you’ll do,’ the Old Lady says. ‘It’s not you ’at’s gettin’ married.’

‘Catch me.’

‘One of ’em will one o’ these fine days.’

‘She’ll have to be up early.’

‘There’s plenty willin’ to do that to get a presentable young chap with a steady job an’ no bad habits.’

I cock a wary eye at her. Is she after marrying me off next? The wedding bug must have bitten deeper than I thought. I chuck her under the chin. ‘What do you know about my bad habits?’

‘Oh, go on with you,’ she says. ‘Get off an’ get your job done.’

I pull my jacket down and straighten my tie. ‘Well I’m ready. Where’s our Jim?’

‘He’s in the front room. He’s been ready a good half-hour.’

A good mark for the scholar! I go through into the front room to find him. It’s bedlam in there. Somebody’s switched the wireless on and it’s playing a record request programme at full blast. Standing in the doorway I feel like shouting, ‘Would anybody like the wireless turning up a bit?’ There they are, milling about, pulling at their clothes and messing about with make-up as they jockey for position in front of the glass. Somebody’s knocked an ashtray on to the floor and the last of the three plaster geese flying across the wallpaper is doing a nose-dive into the carpet. Over in one corner, curled up as peaceful as if he’s by himself in the middle of a field, there’s young Jim, with his nose in a book, as per.

I reach past somebody and touch his knee. ‘C’mon, Einstein.’

He gets up, thin, fifteen years old and too tall for his age, and marks the place in his book and follows me out. He’s ushering at the church. You wouldn’t think he’s noticed anything unusual going on and when we get out on the front step and look at this big Rolls with white ribbons and white seat covers, he says, ‘Just like a wedding, isn’t it?’ and I have to laugh.

Well I’m glad to be out of that lot and I take a butcher’s at my list. ‘Auntie Miriam first.’ I give the driver the address and Jim and I get into the taxi. Jim opens his book and retires again; but I can’t afford to; I’ve got a lot to do before eleven and I hope Geoff Lister, my cousin, who’s looking after the other taxi, keeps his end going as well. I check the list for the umpteenth time, wondering if we can get them all there on time. It’s a tight list and I’m proud of that because I’m saving David’s money by having one less car than they thought. But it makes no allowance for lost time, so I’m hoping everybody’s ready and waiting.

The taxi turns round in the street and moves off. The wedding’s under way.

II

It’s snowed twice heavy in the fortnight before Christmas and it’s still lying about in like little grimy mountain ranges on either side of the road where it curves down the hill. It looks as if there’s more to come as well because the sky’s like a thick grey blanket hanging behind the chimneys and rooftops with a reddish flush over the bottom half where the sun’s doing its best to break through. Cressley Town Silver Band’s pitched in the forecourt of the Prince of Wales on the corner and I get the sound of ‘Hark! the Herald Angels Sing’, as we slow down for the turn coming louder as I wind the window down and give them a shout.

‘Oi! Call at number thirty-seven. There’s ten bob in it today.’

The conductor lifts his hand to show he’s heard me and the band carry on playing in the cold. I know the Old Man’ll be glad to have them call this morning because he’d be out with them but for the wedding and he says it’s the first Boxing Day play-out he’s missed in more than twenty years.

I begin to think about things – the wedding and all that – as the taxi bats down through town and young Jim goes on reading in his corner. I reckon you can take all of us – me, my mother and father, Chris, young Jim, and probably David as well – and the only one enjoying it is the Old Lady. She’s having the time of her life; you can tell this by the way she’s fussing about snapping everybody’s heads off. She’s been waiting years for this day. Chris is twenty-seven now and I think there have been times when the Old Lady was scared she was being left on the shelf, just another schoolmarm with nothing to look forward to but retiring on pension and maybe living with somebody else in the same fix. But I never saw any reason for worrying; I knew all along Chris would get married. I didn’t see how she could miss, what with her looks and personality; because even if she is my own sister and I do say it myself, she’s one of the grandest girls any bloke could hope to meet. As I saw it, it was only a matter of time before the right chap came along and snapped her up. But the Old Lady isn’t a big believer in right chaps; all she thinks of is position and income and character; and the duller and plainer they come the more character she seems to think they bring with them. Good-looking blokes are all very well on the pictures or television, but you keep your eye on them in real life because you can’t expect them to be any better than they should be with all the temptations that must come their way.

That’s the way the Old Lady thinks – or thought – and it’s probably why she didn’t fall over herself to welcome David at first, because he’s good-looking and talks with a cut-glass accent and comes from the south. And she knew nothing about him except he was Senior English master at the Grammar School. That was a point in his favour, though, because the Old Lady thinks that schoolteachers were first in the queue when brains and general strength of character were handed out. She should have seen some of them from where I was sitting not so long ago and she might have modified her ideas a bit. Anyway, it bothered her because she couldn’t chew the fat about David’s background. (His mother was a so-and-so – y’know, they kept that draper’s shop in Whiteley Street – and his father was a somebody else. He had a sister that ran away with a feller from Wigan and left three kids for the husband to bring up.) All that kind of stuff; it’s the breath of life to the Old Lady, and she had to pacify herself by worming as much as she could out of Chris. Such things as David was taken prisoner in North Africa when he was only eighteen, his mother and dad were killed in the London blitz, and his girl friend got tired of waiting and writing letters and went and married somebody else. She’d never have got a hard-luck story like that out of David himself but she got it out of Chris bit by bit; and then she went and turned right round and couldn’t do enough for him. She mothered him till I’m surprised he’s lasted till the wedding. But that’s the Old Lady all over: hard as nails on top and soft as a brush underneath.

Anyway, we make the first call and pick up Auntie Miriam and Uncle Horace, who aren’t very important and won’t have to mind being first and having to hang about at the church half the morning. I drop Jim off with them and give him his orders.

‘Now get your nose out of that book and watch what you’re doing. You show the bride’s guests to the left and the groom’s to the right. Okay?’

‘It’s all so complicated,’ Jim says. ‘You should have put somebody more intelligent on the job.’

‘You’re all we could spare, so watch what you’re doing or it’s a clip on the ear.’

‘Bribery will get you nowhere,’ Jim says, and I have to laugh because he’s a real wag at times.

‘All right, have it your own way.’ I whip the book out of his hand. ‘But I’ll take this and then mebbe you’ll keep your mind on the job.’

‘Here, what am I supposed to do between times?’ he says.

‘Look at the gravestones. See’f there’s anybody you know stopping there.’

I look at the title of the book as I get in with the driver – Philosophy from Plato to the Present Day – and pop it in the compartment under the dashboard. There’s times when young Jim unnerves me, he’s got so many brains. I wonder how I come to have a brother like him, or a sister like Chris, for that matter. And looking at it that way, it’s me who’s the odd man out.

At a quarter to eleven prompt, like I planned, we leave the church for the last trip – home for Chris and the Old Man. All without a hitch, I’m thinking, pleased with myself. Everybody there for time and all going nicely, thanks. On the way we pass the Old Lady doing her impersonation of Lady Docker, with the two brats, Dotty and Mangy, making hideous faces through the back window.

And just after this it happens. We swing round a corner and there’s this dirty great piece of broken milk bottle lying jagged edge up in the road. There’s a crack like a gun going off and bumping as the front offside tyre goes flat. The taxi swerves off the road across the pavement and stops with its front end up the bank. The driver lets it roll back on to the road and then we both get out and look at the damage. He pushes his cap back, bending down with his hands on his knees, and whistles.

‘Now what?’ I say. And everything’s rushing into my mind at once: Chris and the Old Man waiting at home, the church full and no bride, and the Old Lady getting more ratty every second that goes by.

‘It’s bad,’ the driver says.

‘I’ve noticed that,’ I tell him. ‘It’s ten to eleven. What do we do?’

‘Change t’wheel,’ he says. ‘There’s nowt else for it.’

He takes his white coat off and then starts to peel off about fifteen layers of pullovers and waistcoats that he has on underneath; all nice and steady like, as though it’s Sunday and he’s at home in his backyard and out to make a morning of it. I hop round to the boot and rummage about for a jack. I slam it into position and begin to crank, praying we shan’t be bothered by some copper with time on his hands and a lot of silly questions to ask. I can’t imagine this driver ever changed a wheel before; somebody must always have done it for him while he was stripping for action. As it is, he’s hardly reached the working minimum when I’ve got the spare wheel in position and I’m tightening nuts like mad. It’s just after eleven when we get the car moving again, and nearly ten past by the time we pull up at our gate.

The Old Man’s on the front step with his hand over his eyes like a sailor up in a crow’s nest looking for land. ‘Where the hummer have you been?’ he says with panic in his voice. ‘We’re late.’

I’m tempted for a second to give him a cheeky answer, like we’ve called for a drink or something, but I see he’s worried out of his wits so I just show him my dirty hands and tell him we’ve had a puncture. Chris comes out meantime and though she’s got a coat on over her frock it doesn’t hide that she looks a real picture, just like somebody in one of them glossy women’s mags.

‘You’ll knock ’em sideways,’ I tell her. ‘You’ll knock ’em for six.’

Well, once they begin it doesn’t seem to matter that Chris was late. After all it’ll give her and David something to laugh about later on. I slip her coat off for her and stay at the back where I can get out first when it’s all over. The organ switches from this soft background music it’s been playing and starts on the wedding march, booming out and filling the church. There’s a shuffle as all the guests stand up and Chris and the Old Man, with Dotty and Mangy behind, start down the aisle to where the vicar and David and his best man are waiting for them. A real picture Chris looks, all in white, and her hair shining under this little cap of net and flowers. Chris’s hair is a sort of reddy brown like the Old Lady’s was when she was young, but Jim and I are both dark like the Old Man. I look down at the Old Feller’s feet and see he’s remembered what I told him. There’s a bit of a lopsided look about the congregation because our family’s out in force and course David has no family, just the few friends he’s made since he came to Cressley.

The organ stops and there’s dead quiet for a minute. Then the vicar chimes up. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.’

I’m real happy for them; I really am; because David’s a good bloke and he’s getting a real gem in Chris. I’ve always thought there was something special about Chris and I suppose that’s a bit funny because a lot of lads I know can’t abide their sisters. But I know I’ll be lucky if I find a girl as nice as Chris to marry. I’m always kind of half-looking for this girl I’m going to find one day. She’ll be everything you could want in a girl: talking, laughing, sharing, making love, and everything. I never say anything about this to anybody and as far as my mates are concerned I’m interested in bints for just one thing. This is the way you have to be because if you told them all you think they’d laugh and say you were sloppy and soft in the head.

And now I begin to think about Ingrid. I’m always thinking about her these days and wondering what she thinks of me – if anything. I wonder if I’ll be lucky enough to see her tonight and what I’ll say to her if I do. Because I’m going to say something if it kills me. I’ve hung about and gawped for long enough.

Outside the church, when it’s over, the photographers get busy, both the amateurs and the bod paid for the job. We get them to make it snappy because it’s too cold to hang about. Then I slip the coat round Chris’s shoulders and let my cousin Geoff take her and David to the reception and I follow on behind with the Old Lady and the Old Feller. We drive away leaving confetti in the snow and the deep puddles in the gutters.

The Old Man seems restless in the back seat, as though he’s lost something, and the Old Lady says to him, ‘What you seekin’?’

I’m lookin’ for me speech,’ the Old Feller says, rummaging through his pockets. ‘I had it when I –’

‘Your speech?’ the Old Lady says, and this is the first I’ve heard of it as well.

‘Aye. I’ve jotted a few points down on a bit o’ paper but I can’t find it… Ho’d on, here it is.’

‘I hope you’re not goin’ to show us all up,’ the Old Lady says. ‘All you need do is tell them we’re pleased to see ’em and thank ’em for comin’. That’s all. No need to get on ramblin’ all round the houses.’

‘It wa’ your idea to have t’reception in t’best hotel in Cressley,’ the Old Man says, ‘so wes’ll have to come up to scratch. Who ever heard of a posh weddin’ wi’out speeches? If you’d had t’bandroom like I wanted you to I might not ha’ got on me feet at all.’

‘T’bandroom,’ the Old Lady snorts. ‘Allus on t’cheap. D’you mean to tell me you begrudge your own daughter – your only daughter – a decent send-off to her married life?’

‘There’s a difference between a decent send-off an’ a Society do,’ the Old Feller says. ‘I’m nobbut a collier, y’know, not a mill-owner.’

‘An’ you don’t let anybody forget it… Anyway, we’ve had all this out before.’ I think the Old Lady’s just cottoned on that the glass partition’s open and the driver’s taking all in and having a quiet smile about it.

‘Aye, we have,’ the Old Man says.

‘An’ we decided that the Craven Arms was the best place.’

‘Aye, we did, ‘the Old Man says.

I know the driver’s not the only one laughing but the Old Lady can’t see this, not being one of the quickest to see a joke.

‘An’ if it bothers you just remember ’at you’ve no more daughters an’ t’next wedding in the family somebody else’ll pay for.’

‘Ah!’ the Old Man says.

III

When Chris and David go off to catch their train a lot of the guests go home, because the wedding’s officially over like. But some of them, the closest family and friends, come back to our house. We live in Meadow Lane, in a big old stone-fronted house that my mother talked the Old Man into buying before the war when houses were dirt cheap compared with what they’re asking for them now. You get a nice view from the bedroom windows with the town on one side and the park on the other with the infirmary sitting on top of the hill where it looks at night a bit eerie, all old and lit up, like Castle Dracula on a party night. There’s a lot of these people come back with us and we have to borrow some chairs from the neighbours for them to sit on; but this doesn’t help much because then out of common politeness we have to invite the neighbours in as well, them that haven’t already been to the wedding, that is. The Old Lady says she’s never seen the house as full since her father’s funeral. But this is no funeral. They haven’t had a get-together like this in years and they’re out to make the best of it and bury all the family differences.

The Old Man’s speech has done as much as anything towards this. Nobody expected much when he stood up with his bit of paper on the table behind the mince pies, and they expected even less when he started humming and hawing and feeling in his pockets like he’d done in the taxi. I knew straight away he’d lost his glasses and he can’t read anything much smaller than a newspaper headline without them. Anyway, he coughed and mumbled a bit and then all at once he opened up. It was just as if something had got into him, kind of inspired him, seeing all the family sitting there like that, all them familiar faces looking at him, wondering what old Arthur was up to like. Well he starts with Chris and David and then goes on to the family in general, telling them all how silly they are to fall out about silly things and nurse grudges and spites, and wasn’t this a good time to start thinking about the family again and forgetting all these little things that poison family life. He got ’em. He cut some of them right to the quick and one or two of the women were in tears. The Old Lady was flabbergasted and I could see her timing the Old Feller as he went on like he did this every day of his life. Chris was all full up as well and when it came to her turn all she could say was thank you everybody and then she turns to the Old Man and hugs him till he goes red in the face he’s so embarrassed.

Uncle William, the Old Man’s eldest brother, comes up to him after and says, ‘By gow, Arthur, I didn’t know you had it in you, lad.’

‘Neither did I, William,’ the Old Feller says, and he lowers his voice. ‘You don’t think I made a fool o’ meself, do you? Is’ll catch it from Lucy if I have.’

‘A fool of yerself! It’s finest thing ’at’s happened in t’family for years.’

And so everybody else seems to think. Except Auntie Agnes, who’s taken everything the Old Man said as being directed personally at her and gone home in a huff. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.

So we have a party on the strength of it and when we’ve eaten what’s left over from the reception and practically everything else in the house besides we decide to play some games. Uncle George takes charge now. Guaranteed to keep any party going, Uncle George is. He specializes in the kind of game where you’re blindfolded and made to make a fool of yourself in front of everybody else. A laugh every ten seconds with Uncle George and no hard feelings at a pin stuck in your behind or a lemon-cheese tart smeared across your face, because it’s all good clean family fun. When everybody gets tired of this and they’re all worn out from laughing till they cry, Uncle George shows what a versatile lad he is by getting on the piano and playing for carol singing. They have the Old Man getting his trombone out now and he plays ‘Just a Song at Twilight’ and his favourite, ‘Bless this House’. Just as he hits the high note near the end of this the light bulb bursts all over the place. I’ve heard of a singer smashing a wine glass but never a trombone player breaking a light bulb. There’s a good bit of larking about and squawking in the dark while I strike a match and get a spare out of the cupboard.

Round about half past eight, though, the party begins to break up because some of them have a way to travel and there’s a lot of looking for coats and hats and handshaking and kissing and wishing compliments of the season; and then by nine there’s only us and Uncle William and Auntie Edna, who’re staying the night, left among the wreckage. In a minute or two young Jim beetles off to bed.

‘Looks as though we’ve had a football match,’ the Old Lady says, looking round. The chairs are all out of place and there’s still a few about that don’t belong to us. There’s cushions on the floor and empty glasses and full ashtrays on everything. The fire’s nearly out because we’ve kept ourselves warm the last couple of hours, and the air’s thick with tobacco smoke. I bend down to pick a glass up before somebody kicks it over and find a cigarette burn in the corner of the carpet. I keep quiet about it, though, thinking tomorrow’s early enough for the Old Lady to know about it.

‘Somebody’s gone without her gloves,’ the Old Lady says. ‘I wonder whose they are.

‘I think they’re Millie’s,’ Aunt Edna says. ‘Let me look … Yes, they are. I remember admiring them outside the church.’

‘I’ll drop her a line about ’em after the holidays.’ The Old Lady wanders about the room picking cushions up and punching them into shape. ‘Just look at these cushion covers: clean on today and there’s lemon-cheese an’ all sorts on ’em.’ She laughs. ‘Eeh, but he’s a card, isn’t he, George? A real tyke. One of the best of husbands, though. Elsie’s never had a minute’s bother with him all the twenty year they’ve been married. He never had a steady job before he knew her, y’know. He took bets for a bookie in town at one time. Allus his name in the paper, being fined. Me father nearly kicked him off the step the first time he came to call for her. ‘Get yoursen a decent job afore you come courtin’ a daughter o’mine,’ he said. An’ George did. He went to Fletcher’s mill an’ got set on. He’s never been out o’ work since. A foreman he is now, at some engineering shop Keighley way…

‘Could you do with a cup o’ tea?’ she says.

‘Not just now,’ Auntie Edna says. ‘You sit yourself down and have a minute. You’ve been at it all day.’

The Old Lady sits down and folds her hands in her lap. ‘It’s been like a real tonic to have ’em all here together, laughin’ an havin’ fun, just like old times. When you have a party like that you wonder how anybody can fall out with anybody.’

‘It’s the way of the world,’ Uncle William says. ‘It’s allus been like that an’ it allus will be. As long as you can get together now an’ again an’ forget it all.’

‘Only Agnes had to spoil it by going off like that…’

‘I think I offended her,’ the Old Man says. ‘She thought I wa’ gettin’ at her.’

‘An’ so you were, Arther,’ Uncle William says. ‘Who else but daft silly women like her?’

‘I’ve given over bothering about Agnes,’ the Old Lady says. ‘You can’t do right for doing wrong with her. I’ve sucked up to her for years, telling meself it wa’ just her way an’ she was all right underneath. Well now I’ve done. She allus has to spoil everything.’

‘How does it feel then to have one less?’ Auntie Edna asks in a minute.

‘Oh, you have mixed feelings when it comes to the time, y’know. I shall miss her, no doubt about that. She’s a good lass, our Christine. Allus was… But it’s high time she settled down an’ started a family? Many a lass at twenty-seven’s got ’em growin’ up an’ at school.’

‘Seems a nice young feller she’s married,’ Uncle William says.

‘Oh, David’s one of the best. A right grand lad. She’ll be all right with him; I haven’t a minute’s worry on that score.’

‘Such a nicely spoken young man,’ Auntie Edna says.

‘Lovely manners, too.’

‘He’s educated, David is,’ the Old Man says, as though this accounts for everything. ‘Educated.’

‘And not a bit o’ side with it, neither,’ the Old Lady says. ‘Oh, we couldn’t have wished for a better match for her.’

Auntie Edna cocks a look at me where I’m slumped down in the easy-chair taking all in and saying nothing.

‘I suppose it’ll be Victor next,’ she says. I like Auntie Edna but I do think she’s a bit of a busybody at times.

‘No, we shan’t be going to Victor’s wedding yet awhile,’ the Old Lady says, talking about me as if I’m not there. ‘Give him time; he’s not twenty-one yet. And I don’t even think he’s courtin’. Course, I suppose I’ll be the last to get to know when he is. I’m not bothered about him, though. If they were all as steady an’ content as him we’d do well enough. It’s young Jim ’at worries me sometimes. Allus studyin’, y’know. Never seems to give his mind a rest. He fancies bein’ a doctor an’ I suppose he’ll have to work hard if he’s going to pass for college; but I sometimes think he overdoes it a bit. I found him one night, Edna – and this is without a word of a lie – I found him sitting up in bed in the middle of the night, fast asleep, with his books open all round him. Fast asleep, he was. Y’see he can’t even leave it alone when he’s supposed to be resting. His mind never rests; it’s allus on the work. I don’t like it. He’s growin’ fast and he never did have Victor’s constitution. Like a young horse from the day he was born, Victor was. Never a minute’s worry over illness with him – except the usual kid’s ailments, o’ course, an’ that time he fell on the railings an’ cut his head open.’

Auntie Edna looks round at me and gives me a sort of fond smile. I wink at her and she twinkles at me.

‘Jim’s certainly shot up since we saw him last,’ she says.

‘Aye, too fast for his strength. He’s taking all his strength into his brain instead of his body. I’ve been thinking I’ll have a walk over to the doctor’s with him after the holidays and get his advice.’

‘If he’s happy it’ll help a lot,’ Uncle William says. ‘He’s a very intelligent lad, you can see that; and lads like that have to have plenty to occupy their minds or they get restless and run down. I shouldn’t worry too much about him, Lucy. See what the doctor says, by all means, but don’t fret.’

‘Aye, that’s all very well, William, but when you have ’em you fret about ’em. It’s nature.’

I don’t really think the Old Lady should have said this because Uncle William and Auntie Edna haven’t any kids and I think they miss not having them sometimes.

‘Well we want him to make the most of his chance,’ the Old Man says. ‘I only hope we’ll be able to keep him till he can earn for hisself. It wasn’t so bad with our Christine – she had scholarships; but they tell me scholarships are nobbut a drop in the ocean when a lad’s studyin’ medicine.’ He fishes for his pipe and bacca, then remembers the big box of cigars he has in the cupboard. ‘Here, William,’ he says, ‘try one o’ these. David bought me ’em. Very good of him, wasn’t it?’

‘Very good indeed, Arthur.’ Uncle William takes a cigar and sniffs at it. ‘I thought you’d been treating yourself.’

‘You thought wrong,’ the Old Man says. ‘I’m not in t’cigar class.’

‘Not far off, surely, Arthur?’ Uncle William says, and I see a gleam in his eyes as he lights up. ‘The new aristocracy, living off the fat o’ the land, sending your lad to college to study medicine. And you should have some brass if anybody has. You’re not the one to go out swilling it every night.’

‘Ey up! Ey up!’ the Old Feller says, rising to it. ‘Just because we’re gettin’ a decent livin’ wage after all this time everybody’s on to us.’

‘I wish I war earning twenty pound a week,’ Uncle William says, ‘and they could all be on to me as liked.’

‘Earn it,’ the Old Man says. ‘I’m glad you said earn it. I tell you what I tell everybody else, William. If you think you can addle twenty pound a week in t’pit, you can come an’ have a try. It can be done, an’ there’s fellers takin’ that kind o’ money out reg’lar. But they work like blacks for it. Aagh! all these fellers proppin’ bars up and openin’ their mouths. The hardest work they ever do is lift a pint glass. They wouldn’t last a shift down t’pit. I’ve done some coal-gettin’ an’ I know. I’m glad I haven’t to do it now. I’m a deputy an’ there’s many a man under me earnin’ more than I do; but I don’t begrudge ’em it because I’ve addled money t’same way an’ I know what it takes to do it. And there’s another thing –’

‘Now then, Arthur, that’s enough,’ the Old Lady says. ‘There’s no need to get arguin’. William’s entitled to his opinion.’

‘No man’s entitled to an opinion till he knows the facts. I’m just straightenin’ him out…’

The Old Lady and Auntie Edna look at one another and I decide it’s time I was on my way. I get up.

‘Are you goin’ to bed, Victor?’

‘No, I’m going out. There’s a special dance on in town. I thought I’d go over for an hour.’

‘What, at this time?’

‘They’ll only just have got warmed up.’

‘Well, better take a key. And don’t be too late; you’ve been on the go all day, y’know.’

‘Have a good time, Victor,’ Auntie Edna says.

IV

The first thing I do when I get upstairs is take a look at myself in the dressing-table mirror. It’s one of those with three glasses in and if you get the knack of adjusting them you can see what you look like from the side as well as straight on. It seems to me I’m spending altogether too much time these days either looking in mirrors at home or catching sight of myself in mirrors outside. I never knew there were so many mirrors; the world’s full of them, or shop windows with the blinds down, which amount to the same thing as far as what I’m talking about’s concerned. When I’m washing my hands at the office I can see another pair of hands just like mine doing the same. If I go to the pictures ten to one I’ll climb the stairs and come face to face with my twin brother coming up from the other side. (Only he’s not strictly my twin because he’s the opposite hand to me.) And I’ve only to look out of a bus at night to see this same opposite-handed me looking in from outside. It’s not that I’m conceited – at least, not most of the time – and when I see myself in a window or something I don’t think what a swell-looking geezer, but try to look at myself as though I’m somebody else and wonder what I think of me. And it’s actually that I’m not a swell-looking geezer. At least, not most of the time. I never used to be like this. I can remember when I didn’t give a monkey’s what I looked like or what anybody thought of me. But now it’s different; because now, you see, I’m conscious of women. Very conscious of them in fact.

When I’m looking in my mirror at home like I am now, I don’t think I’m so bad. Whichever way you look, and whoever’s doing the looking, you couldn’t call me ugly. Not handsome, maybe, but not ugly. My face is sort of square and what an author might call open, and it’s a good colour. (Thank God I’m not one of these blokes who’s plagued to death with boils and spots and blains and whatnot.) The scar over my left eye where I argued with the railing doesn’t help, though I wonder sometimes if it doesn’t make me look a bit tougher. I don’t know. And there’s always my hair. No two ways about that, I’ve got a head of hair any man would be proud of, thick and dark with a natural wave that needs only a touch of the fingers after it’s combed and glossy without a lot of cream. No doubt about my hair. And I have it cut every fortnight and never miss. Or only now and again. I could do with a couple more inches on my height. I’ve always had a yen for just two more inches. But still I’m not a little runt because I’ve got a good build… a nice deep chest that I’m not scared of showing off in swimming trunks, and square broad shoulders. And then – my clothes. Now there’s no denying I know how to dress. I don’t pay the earth for my suits but I know where they give you the right cut and I always keep my pants pressed and my shoes clean. And if my shirt’s just the least bit grubby at the collar, into the wash it goes. Ask the Old Lady. She says it’s like washing for an army keeping up to me alone.

So there I am – Victor Arthur Brown, twenty years old, one of the lads, and not very sure of himself under the cocky talk and dirty jokes and wisecracks. Take me or leave me, I’m all I’ve got. And what does it matter what you look like anyway? Every day you see the niftiest bints with the gloomiest-looking blokes; blokes you wouldn’t think any self-respecting bird would look twice at. And what do clothes matter? At least, decent clothes, because it seems you get on best if you look a freak these days and you’re always seeing wenches clinging like mad to bods in suits I wouldn’t wear as far as the front gate.

So what the hell!

I’m as presentable as the next bloke and I don’t see why Ingrid shouldn’t think the same way. Only, that’s what I think here in my own room; and the second I lay eyes on her I feel about as fetching as something dreamed up for a science-fiction picture.

I pull myself out of the glass and go and have a wash in the bathroom. Then I decide to go and borrow Jim’s new tie, the blue knitted one with the horizontal stripes. There’s a light showing, under his door and I find him sitting up in bed with an exercise book on his knee and a pencil in his hand.

I pick the tie up off the drawers. ‘Lend me this?’

He mumbles something. I don’t suppose he could care less. I start to put the tie on in the glass. Another glass.

‘I’ve never seen anybody make so much fuss over tying a tie,’ he says in a minute.

‘What fuss?’

‘All that twisting and turning and threading through. Why don’t you tie a knot an’ have done with it?’

‘That’s a Windsor knot,’ I tell him. I pull it into place and smooth my collar down. ‘When you tie a tie like that it makes a neat knot and it stays put.’

‘It’ll be all creased up now when I want it.’

‘What do you care?’

‘Hmm,’ he says, and goes back to his books.

‘It’s a nice tie.’

He says nothing.

‘Like to flog it?’

‘Eh?’

‘The tie. Would you like to sell it?’

‘I didn’t buy it. Me mother bought it.’

I look in the glass. It really is a smart tie; too good for Jim who doesn’t care about clothes anyway. ‘I’ll give you half a crown for it.’

‘It cost a lot more than that.’

‘You didn’t buy it.’

‘No, and how can I sell it when I didn’t buy it?’

‘You’d like the half-crown better, though, wouldn’t you?’ I say, looking at him through the glass. He’s always broke, Jim is, because he’s always buying something or saving up to buy something, like guinea pigs or rabbits to keep in the shed, or stamps for his collection, or something.

He’s watching me, turning something over in his mind. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he says, ‘I’ll let you wear it whenever you like at threepence a time. And you owe me threepence now for tonight.’

‘Why did I open my big mouth?’ I fish in my pocket. ‘I haven’t any change, only a bob.’

‘That’ll do. You’ll have three more times to your credit.’ I chuck him the bob. ‘You don’t want to waste your time with medicine, laddie; you want to go into business. You’ll be a millionaire by the time you’re thirty.’ I go over to him and stick my chin out. ‘Do I need a shave, d’you think?’

‘Save it till the Easter holidays,’ he says.

‘How d’you mean? I’m shavin’ every day now.’

‘If you want to go to all that trouble… Are you going somewhere?’

‘To a dance.’

‘At this time?’

I look at my watch. ‘Quart’ to ten. The night’s but young, me boy.’

‘Going out at this time to shuffle round a floor with a lot of smelly people to a so-called band,’ he says.

‘You wind your head in an’ get on with your Latin.’

‘How do you know it’s Latin?’

‘I’ll bet it’s not Lady don’t turn over.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Never mind.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ he says, ‘it’s maths. And while you’re here, there’s a bit I don’t quite follow.’

‘No use asking me. It’s all Greek to me.’ I realise I’ve made a corny joke. ‘How’s that, eh? Maths – all Greek to me.

‘Ha, ha,’ Jim says, very sarcy. ‘And you can knock it off, Vic. Old Cartwright was on to me the other day. He said he expected better maths marks from Vic Brown’s brother.’

This is enough to bring me out of the mirror again. ‘He said that? Old Carthorse? I don’t believe it.’

‘S’true,’ Jim says. ‘I daren’t let on who I am in the French class but old Cartwright seems to think you were pretty good.’

Ah, well… who cares about lousy old French anyway?

I go back to the bed and pick Jim’s exercise book up.

‘What’s the trouble, laddie?’ I say, imitating old Carthorse’s rumble.

‘Here.’ Jim points it out in his textbook. ‘I can’t get this one out. I’ve been struggling with it for half an hour. I think the book must be wrong.’

‘I’ve never met one yet.’ I go through his working out step by step and spot it as soon as I come to it. I drop the book in his lap. ‘Try putting that last equation the other way up.’ He looks. ‘Gosh… Well fancy me not seeing that.’

‘It’s not seeing things like that ’at makes you fail exams.’

‘All right, bighead.’

I rub my hand over my chin and fancy I hear the bristles rasp. ‘Well, I haven’t time for a shave anyway. I’m late enough.’

‘Won’t she wait?’ Jim says.

‘Who?’

‘Who?’ he says, grinning. ‘Brigitte Bardot, of course; who else?’

For a second I wonder if he’s found out. Then I realise he can’t have because nobody knows but me. Even she doesn’t know yet. But she soon will now. She jolly soon will.

Outside it’s sharp and clear, real clean winter weather. From the look of the sky this morning we were in for some more snow but now it’s full of stars and the frost nips your cheeks. I think about it for a minute and then start walking instead of waiting for a bus because it’s too cold to hang about. In a minute I hear a bus topping the hill behind me and I break into a trot and beat it to the next stop. I get a threepenny into town. There’s nobody else upstairs and I get in the back seat and have another butcher’s at this book of pin-ups and nudes Willy Lomas lent me before the holidays. Chérie it’s called and it’s French, with a bint on the cover in a suspender belt and black nylons and nothing much else but a you-know-what look. ‘Lush,’ Willy said, and he was dead right. These Frenchies certainly know how to put a book like this together. Your guts melt when you look at some of these bints in there. There’s some birds in their underwear or nylon nighties, just covered up enough to set your imagination working and some others where you don’t need any imagination at all. There’s some writing as well that makes me wish I’d taken more notice in the French class at school because if it’s anything to do with the pictures it must be pretty hot stuff. When I’m looking at these tarts I wonder for the three-thousandth time what It must be like, and I reckon I’d never manage to find out with these birds because it would be all up with me if one of them so much as came near me in the flesh.

The funniest thing though is I don’t think about Ingrid this way at all. Not that she isn’t attractive, because she is; just about the most attractive girl I know. Only the way I think about her is sort of clean and pure and soft, as though just to touch her cheek would be better than anything these other bints could give me.

Once I get thinking about Ingrid I forget about everything else and I overshoot my stop and have to walk back.