An End and a Beginning (2 page)

Somebody said in a throaty voice, “Here it is,” and he heard the roar of the oncoming tram. There was a rush for it as it pulled up, and the man wondered why, it was quite empty. Pulling down his cap, he waited until the group had climbed in, and then he followed. He went upstairs and found himself a back seat. The man with the brief-case was sitting just in front of him. He watched this man, studied his neck, his back, his head, the thinning, grey hair. And then he imagined that, that wall, and door, and silence, had followed behind him, tracked him down to this very tram, until the very air breathed the years he had left behind him. It was stale, strong in his nostrils, he was
there
again. Damp clothes, hot iron, a reek of bad breath, a smell of ammonia, sweat congealed under shirts. And just as suddenly it vanished. He was here, in a tram, breathing in tobacco fumes. Somebody was smoking a cigarette. The whole tram was wreathed in grey and blue smoke. The man with the brief-case was puffing like a chimney. The tram shook and rattled its way downhill. It stopped, passengers alighted and boarded it, the bell clanged, and it charged on down the hill. The man with the cap stood up, and as he leaned his weight on the seat in front of him, it moved and it shrieked, and the man in front turned round and looked at him.

“What the devil am I standing up for? Like this?” He looked down at his threadbare suit; the cheap tweed suit that still appeared to carry in its shape and pattern the secrets of fugitive sleep. He stared back at the starer, who said quickly, “It's a nasty morning.”

“Yes—excuse me——” stumbling awkwardly in the passageway, “have you a cigarette you could spare me?”

A quick movement, a click, and the silver cigarette case was open. For a moment the big thumb and finger fumbled at the contents. He broke the first cigarette in two—“So sorry.” The man picked one out for him, but he dropped it on the floor. “Try again,” the smile seemed genuine enough.

“Thanks very much.” The seat back rattled again, and then the tram pulled up with a jerk. The man with the cap flung out his arms to save himself from falling.

“Ha! ha! Haven't yet got your sea legs, eh,” said the one with the brief-case. “Want sea legs on these quite cumbersome and antiquated relics from the dark days of transport. Light?”

He had struck a match, and was holding it up for the other. “Just out,” he thought, “poor swine,” and he watched the man's trembling mouth as he puffed the cigarette. “
There
we are,” he said.

“Thanks.” The man with the cap settled himself back in his seat. He felt hot, miserable, suddenly futile. It had been an ordeal, it was like living in another level of air. Looking through the window he saw the first houses looming up. The tram stopped again, more passengers boarded. He saw people on the road, people turning corners, passing into streets, standing in little groups, talking, and gradually the traffic thickened. He had a slight sensation of sickness, a sense of a sudden pressure, as he sat watching the life beyond the window. The passenger in front got up. “Morning,” he said, and rushed down the stairs at the next stop.

Two dock-gate men came up. They passed the man with the cap, they talked loudly about tides, and hardly noticed the face pressed against the window. He didn't exist. It was growing light, and the tweed suit stood out more clearly. The man kept glancing anxiously down at his trousers, their utter shapelessness confronted him like a threat. A woman came down the passageway and sat next to him. It distracted, he forgot about the suit, the cap, the slight odour, he even began to feel a little warm. Out of the corner of her eye the woman was looking at him. Been sleeping out overnight, she thought, perhaps a tramp. She was quick to note the cap pulled down over the eyes, and the one fist gripping the seat in front. She noticed the big hand. Abruptly she got up and found another seat elsewhere, went further down the deck. The man sat motionless. Strong tobacco from pipes got into his nostrils, his throat. He tried to push open the window, but his strength seemed unequal to it.

Cars tore past, and a great convoy of lorries hove into view. The roar deafened. He clutched his seat with the other hand, and the tram swayed more violently.

“God! When does the damn thing stop altogether?”

The bell clanged continuously.

“Wonder who this D is? Where is this place called Tilseys?”

“Fares, please.” The tram increased its speed.

“Your
fare
, please.”

The man jumped. “Oh yes—yes,” fumbling in his pockets, in all his pockets, and they were all empty. “Damn—damn!”

“Where to? asked the conductor, “where for?”

Still fumbling desperately, the man said, “Tilseys.”

“Where?”

“Tilseys.” He breathed heavily. “Got it,” he said, “there,” and the half-crown appeared in the first pocket he put his hand in. “There! Tilseys.”

“Where the hell would that be?” asked the conductor. “What is it? A road? A street?”

Almost shyly, the others said, “I don't know. It might be a pub.”

“And so it bloody-well might,” the conductor snapped back. “Better have a ticket all the way and take your chance at the end of the trip. Twopence.”

He punched a ticket, pushed it into the man's hand, counted the change. “Never heard of the place,” he said.

“Boozin',” he thought, “that's what's wrong with him. Been sleeping out with the bloody cats, 'spect.”

He came rushing back down the passage, and barked, “Call you.”

“What's that?” But the conductor and his indigestion had already clattered down to the lower deck.

At that moment a tall, heavily built woman came up and took the first available seat in sight, next to the man. The tram was now full, and it ignored the next stopping place. The air was one great cloud of smoke, and people talked loudly against the continuous rattling of the vehicle. The man drew away from the woman, he pressed to the window again, and looked out. He crouched, as though from some hidden fear. His expression was a mixture of helplessness and bewilderment. He glanced sideways at her. She sat very erect, staring straight ahead, and her bright red face smelt strongly of rude soap, contrasting strongly with the pallor of the man. Her face was as polished as an apple, it shone from under the shawl she wore. It beamed out upon the world. From time to time he glanced shyly towards her. The face attracted him, the ample bosom, and suddenly he realized he had seen that kind of woman before. She was a woman from the markets.

When he was a child he had often stared after them, marveiling at their strength, their beautiful sense of balance. This woman was on her way to work.

“Nasty morning,” she exclaimed suddenly, without moving her head.

“Yes, it is,” the man said, and moved a little further away. He had a horror of being drawn into conversation, and she talked so loudly.

“My man said it was going to be a lovely fine day, and now look at it, the man's a bloody fool,” announced the woman, then burst into a violent fit of laughter. The other cringed in his seat.

People turned to look, some smiled. They saw the healthy, boisterous, laughing woman, the man beside her.

“If
that's
your husband, missus, then no bloody wonder it rained,” and every eye was focused on the man against the window.

“I must get off, I must get away from this, I must get off
now,
” struggling to his feet, jerking the cap down on his head.

“Excuse,” he said, and began to move.

“Oh Lord,” the fat woman said, and stood up to let him pass.

The whole tram watched the man leave his seat.

“Thank you,” forcing his way down the passage. His face burned, he kept his head lowered, he found the stairway, he put a foot on the first step and held on. The conductor saw him.

“This isn't the terminus.”

There was something about this morose-looking passenger that he began to hate, though he did not quite know why.

“I know it isn't.”

“Well?”

“Stop this tram.”

The conductor rang the bell. The tram drew up, the man jumped off, and ran across to the sidewalk. The passengers stared down at him.

“Where the hell am I?” The tram had gone, he knew that he was lost.

“Should have gone with the man in the car. He would have known Tilseys. I'm a fool. Might have known who D was. Should have asked him, but I couldn't, I hated him then, silly, I suppose, but I did, I
hated
him. Who is this D? I'll ask. Somebody'll know.”

The pavements were crowded, this was the city centre. He stood waiting, watching, hand to the stubble of his chin; he felt dirty, hot, terribly confused. The smell of damp clothes never left him. “The razor was no good, the razor was rotten.”

“I say,” he said, almost walking into the oncoming postman, “do you know where I can find a place called Tilseys?”

“Never heard of it,” the postman said, and looked sharply at the man, noticing a difference at once. “Couldn't say.” This enquiry seemed like an affront. “Sorry,” he said, and walked on.

“Excuse me, could you tell me where I could find Tilseys?” The accosted man noticed two things; the stubble on the chin, and a slight odour.

“Sorry,” he said, “but there's a policeman over there, he'll know.”

“A policeman? Where the hell am I? I don't know this place any more.”

“Excuse me—yes—it might be a pub—Tilseys, maybe a café—do you—no—it must be a pub—perhaps a——”

The railwayman was kind. “Never heard of it,” he said, “but I'll tell you what. They're bound to have a telephone. Go into the nearest box and look in the directory, bound to find it. Going that way myself.”

The two men went down the narrow street. The man stopped, turned round, looked back.

“Much obliged to you,” he said, and then he saw the policeman begin to move, he was coming his way. The policeman watched, his eye was good, even on a dreary February morning. He had seen the man alight from the tram, seen him accosting people. He hadn't stopped any women, girls.

“Begging,” he muttered, “that's it. I don't like the look of him.” He kept the two men in sight, and saw them stop outside the telephone kiosk. He watched the man go in, the railwayman holding the door. He heard the man speaking.

“Much obliged.”

The man shut himself in, the railwayman went off down the street. The policeman was outside the box in an instant, waiting. He saw the man inside do two things: he stared through each of the three windows, then he turned his back and picked up the large directory. This he slowly paged, his finger moving up and down. “Tilseys, that's T,” the man said, he turned to the T's again. “Must be here—no, might not have a telephone—damn and blast it. Where is this place? I know. D stands for damn, that's what it is. Damn!” he cried into the box, and then a sudden noise made him turn round. The door was open, the policeman's hand on the handle. His own trembled, and the directory crashed to the floor, and as he stooped to pick it up, he banged his head against the steel coin-box. He dropped it twice again before putting it back on the shelf.

“I was looking for the letter T,” he blurted out.

He left the box, stood to his full height. His cap fell off, the policeman noticed the head and said brusquely, “When?”

“This morning.”

“How long in?”

“Fifteen years and four days.”

“Oh! Come on out of that box and let's have a look at you.”

The man, who had suddenly backed into the doorway again, now came right forward. Two passers-by stopped, they were interested.

“Get along,” said the policeman. “None of your business. Be off.”

They went on, but continued to turn round. They wanted drama. They wanted to see the handcuffs put on. He had just come out, now he was going in again. Higher up the street they stopped. On a miserable winter morning a little drama could be exciting.

“Turn out your pockets. If I think everything's O.K., I'll let you go, if not, then I won't. See? I'm no bloodhound, mister, never was. Fair's fair.”

He watched the man draw the papers from his pocket, half of which clouded to the ground.

“H'm! I see,” said the policeman, stooping to pick them up. “Hands not too steady, eh?”

“I was standing outside when the car came up. I was just—trying to plan things, trying to—Prisoner's Aid—run you where you want to go.”

“He did, did he?”

“I said,' Leave me alone.' He gave me these two envelopes.
These
. One had five shillings in it.”

“It did, did it?”

“The other held this slip of paper. I'm looking for Tilseys. I was searching in the directory just now as you came up.”

It came out in a frenzied, frightened flood. “I was just looking under the T's, Tilseys, pub or café, I expect——”

“You were, were you?”

The policeman had gone mercilessly through the papers, then he made them into a tidy heap and returned them to the man.

“Thought you was begging, thought you might rifle the box.” His sudden loud chuckle surprised the man. “All right. I know. I understand. Tilseys.
I
know where Tilseys is. Write down the address for you.”

He tore a sheet from his notebook. “Now then,” he said, directing as he wrote. “Take a 19a at the top of this street, tell the conductor to drop you at the corner of Richmond Street, just walk up on your left, and there it is. Simple, isn't it? It's a tearooms for old women, run by old women, never seen a man in the place yet, a lot of old spinsters go there, got religion bad they say, I wouldn't know. But everything's as sweet as sweet. There,” watching the hand tremble, “I'm no bloodhound, never was.” He drew clear of the box and the man came away from it.

“Good luck, mate,” he said, and walked off down the street, then turned quickly and called, “and keep out of mischief, and you'll be all right.”