England's Lane (6 page)

But for now it's a case of climbing the thirteen steps up to Janey's dark and fusty bedroom (she won't even let me draw the curtains, let alone open the window) and bringing her up her tea. Touching her shoulder when I set down the cup, and she just stirring and turning around to look at me. I know the face, the expression. It never alters. Isn't an expression, that's the point. Just blank is all she is. Just staring at me like I'm not even there at all. And she does look old, now. Much older than me, she looks, and she isn't, you know. Five months younger, point of fact. Sometimes in her face I'm aware of a bit of confusion—little pinpoints of worry at the back of her eyes. Sort of dancing up and down there. Time to time there's a little glimmering of fear—and I well know what that looks like because I see it in the mirror every bloody morning—but even then, only barely: the very tiniest glimmering, really. Won't talk, of course. Won't say anything to me about it, so you're just left to wonder. Hardly speaks at all, now. Days can pass without a single word. Wearing, after a while. Very. Then later, when I've seen to Anthony and all of his doings—and that's a day's work in itself, believe you me—and once young Paul comes to fetch him and they
both go off to school (and I thank the Lord for him, young Paul, I bless his head) … well then I bring her up another cup of tea, don't I? Take away the old one, which she won't have touched because she never ever does, and put down the fresh one in its place. And yes I did try, didn't I? Of course I did. I did try not taking up the first of them—waste of money, waste of effort—but Christ Alive, you should've seen the state she got herself into. Agitation, that's the word. Fingers all stiff and trembling, and up to her lips. Head going this way and that. So I went back to taking her up her early morning tea, and she went back to staring right at me, like I wasn't even there at all.

It's just as well for Anthony that I've got this little confectioner's. If I had, I don't know—the ironmonger's instead, Stammer's say, then I don't honestly reckon anyone at Anthony's school would talk to him at all. Apart from Paul, I mean. He's a good boy, Paul—really goes out of his way for our Anthony—and it's uncommon in a lad, that is. Healthy young lad. Thinking of others. Because my Anthony, well … he's got to slow him down, hasn't he? Clunking along behind him in those blessed metal calipers that every morning I have to strap him tight into. Like he's one of those poor little devils in a legend, or something—some young innocent, minding his own business, not doing any harm to a living soul, and here he is—trapped in a daily struggle, locked into a nightly torture. Not fair, is it? Not fair at all. And eternal. Relentless. Never ending. Until, of course, it does end. So no—it's hardly fair, hardly fair at all. But then who ever said it would be? Life isn't, is it? Famously. Ever fair. It's a cheat, that's what it is: a lying cheat. And being the sweetshop owner's boy, Anthony, he's heard all of the jokes: “Ah—Polio. The mint with the hole.” Yeh. Not so funny after the first few hundred times. It's his life that's got the hole. Right through the bloody middle. It's his life that's got the hole. Jesus wept. Lovely
lad, though. Doesn't complain. Love him so much. Asks me, time to time, when he'll be better. Don't know son, I say to him. Soon, I hope. I daresay soon. You keep up with all the exercises and what have you and you'll be breaking the four-minute mile. Once he came home from school and he said that all the boys were going to get vaccinated. So if I get vaccinated, Dad—will it all go away? Not sure son, I say to him. Not sure that's how it works. Not too sure that's the way it goes. And he's the only one in his year who's cursed with the damn thing, you know, and that's against all the odds. So why was it me then, Dad? Don't know son, I say to him. Just the way of it, I suppose. How it all falls out. Lovely lad, though. Doesn't complain. Love him so much … Anyway.

I think it was the first sight of him, though, with his little crutches and all—I think, looking back, that's what tipped my Janey over. Over the edge, sort of thing. I mean, she wasn't A1 even before. Always nervy. Delicate little thing. Spent half her own childhood in a bloody hospital. Then there was Freddie, our first. Nine months she carried him—sick as a dog, most days. All for nothing, though. And they say it, don't they? All about God, and his mysterious ways. Yes well. Don't go to church any more, not after that. Thing like that, some people they'll be kneeling down and blessing themselves, blathering on about this faith of theirs being tested to the limits—yeh and all the rest of the Jesus baloney, and praying like the dickens to what they still do seem to believe is the heaven above them. Lighting candles and bawling their bloody eyes out. And others, other sorts—well like me, for instance—they just turn away from the sight of it. No demonstration, none of the fist-waving … just a cold shoulder, sort of style. Yes. And so God now, he can go on working in any kind of ways he bloody well likes, but I'm damned if I'll be seen to encourage him. And then Janey, seeing our Anthony that way—all lopsided and a brave little face on him—well …
couldn't handle it, see? Turned away from the sight of it. Can hardly blame her: pitiful to watch, it can be. But somebody had to, didn't they? Deal with it. Somebody had to. So now, well—it's what I do. I do the shop, yeh—but what I really do is Anthony. It's hardest in the holidays, when I've got him all day. Weren't for young Paul, I'd be in a bit of a spot. Yes I truly would. And talk of the devil … here he is now, look—bang on time, just like always. That'll be on account of his Auntie Milly, of course. She's a wonderful woman, she is. And I do feel mean, sometimes, just slipping him a chew or a stick of liquorice from the penny tray. Piccaninnies and flying saucers he's partial to as well, so I let him have a couple of those, time to time. But see, if I were to run to a packet of Spangles, or something—tube of Smarties, sort of style … well word gets out at that school, and they'll all be down on me like a plague of flies. Bad enough as it is. And with Anthony there, well I'd have to, wouldn't I? Give it out to all of them. And I can't afford that—just can't afford to, simple as that. It's not a question of meanness, it's a question of money. Those school fees, they don't ever lower them, do they? Reduce them, bring them down. No they don't, sir. Most of the people round here, of course—they don't have that problem because they just won't put the effort in, my way of seeing it. Happy to send their kids to the ordinary schools. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with them, the council schools, not saying they're really bad, or anything … but I do think it's your duty as a parent to secure for your child the best that's on offer. That's it in a nutshell. And it's difficult. I wouldn't try telling you it's easy. But it's duty. It's duty. And love, of course. Dedication. Though what I've seen of Jim Stammer, I doubt he can be thinking like that. But Milly—it'll be Milly behind it. Such a nice woman. Handsome woman. Hard worker. He's a very lucky man, Jim is. To have such a woman as that. Very lucky man. I'll never forget: she was in the shop, one
time—stocking up on her parma violets and getting in some Tizer for Paul, as I recall—and she said to me right out of the blue “Just think, Stan—if I'd married you I'd be called Milly Miller. That would be funny, wouldn't it?” “Oh yes,” I said to her—and we were both sort of laughing by this time—“that would be funny: that would be rich.” Yes it would. Rich indeed. Odd though, isn't it? The things you remember, and the things you forget. So anyway I must, you see—I just must give him the very best start in life, the best I can. Except it isn't the start, of course. Aware of that. His start is buggered. His start is over. But his future, whatever it holds, and for however long … well: got to do my bit, haven't I? I'm his Dad, aren't I? Yes I am. So I've got to do my … no, not my bit. My utmost—that's what I've got to do.

“Now then, Paul—all right, are we?”

“Yes thank you, Mr. Miller.”

“Still raining, is it?”

“Not quite so much now. Just spitting. Anthony ready?”

I jolly well hope he is ready because I'm only just on time today because my stupid Uncle Jim—he really is so completely stupid, Uncle Jim—he called me into the shop just as I'd got my satchel all buckled up and my raincoat on and everything, which is just so typical. Come in here Pauly, he was going: it's my string. And honestly, it's quicker not to argue or ask questions or anything because then he only starts up and goes on and on for hours. So I went into his dirty old stinky shop and there was the string, unwound from the tin thing, the tin sort of dispenser thing, and all over the floor. Dropped it, he said: help me wind it all up again, hey? There's a good lad. Well honestly—how stupid can you be? To get the string into such an awful mess. Amanda, she says I'm always going on about Uncle Jim and he can't be that bad. Oh yes? Well you just try living with him Amanda, that's all, is what I said to her. It's all
right for her, isn't it? She's got a proper father, and he's normal. Auntie Milly says that Mr. Barton the butcher, he's a real gentleman. Uncle Jim isn't. Uncle Jim is a real idiot. I really do like Amanda, though. Talking to her, and everything. I wouldn't tell Anthony or anyone, but last summer in Regent's Park, she taught me how to make daisy chains and she put this buttercup under my chin and she said oh look, Paul—you don't like butter. I didn't actually know what on earth she was talking about or anything, but I didn't say so—and I do like butter, actually. It's margarine I don't like, and I said so to Auntie Milly and she doesn't get it any more. And then we lay on the grass and it was really hot and I went all squinty in the sun and I sort of just touched her on the knee once, and she didn't say anything. And a bit later I wanted to do it again, but I didn't.

“Where is he, Mr. Miller …?”

“He won't be a jiffy, Paul. Just going to the Gents. Spending a penny. And talking of pennies … what takes your fancy on the tray today, eh?”

“Oh gosh. Thanks a lot. Um … think I'll have a Black Jack if that's all right, Mr. Miller.”

“Black Jack? That's a new one for you, Paul. Well Black Jacks—they're only a ha'penny, they are. So take a couple, eh? Three, say. Take three.”

“Oh thanks. Thanks a lot, Mr. Miller.”

“They color your teeth, mind.”

“That's what's good about them. Gobstoppers—they color your tongue.”

“You boys. You boys. Ah! Here he comes—the man himself.”

Anthony, wearing his customary expression of anticipation, his bright blue eyes seemingly eager to be caught by anything at all, clumped his way through the shop from the stockroom at the back.
His cap was crooked on his head, and what with grabbing at that and raising a gray metal crutch in greeting to Paul, he very nearly had himself over. Both Paul and his father moved instinctively toward him, but he batted them away.

“I'm okay. I'm fine, Has the rain stopped, Paul?”

“Pretty nearly. We'd better get a move on, though.”

Stanley Miller laid his hands on Anthony's shoulders and bent down to softly kiss the side of his head. And he would have embraced him—hugged him so very tight, squeezed the very life out of the little mite, oh yes he would, such was the welling of love inside him. He got that. He got that all the time. Just looking at the boy, he got that.

“Have a good day at school, you two. Learn lots, eh? Wish I was coming with you. No, I mean it. I've got my work cut out for me today, I can tell you that much. It's Sally Day, Anthony.”

“Oh no!” laughed Anthony. “Sally Day! Big fat Sally. She'll wreck the place again.”

“What—Sally from Lindy's, you mean?” said Paul.

Anthony nodded. “Big fat Sally from Lindy's. Once she's finished shoveling down three million eclairs, she'll come over here and start on the Mars bars.”

“She does our window,” Mr. Miller explained to Paul. “Dresses it, sort of style. I can't honestly remember how it all started. I could just as easily do it myself, but … well anyway, she seems to enjoy it. Won't take any money.”

“Just Mars bars!” Anthony guffawed. “And honestly, Paul—it's so funny. She's so huge that every time she turns round she knocks over what she's just put up!”

“You're right,” his father grinned. “But she's a good soul—she means well. Now come on, you two. You'll be late. Here, Paul—just a sec. Here. That's for you. Tuck it away.”

“Oh gosh, Mr. Miller. Spangles! Are you sure …?”

“Course I'm sure. You're a very good boy. Now off with you. Can't have you getting a detention, can we? Or lines, or something.”

Paul pocketed the Spangles, thanked Mr. Miller again, and the two of them went out into the drizzle. Tall for his age, Mr. Miller was thinking as he watched them go. And a healthy-looking lad as well, Paul is. He could grow up to be a hero. A man among men. A leader, a strong man of principle. Like Nicholas Nickleby, as a for instance. And there's my Anthony, ever at his side. Little Smike, with nothing but hope. Oh dear God. The trouble with me is … I'm over-sentimental. Much too soft for my own good. That's what Janey always used to say. Back in the days when she said anything at all. It doesn't do. It really doesn't do. So … right, then … just give the shop a little check over, make sure everything's shipshape. Think we need some more Kensitas and Player's Cork Tipped from the stockroom, if memory serves … and I'll take my tin of St. Bruno while I'm at it. Get out the new display stuff for when Sally comes round. Cadbury's have come up Trojan this month—some very nice material indeed: open boxes of Milk Tray with the most realistic chocolates you ever did see, and a big sort of fold-out stand-up affair with little compartments for all the dummy bars. Christ Alive—Sally'll make mincemeat of it. Last time, she even managed to bring the shelves down. Could hardly believe it. Rawlplugs ripped clean out of the wall. Had to get one of the negroes round to make good. Nice enough feller. Well that one is, anyway—can't remember his name. Odd sort of a name—well, you'd expect that, wouldn't you? Got lots of k's in it, fairly sure, though I could be wrong about that. But the other one, his partner, not too sure about him. Seems a bit shifty. Might not be, of course. But the one who came round to do up the shelves—couldn't have been nicer. Always wagging his head and smiling. Great big teeth. Or maybe it's just the way
they seem. Did a good job. Charge was very reasonable. Cleared up all of his mess. We had a cup of tea and a bit of a chinwag. Where he comes from … Christ Alive, you wouldn't believe all he was telling me. Made it sound like heaven on earth. Used to put up houses, little wooden houses by the seaside, though I can't suppose for a minute that it'd be like any sort of seaside that we might have ever been to. Southend, Bognor, one of them. Bit of boatbuilding and all, he was saying. Sunshine, white sand … bananas. Coconuts, I shouldn't be surprised. Makes you wonder why he ever left there in the first place. He did say he feels the cold. And the people, he said—they're not very friendly. Not what he'd been told the English would be like. Before he managed to buy the woodyard (had a bit of money tucked away by then—been saving every single penny he earned since he was a nipper, is what he was saying to me: all he ever wanted since he was knee-high was to come and live in England, and you can hardly blame a man for thinking that) … yeh but before then, he and his mate had the very devil of a problem finding any digs, is what he said to me. Everywhere they looked it was “No Coloreds. No Irish. No Dogs.” Ending up dossing down in Paddington Station for the better part of a week. Well you can sort of understand it with the Irish, but I reckon coloreds and dogs are all right. Then he starts talking about Geoff Lawrence, the newsagent's on the other side. Says he used to pop in there of a morning for his paper—
Telegraph
he reads, if you please.
Express
man, myself—all it is is what you're used to, isn't it really? Anyway, few days in, Geoff Lawrence, he says to him “I tell you what—how about I get my lad to deliver it for you? How's that sound, eh?” And our negro chum (wish to God I could remember his name—I must make a point of it. Get him to write it down) he says to the man “Deliver? But I'm only five doors down” and Geoff, he says “It's no trouble. Honestly. I insist.” He insisted, you see—wasn't any
choice in the matter. Makes you think, doesn't it? How people can get. And Geoff, of course—he's got a very nice little sideline with all those postcards he bungs in the window: “No Coloreds. No Irish. No Dogs.” And then he laughs, my negro pal, and he goes Oh but not
you
, Mr. Miller, you're not like that at all—I didn't mean you, you understand, Mr. Miller. Then he gives me that big and toothy grin of his, and he says “You great fine English gentleman, Mr. Miller. Like Winston Churchill.” Dear oh dear. You've got to laugh.