Love on the Dole (16 page)

‘Aw,’ murmured Sam, pacifically, shooting furtive glances this way and that: ‘Aw … ‘ he laid a friendly hand on Ned’s arm: ‘Now, Ned, lad. Now, Ned … ‘

Ned shook it off, impatiently: ‘Yaa! Cut that out; y’ can’t soft soap me!’ His angry tones and the impatient gesture attracted the attention of a number of the immediate bystanders. Their conversations concerning Harry ceased instantly and were forgotten. They stared at Sam and Ned and came closer, all ears. Ted Munter blinked, and such was his envy of his erstwhile army comrade’s post-war success in the bookmaking line that he fondly hoped this totally unexpected occurrence would culminate in Ned’s giving Sam a thoroughly humiliating public thrashing. Sam Grundy! Paah! Sam who always treated him, Ted, as though he were invisible, as though they were strangers, as though the gambling partnership of their army days had never existed. Go on, Ned, lad, bash him; wipe the floor with him; tumble his maddening, gross, intolerable prosperity into the gutter; prosperity, that, but for the fool I was, I would now be sharing. With such thoughts in mind Ted, suddenly perceiving in the situation a chance of ingratiating himself into Sam’s favours, gave his belt a hitch and said, with effusive amiability: ‘Aw… . Carm on, Ned. Carm on into t’ yard… . Y’ don’t want everybody listenin’ t’ y’ business.’ He took Ned by the arm and gently urged him into the yard. Sam, staring with fear, followed. Ted, assuming control of the situation, closed and bolted the back door and cried, dictatorially: ‘Charlie…. Begin payin’ out. Quick about it man, quick about it. Toot sweet!’

Charlie, a leather bag full of money slung about his person, jumped on to the chair seat to attend to the claimants for winnings who pushed about the back door. Ted, breathing freely, assumed a genial expression, thrust his thumbs into his broad leather belt and stared at Sam paternally, a high hope in his mind that, as a reward for his masterly control of a difficult situation, Sam, surely, would satisfy the ambition of a lifetime in giving him a working interest in the bookmaking business.

Sam, having recovered some of his lost composure, held out an appealing hand toward Ned: ‘Now luk here, Ned,’ he began: ‘You’ve got me all wrong,’ raising his greasy brows: ‘Ah was on’y kiddin’ the lad about his sister,’ a forced laugh: ‘Why, man. Ah don’t know the lass. An’ Ah’m old enough t’ be her father!’

‘Aye,’ replied Ned, unimpressed: ‘Y’re owld enough t’ be Annie Smith’s grandfather. But that didn’t keep her from goin’ t’ that there whorin’ house o’ yourn i’ Wales, did it, eh? Aye, an’ all t’other judies y’ keep,’ raising his great clenched fist to within a half inch of Sam’s purple nose, adding, warningly: Think on, now, Grundy. Keep y’ paws offn Sal Hardcastle. If anybody has her it’s gonna be me. D’y’ hear?’

‘Course, Ned, course. You have her …
Ah
don’t want nowt t’ do wi’ her.’ He continued, strenuously repudiating any evil intention towards Sal, meanwhile, boiling inwardly at the necessity of having to hold the candle to the bullying of such a penniless lout as Narkey. Still, Ned had to be pacified; his reputation for brawling had been earned by deeds and not by words, and a blow from one of those immense fists of his, irrespective of the unwelcome and humiliating publicity - for Ned was boastful in his cups - would be extremely painful. Imagine this situation, though, he, the great Sam Grundy, having his desires thwarted; he, whose potent purse and patient persistence had never failed, yet, in consummating his illicit sexual desires; it was goading to think that in Sal Hardcastle, the latest, best and most disturbing of all his desires, a precedent might be created in Ned Narkey’s interference.

‘Think on,’ said Ned, concluding: ‘Hands off Sal Hardcastle

If she’s gonna be anybody’s she gonna be mine. An’ ah feels sorry for anybody wot tries any games on wi’ her.’ He turned his back on Ted and Sam, and, bracing his magnificent shoulders, stamped into the house and through the front door.

Ted, thumbs in waistcoat armholes, eyed Sam with an expectant and expansive smile: ‘Well, Sam, lad,’ he said, ingratiatingly :’Ah …’

‘You, y’ bloody fool,’ Sam interrupted, thickly: ‘What did y’ want t’ bring that big - in this here yard for?’

Ted, astonished, held out an appealing hand and opened his mouth. Sam scowled: ‘Yaaa! Get out o’ me sight….’ He turned on his heel and left Ted standing there, mouth gaping, blinking, like a fool.

REMOVED from it as he now was he reviewed it with intense pleasure. The commotion in North Street yesterday, this, for the second time in the month! Which had been the most pleasurable? The occasion of Sam Grundy’s paying him the money or that of yesterday, the preparations for departure to this glorious place?

He saw himself coming down the street at noon yesterday, smiling, self-consciously, laughingly ignoring the forest of up-stretched hands accompanied by childish piping appeals for pennies. No, he told himself, he had not done wrong in not distributing largesse amongst the children. He had given a sufficient portion of the proceeds of his good fortune gratuitously. Less than half of it remained after he had given a proportionate share to his parents, Sally, and Helen whom he had insisted should spend her share on new clothes.

Then, of course, there was Jack Lindsay and the rest; they all expected treating. Neither could the shop boy who ran the errands be overlooked, and in the boy’s wide-eyed amazement on receiving a half-crown, Harry saw himself years ago, responding, similarly, to Billy Higgs’s generosity.

The remainder of the money burned to be spent; its possession filled him with a sense of the carefree; bewildered him. What could he do with it? Nay, what
couldn’t
he do with it?

His father settled the question for him. And his father’s suggestion recalled the daring thought he had rashly uttered to Helen as they had sat watching the trains from Dawney’s Hill long ago.

‘Harry, lad,’ said his father, quietly. ‘Y’re on’y young once an Ah’ve ne’er had enough money t’ tek y’ away. So if Ah was you, Ah’d tek that lass o’ thine away on a holiday. Me an’ y’ ma ‘d on’y one in us lives; but it were worth it an’ neither on us 11 forget it.’ He glanced at his wife who was standing by the table staring unseeing and smiling at the recollection: a strange, rare smile that smoothed away, quite, that expression of worried preoccupation which habitually dominated her features. She looked even young. ‘Twas worth it, eh, lass?’ Hardcastle’s stern, honest countenance relaxed; he, too, was smiling.

‘Oh, go on wi’ y’,’ she murmured, blushing shyly.

Sally laughed; her gorgeous eyes twinkled: ‘Oh, pa, why don’t y’ kiss her. She’s blushing!’

An atmosphere of warmth, affection and light-heartedness suffused the room.

‘Aye,’ continued Hardcastle, a reminiscent light in his eyes: ‘Aye, Sal, lass, me an’ y’ ma had a gradely time, then. ‘Twas th’ on’y time we e’er had away but Ah’ll ne’er forget it,’ a sigh, then, to Harry: ‘Y’ll spend y’ money on summat or other, lad, so y’ may as well spend it on summat y’ll remember.’

Five days was decided upon: Marlowe’s would not permit him longer leave of absence.

Where to go was the problem until Larry Meath suggested a place where he once had spent a few days. He also obliged by writing the letter to the woman at the boarding-house. And he excited Harry by describing the place; harbour, rugged coast line, glorious country walks, such intimations as provoked Harry to a tingle of impatience.

When, in his eagerness of relating Larry’s descriptions to Sally, he saw no significance in her sighs, her pensiveness, nor, for a moment, could he translate anything other than curiosity in her question: ‘Did anybody go with him when he went?’

He shook his head: ‘Ah dunno. Why?’

She shrugged her shoulders but did not answer, turned, rested a foot on the fender and stared into the fire. He regarded her with sympathetic gaze. He couldn’t understand her affair - was there an affair? - with Larry. There was nothing definite about it, at least, from what he could gather. Sally was so reticent. Yet there could be no doubting her inclinations: he had never before known her to be so affected: her eagerness, sometimes, with which she interrogated him concerning Larry was almost painful to see; certainly he felt uncomfortable on such occasions. Of course, everybody knew that Larry Meath never bothered with girls; he was always too preoccupied with incomprehensible affairs up at the Labour Club. It was hard on Sally, though, if she thought so much about him. Still, what business was this of his. He now was away on holiday; it was foolish to mar these precious days, by revolving such depressing thoughts. Away on holiday! Free as a bird! Alone with Helen! Helen!

To her all was of the quality of a sweet dream: too sweet; caused one to move about in a trance-like state of incredulity half the time. How different, ineffably different from the crude, vulgar warnings of the married women at the mill who had offended her ears by references to the opportunities she and Harry would have for sexual indulgences. The prospect had been almost spoilt by their unpleasant suggestions. How different, though, reality.

Comparing the boarding-house with her home was not possible: there was nothing at all in common between them.

Here, the bedroom’s furnishings, cold bare lino, tiny chest of drawers, small, flecked cheval mirror, iron bed, chair and the washstand with its large water beaker and chipped bowl, represented something quite foreign to her experience. It had two priceless, intangible qualities; it was clean; there was privacy. To have a room in which she could be secure from trespass once she closed the door! The luxury of a bed to herself! She did not know what to make of it. She lay awake for long periods revelling in the delightful novelty of such an environment: she even grudged her sleep, after a fashion. Though, to close one’s eyes and to listen, lulled, by the murmuring of the sea, was irresistible.

Sunday, and the endless prospect of a whole week in front of them: repeatedly, Harry murmured: ‘Ah say, Helen. Just fancy, all next week an’ no work t’ go to.’ They stared at each other, smiling, marvelling.

This unusual mode of life was full of witchery; for the first two or three days they were unappreciative of their surroundings: wearing the wide-eyed expressions of a couple of children lost in fairyland they wandered, arm in arm, the lanes and the cliff paths, sat on the springy turf and stared into the haze over the wrinkled shimmering sea, inarticulate, enthralled.

‘Ain’t it champion, Helen?’ ne murmured, on a sigh.

‘It’s like what y’ see on pictures,’ she murmured, in reply: she, too, sighed, lay back on the turf and said happily: ‘It makes me feel as though I want to do nowt but sleep.’

All was different here: sunshine and even the rain. Once they were caught in a lane by a shower, and, when it had ceased, they were fascinated by its quick evaporation: patches of damp dappled the road’s surface; over all a fresh serenity breathed and lingered; the rain cloud, silvered at its edges rolled away; gulls sailed in the vivid blue, calling plaintively.

The natives were objects of reverence, their white-walled cottages of awe. To
live
here was something incredible; it was unimaginable that people should live ordinary lives in a place where others came to holiday. Holiday! ‘Green days in forests and blue days at sea.’ In a small rowing-boat following the rugged coast line to the south and on an evening when the sea was as motionless as a child asleep, the sky a fading blue from end to end. Air was still; day dying peacefully. Sometimes the sea would gurgle musically in an unseen rocky cleft; occasionally the creaking of the rowlocks and the plop of the oar blades insinuated themselves to the ears of Harry and Helen; then the sounds would recede and a delicious indolence drug the brain; the gaze dawdled idly on such things as the swirl left by the oars or the sparkling drops dripping from the blades.

Helen trailed a hand in the water; it was cold, slightly numbing; the chilly element saddened her; she stared, pensively, unseeing.

‘What ‘re y’ thinkin’ about, Helen?’ Harry, smiling, was gazing at her.

She listened to the creaking of the rowlocks and the dip of the oars, translated from the sounds a melancholy significance. Staring at her submerged fingers she answered, tonelessly: ‘Just think, Harry, we’ve got t’ go back t’ Hanky Park … leave all this behind. Got to.’

He shipped the oars, slowly, allowed the boat to drift. Sounds of sea birds’ querulous cries echoed up the cliff faces; deep down on the sea bed and through the lucid water he could perceive, vaguely, purple patches, and, where the sea floor rose could discern the long weeds waving in the currents. Where the waves rose on the rocks they did not break; with oily silence they submerged their mark, receded and left a glistening line. A glimmer of the significance of the word ‘beautiful’ began to dawn on him, and, even though it yet bewildered him, what was meant by its opposite ‘unbeautiful’ struck him vividly. Hanky Park was unbeautiful. Hanky Park and all that it stood for to which they
had
to return. North Street, smoke, bricks and mortar, seas of slates, Price and Jones, Sam Grundy, Mrs Nattle and her companions, swarms of dirty children. A goading, incredible, awful fact for which there was no explanation. Except that money would solve the problem; with this they could prolong their stay here as long as the money lasted; lacking it they had to surrender themselves to Hanky Park once again. ‘Surrender,’ that was the word; they only were here on sufferance, even though the thought of having to leave made him homesick to stay. They were Hanky Park’s prisoners on ticket of leave. Why Hanky Park, though? He tried to reason it out. When you had no money you had to go to whichever place you could earn it. And in all the wide, wide world Hanky Park was the only spot they knew of where they could find someone to buy their labour. Wages controlled their lives; wages were their masters, they its slaves. Staggering!